Blue mist swirled thick and cold around Helena. Shafts of light angled through the fog, illuminating it from within.

Distantly Helena heard her own voice screaming at her to wake up, but the vision would not release her.

Logan appeared through the mist. He was surrounded by stone, as if he stood in a cave. As before, blood leaked from him, but this time everything was clearer. He bled from his middle, where a long knife protruded. Logan’s face contorted in pain as he fell backward into the gloom, the mist swallowing him.

Helena’s scream echoed in her own ears, but still the vision was not done with her. The fog shifted, then spread, revealing another scene.

To her horror, she saw her own face, as if she were gazing at herself in a plate of polished silver. Then her whole body appeared. Her hands were bound in front of her.

Familiarity swept over her. She’d seen this before. Just as she realized what this was, the skirts and cloak on her mirror-self erupted in orange flames. The fire consumed her as she screamed.

Helena came awake with a little cry. Heart slamming against her ribs, she blinked up at the underside of trees, trying to remember where she was.

Slowly, it came back to her. She was no longer trapped inside the visions, but lay in some patch of forest not far from Craigmoor. She was safe.

She sat up, scanning their little makeshift camp for Logan. But not only was he nowhere in sight, neither were Finn and Mairin.

Unease coiling in her stomach, Helena rose and moved through the trees to the stream not far away where they’d tethered their horses.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw all four horses, plus Finn and Mairin, next to the stream. Mairin was crouched beside the flowing water, washing her hands, and Finn was bridling one of the horses.

“I have a sister-in-law about yer age,” Finn was saying, his voice awkwardly congenial for a man given to scowling and glaring so much. “Do ye like…ribbons?”

“Nay,” Mairin said flatly.

Helena stilled in her approach, strangely affected by this exchange.

For the sennight that it had taken to ride from the Corps’ camp in the Highlands to this spot just north of Craigmoor, Finn had been surly. It was obvious he didn’t like Logan, and he was not pleased to be bringing two women into a war zone.

For her part, Mairin had struggled. Just as Helena had feared, being away from her routines made Mairin withdraw into herself. She’d become just as silent as she’d been when Helena had first arrived in the Highlands. The closer they drew to the English border, the worse the girl seemed to get.

That was why it touched Helena’s heart that Finn, the cantankerous, salty warrior, was trying to make small talk with the frightened sixteen-year-old girl in an attempt to put her at ease.

“How about…flowers?”

“Nay,” Mairin replied.

Finn frowned. “Ye must like dances then. Elaine loves dances. And the dresses for dances. And the music. And the…the lads and such.”

Mairin sighed, and Helena could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Nay, I dinnae like those things.”

“Then what do ye like, Wee Mackenzie?”

“I like learning how to fight.”

“Ye are an odd one, arenae ye, Wee Mackenzie?”

To Helena’s surprise, Mairin turned to Finn and actually lifted a honey-colored brow at him. “Aye, I am,” she said, giving him a droll smile.

Helena cleared her throat, breaking the moment.

“Where is Logan?”

Finn’s face dropped into its usual hard lines. “He went to scout. We are close now, but he is being cautious.”

“Overly cautious.”

Helena turned at the sound of Logan’s voice to find him striding through the trees toward them.

“All is well,” he said, coming to a halt. “We will be at Craigmoor in a matter of hours.”

Though that news should have been a relief—a sennight of traveling on horseback over rough terrain had been challenging—worry spiked through Helena.

In the last sennight, she, Logan, and Finn had strategized about how they would wrest control of the castle from Geoffrey. Helena had cast doubt on the idea that she could simply show up outside the gates proclaiming her rightful ownership of Craigmoor. Though some of her father’s men might still be loyal to her, the soldiers Geoffrey had arrived with six months past were just as numerous and undoubtedly loyal to their master.

And Helena held no hope that Geoffrey would simply voluntarily cede his claim to Craigmoor. The thirst for power was too strong within him. Even with an army at his gates and the law on Helena’s side, he would not yield, she was sure.

