Chapter One
Scotland, 1306
Finian MacLachor was slowly freezing to death. Stripped of his outer garments, he wore nothing but his trews, for his clothing had been taken from him. The Baron of Harkirk, Robert Fitzroy, had ordered him whipped, and now Finian was imprisoned within a storage chamber, his back raw and bloody. The heavy manacles enclosed his wrists, the thick chains impossible to escape.
At dawn, he would die.
He knew the baron would not make it a quick death. They would make an example of him, to terrify the other Scots who dared to rise up against the English garrisons.
But just as the freezing air had seeped into his skin, slowly taking away his ability to feel, his mind had settled into calm.
You don’t deserve to live. Because of you, most of the MacLachors are dead.
Including his own daughter.
Finian closed his eyes, the tight knot strangling his heart. He’d been too late to save her. His hands curled against the chains, gripping them hard as he tried to rip them from the stone wall. Had Iliana died believing he’d forgotten about her? She’d just turned ten years old.
On his knees, he uttered a prayer for her soul. He doubted he would live long enough to avenge her death, but he wasn’t going to die quietly. God willing, he would kill Harkirk before that happened.
The sound of footsteps approaching made him wonder if it was already dawn. He rose to his feet and stood, waiting. When the hooded figure emerged, he realized it was a woman. Now why would she enter a place such as this? What did she want?
Finian lowered his head, behaving as though he hadn’t seen her. It was easier to learn about an enemy if the person believed he was unaware. She was still upon the stairs, and he angled his peripheral vision to see her better.
Her light brown hair held glints of gold within it, and she seemed taken aback at the sight of him. Finian said nothing, waiting for her to speak. Her eyes rested upon his chains, and she paused with the keys in her palm for a moment, almost uncertain of what to do now. Was she planning to free him? He doubted if a stranger would show such mercy.
He waited for her to leave, for this was no place for a woman. Instead, her footsteps drew nearer, down the stone steps. Finian remained motionless, and the longer she stood before him, the more he grew conscious of his trembling. The chains shook, despite his clenched fists. Although he’d stopped bleeding, his skin throbbed with a fiery pain.
“If I release you, will you promise not to harm me?” she asked quietly.
He jerked his head up, hope flaring inside. Had she truly offered to set him free? He blinked, and saw her steady green eyes watching him. Like an ethereal angel, her presence seemed conjured from his imagination.
“Who are you?” His voice was rough, edged with cold.
“Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk.” She shivered, and in her hands she held the key to unlock his manacles. “Don’t even think of using me as a hostage. I want to leave this place, just as you do.”
Strange, to think that his angel of mercy came in the form of the devil’s wife. She wouldn’t dream of releasing him if she knew he intended to kill her husband.
But what did she mean, she wanted to leave this place? Finian stared at her, unable to understand why. But there was genuine unhappiness on her face, which he hadn’t expected.
Her hand touched his wrist, and the sensation of her fingers was warm, like a healing balm. In the darkness, her breath formed clouds, and Finian could smell a light herbal fragrance from her skin. Almost as if she’d bathed last night with petals scattered upon the water, dipping against her breasts.
Against his will, he found himself noticing her as a woman. Likely, it was only the years of celibacy—any man would respond to a beautiful woman touching him. Her features were delicate, with a small nose and lips that held a slight frown. Her hands were shaking as she struggled to unlock the first
Scotland, 1306
Finian MacLachor was slowly freezing to death. Stripped of his outer garments, he wore nothing but his trews, for his clothing had been taken from him. The Baron of Harkirk, Robert Fitzroy, had ordered him whipped, and now Finian was imprisoned within a storage chamber, his back raw and bloody. The heavy manacles enclosed his wrists, the thick chains impossible to escape.
At dawn, he would die.
He knew the baron would not make it a quick death. They would make an example of him, to terrify the other Scots who dared to rise up against the English garrisons.
But just as the freezing air had seeped into his skin, slowly taking away his ability to feel, his mind had settled into calm.
You don’t deserve to live. Because of you, most of the MacLachors are dead.
Including his own daughter.
Finian closed his eyes, the tight knot strangling his heart. He’d been too late to save her. His hands curled against the chains, gripping them hard as he tried to rip them from the stone wall. Had Iliana died believing he’d forgotten about her? She’d just turned ten years old.
On his knees, he uttered a prayer for her soul. He doubted he would live long enough to avenge her death, but he wasn’t going to die quietly. God willing, he would kill Harkirk before that happened.
The sound of footsteps approaching made him wonder if it was already dawn. He rose to his feet and stood, waiting. When the hooded figure emerged, he realized it was a woman. Now why would she enter a place such as this? What did she want?
Finian lowered his head, behaving as though he hadn’t seen her. It was easier to learn about an enemy if the person believed he was unaware. She was still upon the stairs, and he angled his peripheral vision to see her better.
Her light brown hair held glints of gold within it, and she seemed taken aback at the sight of him. Finian said nothing, waiting for her to speak. Her eyes rested upon his chains, and she paused with the keys in her palm for a moment, almost uncertain of what to do now. Was she planning to free him? He doubted if a stranger would show such mercy.
He waited for her to leave, for this was no place for a woman. Instead, her footsteps drew nearer, down the stone steps. Finian remained motionless, and the longer she stood before him, the more he grew conscious of his trembling. The chains shook, despite his clenched fists. Although he’d stopped bleeding, his skin throbbed with a fiery pain.
“If I release you, will you promise not to harm me?” she asked quietly.
He jerked his head up, hope flaring inside. Had she truly offered to set him free? He blinked, and saw her steady green eyes watching him. Like an ethereal angel, her presence seemed conjured from his imagination.
“Who are you?” His voice was rough, edged with cold.
“Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk.” She shivered, and in her hands she held the key to unlock his manacles. “Don’t even think of using me as a hostage. I want to leave this place, just as you do.”
Strange, to think that his angel of mercy came in the form of the devil’s wife. She wouldn’t dream of releasing him if she knew he intended to kill her husband.
But what did she mean, she wanted to leave this place? Finian stared at her, unable to understand why. But there was genuine unhappiness on her face, which he hadn’t expected.
Her hand touched his wrist, and the sensation of her fingers was warm, like a healing balm. In the darkness, her breath formed clouds, and Finian could smell a light herbal fragrance from her skin. Almost as if she’d bathed last night with petals scattered upon the water, dipping against her breasts.
Against his will, he found himself noticing her as a woman. Likely, it was only the years of celibacy—any man would respond to a beautiful woman touching him. Her features were delicate, with a small nose and lips that held a slight frown. Her hands were shaking as she struggled to unlock the first
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