Helena had made a tremendous error.

She hunched against the falling snow, but her cloak, which had kept her plenty warm through many a Borderland winter, did not protect her from the biting Highland wind.

One foot, then the other. One foot, then the other.

Her feet were blessedly numb now, free of the pain she’d incurred on this mad journey. She repeated the refrain over and over in her head, knowing that moving was the only thing keeping her alive. If she slowed or stopped, she feared her legs would turn into blocks of ice, her whole body to frozen stone.

How wrong she had been, how naïve and foolish, when she’d fled Craigmoor under cover of night. Nay, not wrong, for she would use every last fiber of strength she possessed to flee Geoffrey again, knowing what she knew.

But she had terribly miscalculated the toll such a flight would take.

She’d thought it would be only slightly cooler in the Highlands than it was in the Borderlands. Instead, she’d faced pelting, icy rains, lashing winds, and now blizzards of heavy snow.

She’d known the journey would be long and the terrain rugged. But never having traveled farther north than the Borderlands, she had no concept of just how vast Scotland stretched.

She’d walked every day, all day, across rocky soil, over jutting mountains, and around lake after lake until she collapsed each night in exhaustion beneath a pine tree or in a thatch of heather. It had been a little more than a fortnight, and still she had not reached the farthest corner of Scotland.

Blessedly, fresh drinking water had been abundant, but food had been far harder to come by. The land here simply was not soft and bountiful as it was in the south. When she and her family had moved from central England to the Borderlands twelve years past, she’d thought her new home barren and desolate. Compared to the Highlands, the Borderlands was a veritable Garden of Eden.

Berries, mushrooms, wild onions, and carrots had seen her through the first few days, but hunger had been a constant companion since then. She’d shamefully resorted to stealing eggs, milk, and a few bannocks several days ago. Too scared to ask for help for fear that Geoffrey was on her heels, hunting her, she’d snatched the food from an isolated farm before fleeing once more.

Whenever she crossed into a patch of dense forest, she’d tried to gather the nuts from the pine cones that littered the ground, but the process was slow and yielded little food. Her time was better spent moving, for there was no telling if or when Geoffrey would come for her.

Geoffrey had what he truly wanted—Craigmoor—but from what she’d learned of his true nature, he was possessive and greedy. Aye, if he intended to kill her anyway, he might just accept her disappearance from the castle and not come looking for her, but she couldn’t count on that.

Helena’s fears of being followed had pushed her onward for the first sennight, but as the weather turned foul and her body began to flag under the punishing conditions, her mind turned to what lay ahead rather than what lay behind.

She’d been so terrified the night of her vision that she hadn’t formed a plan. The farthest corner of Scotland was a good place to hide from Geoffrey, but what would happen when she reached it? She didn’t know a soul in Scotland. She had few skills other than knowledge of how to run a keep. And she had so many secrets to protect.

Now, hunched against the rising storm, frozen to the bone, and close to starving, it no longer mattered that she hadn’t made a plan, for it seemed she would not survive to see tomorrow.

A low moan escaped Helena’s throat. She’d been battling fiercely this past fortnight—against her fears, her doubts, the weather, even the landscape. But she was so tired. So cold.

Freezing moisture stung her face, but she wasn’t sure if it was her tears or the icy snow.

She’d been a fool—a fool to think she could escape her fate. Her visions had never been wrong. Why had she hoped this time would be different? In fleeing a fiery end at Geoffrey’s hands, she’d stumbled into an icy one instead, alone in the empty, unforgiving Highlands.

Mayhap safety and warmth truly did lie ahead, but they were not hers to have. Fate would not be thwarted.

A blast of icy wind ripped at Helena’s cloak, sending the snow angling sideways. Her wooden legs braced against the onslaught, but she had no more strength to give. She toppled into the snow’s soft, cold embrace. This would be her final rest, she knew.

“I tried, Father,” she croaked. “I tried.”

Helena let her eyes close and surrendered to the raging storm.

 

*   *   *   *

 

Logan’s blood ran hot not only from sparring with Ansel, but from the sharp words they’d exchanged. Because of that, he walked a long while before registering just how heavily the snow was falling and just how biting the wind. Foolishly, he hadn’t even grabbed a cloak before storming away from the practice field. At last, he noticed the cold cutting through his woolen tunic and the dampness seeping into his boots.

Muttering a curse, he halted and dragged in a deep lungful of the freezing air.

He’d lived only for himself for so long. But now he needed set aside his pride and bend to Ansel and the others—for Mairin’s sake.

He dragged a hand through his hair, dislodging the snow that had settled atop his bare head. With another long breath, he turned to begin the long trudge back to the Corps’ camp.

But his eye caught on a dark lump against the white snow just beyond him. Heavy flakes had begun to cling to the lump, but he could still make out its huddled brown shape. At first he thought it was an animal carcass—a deer, mayhap, or even a brown sheep that had broken from its pen and succumbed to the storm.

Cautiously, he drew nearer, sweeping the surrounding forest for signs of wolves. As he moved closer, he studied the lump again.

A thatch of black hair poked from one end of the small heap.

Logan sucked in a breath. Bloody hell. This was no deer or sheep—it was a person.

He lurched forward, sliding to his knees in the thick snow that now blanketed the forest floor. Tentatively, he reached for the small form and turned it over.

A lass, pale as the surrounding snow with hair as black as a raven’s wing, emerged from the folds of the brown wool cloak.

Her lips were bluish purple, her skin cool.

Panic spiked in Logan’s gut. He reached for her throat. After a long moment, he felt her heartbeat, weak and slow. A faint puff of misty breath slipped from her nostrils.

“Lass,” Logan said, giving her a shake. She didn’t move, and her dark eyelashes remained fanned against her pale cheeks.

“Shite.” He couldn’t help her out here, not with the snow falling heavier and no shelter—not even a cloak—to offer the woman.

There was no time to hesitate. Logan scooped the lass into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her cloak was heavy with moisture and dragged around his knees, but he paid it no mind.

As fast as he could without jostling the woman, he trudged back through the snow toward camp. He could only pray that she would still be alive by the time he got there.