With no alternative, Helena had begun to consider one plan, but it was dangerous and the likelihood of its success slim. She had not shared it with Logan yet, hoping against hope that another solution would present itself before she had to resort to her reckless idea.

Logan reassured her that they would find a way to save her people and reclaim the castle from Geoffrey, but when the others bedded down in their cloaks and wool blankets and slept each night, she’d stared at the black night sky, praying for a solution.

But time had run out. By the afternoon, they would be at Craigmoor’s gates. She could only pray they would arrive before too much harm had already been done.

 

*   *   *   *

 

As they crested the last of the hills surrounding Craigmoor, Helena’s breath caught in her throat. The castle still stood, its walls and towers intact and its moat unbreached. For some foolish reason, a small part of her had feared that they would find the castle already in ruins, her home and her people destroyed.

But that wasn’t truly the source of her shock. What stole her breath was the sea of men surrounding the castle. They moved like a swarm of insects in between canvas tents and camp fires. Colorful plaids of red, green, blue, yellow, and brown made them look like an ocean of traveling mummers, but the men below were not there to make merry and entertain. Nay, they were fierce, skilled Scottish warriors set to do battle against the castle.

Finn nudged his horse forward and down the slope toward the army. Reluctantly, Helena followed.

When Finn brought his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle, Helena nigh jumped out of her skin. The whistle was answered from somewhere in the sea of men ahead, a reassuring sign.

At the edge of the army’s encampment, Finn swung down from his horse.

“Colin MacKay will be somewhere among the men,” he said to Logan.

“I’ve met the man,” Logan said. “Under…less than ideal circumstances.”

Finn lifted a brow at him. “Ye certainly have a way of endearing yerself to the men of the Corps, dinnae ye?” he asked dryly. “Wait here. I’ll have the horses seen to and find Colin. He’ll get us caught up on the siege efforts, and mayhap he’ll have an idea of how to move forward with Helena’s plan.”

Before Helena could say that her “plan” still didn’t exist, Logan helped her from her horse, then lifted Mairin down as well. Finn took the reins of all four horses and disappeared into the throng of men and tents.

Mairin lingered close to Helena’s side, eyeing the warriors moving about the camp. They drew a few looks themselves, but Finn’s whistle must have been enough to establish them as friends rather than foes.

“Dinnae worry,” Logan said to both of them. “We are safe here. Soon enough, Craigmoor will be secured and then—”

“Logan,” Mairin said sharply. Her eyes went round on something behind Logan. Helena looked but only saw a cluster of men in blue and green checked kilts eyeing them not far away.

“What is it, Little Bird?”

“That is…that is the Mackenzie plaid.”

Logan’s head whipped around just as the group of warriors began to stride toward them. When Logan’s spine jerked straight and he planted himself in front of Mairin and Helena like a shield, fear surged in Helena’s veins. Something was very wrong.

“Logan Mackenzie!” A tall, dark-headed warrior strode ahead of the rest, his eyes locked on Logan. As the man drew closer, Helena got a better look at those eyes—they were stormy gray.

Exactly like Logan’s.

“Who is that?” Helena breathed to Mairin.

“That is our brother—Laird Reid Mackenzie,” Mairin replied, her wide eyes riveted on him.

The wheels in Helena’s mind ground to a halt. There was too much information in Mairin’s response to make sense of all at once.

Logan had mentioned a half-brother—was this enraged warrior barreling down on them that man?

And their brother was the Laird of the Mackenzie clan? Helena only had a passing understanding of the Scottish clan system, but didn’t that mean Logan was the son of a Laird, and Mairin the daughter of one?

“Ye finally decided to show yer face,” Reid Mackenzie said, halting less than a hand span in front of Logan.

“Aye,” Logan replied, staring down his brother.

The Laird narrowed his eyes, his lips curling back in a vicious snarl. “Then ye will finally be made to answer for killing our father.”