At the very moment the man raised his vicious sword to strike her down, a loud, commanding voice came out of the darkness, causing him to pause, his arms still holding the sword aloft.
“Lower yer sword, ye damned bully. Ye’ll nae treat an English lady with such disrespect in the Highlands.”
The words, as low and deep as the rumble of distant thunder, came from behind Selene. The raider’s eyes widened and before she could turn toward the speaker, a blur of motion descended upon the man. Steel met flesh with brutal force. No quarter was given as the newcomer rounded on her attacker brandishing his fierce sword in a furious onslaught.
It was over in mere seconds. Despite his great size, her attacker was no match for the stranger’s skill and strength. It was clear he had no chance against this new warrior. She staggered away just as her attacker tumbled to the deck, blood spreading in a dark pool, joining the stream caused by the torrents of rain.
She looked up, heart hammering, catching sight of the owner of the voice.
He stood over the fallen raider, chest rising with measured breaths, a sword in hand already wet with the storm and battle alike. His dark hair clung to his brow, he was tall and broad, and she caught a glimpse of a stern and angular profile. Clad in a sodden tartan kilt he looked every inch the Highland warrior that she had once believed only existed in exaggerated tales.
“I am at yer service me lady,” came the same rich tones as before, calm and unruffled despite the carnage surrounding them.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The storm raged between them, rain running down Selene’s face like tears. She had never witnessed such violence at such close range, not even on the roughest Highland roads.
When he stepped toward her, instinct shifted her backward. Her boots slid on the slick deck, but she managed to put distance between.
Her rescuer paused in his advance.
“There’s nay cause for fear.” His voice was raw but steady. “I’m nae a man tae harm a woman.”
Trembling, Selene swallowed hard, working to still her ragged breathing. “What you did…” She glanced at the prone form lying on the deck before her. “… was brutal.”
Something like a grim smile tugged at his mouth. “Aye, lass. I’ve ne’er claimed I’m nae a brute, yet I believe ye owe me yer life.”
The deck swayed beneath her, tilting so sharply she had to brace a hand against the nearest beam. Voices shouted around them in a torrent of Gaelic she could not understand. More men in dark tartan poured across the deck, their shields bearing a Highland crest she did not recognise depicting an armored hand holding a cross with the words ‘Per mare per terras’. Her knowledge of Latin told her it meant ‘By sea and by land’.
She searched her memory. Was that not the crest of the MacDonald Clan?
Armed, soaked, powerful, a formation of burly Highlanders drew up to surround her like a second storm.
Her rescuer lifted a hand to keep his men at bay, granting her a measure of space. But his eyes never left hers.
A ripple of something hot and warm rippled through her as their eyes met. She straightened her spine. That wild man would not see her weak and vulnerable. For all that, she could scarce keep her gaze from roaming the breadth of his shoulders and his strong arms as he stood tall before her, a half-smile on his lips.
He was a man like no other she’d clapped eyes on in all her travels. Or, for that matter, at any time during her calm and ladylike days in Hertfordshire.
“Who are ye?” he asked, “and why daes yer ship bear nay colors?”
She tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat.
A broad-shouldered Highlander with storm-grey eyes, the man’s second-in-command if she had to guess, stepped forward.
“A birlinn without colors draws suspicions,” he said plainly. Frowning deeply, he turned toward his companion. “Think on it, me laird. I’ve heard rumors that, since the rebellion, King George will confiscate the lands of any clan if he hears of conflict. There are many spies among us, itching fer the king’s favor tae claim our lands.” He turned his gaze momentarily to Selene. “With the unrest all through the Sound of Sleat and trouble between our traders and fishermen and the men of Raasay, she could be an English spy. Someone sent in the king’s pay ready tae make trouble fer us.”
Selene stiffened. “A spy?”
Her rescuer’s gaze hardened as he turned to her. “Aye. Ye need tae prove me wrong, lass. Ye’re English, sailing on a birlinn bearing nay flag. Why should we believe yer story?”
She drew herself as tall as she could and straightened her shoulders. “I am Lady Selene Montgomery, and who might you be, sir, to accuse me in such a reckless manner.”
“I am Callum MacDonald, first sword to the Laird MacDonald of Sleat.” His tone shifted, as recognition dawned in on Selene. “Mayhap ye’ve already heard of me laird?”
Her blood chilled. “Laird Kenneth MacDonald? The Brute of Sleat?” she whispered before she could stop herself.
Laird Kenneth’s jaw flexed and he flinched as if the mention of the title struck him like a thrown stone.
Selene clutched the small silver and pearl necklace at her throat – her mother’s, worn thin by years of her touch – and struggled to draw breath against the rising panic constricting her chest.
