CHAPTER ONE
Isle of Lewis, 1231
"We should stop."
The words left Enya's mouth before she could think better of them, and the instant silence that followed told her she'd made a mistake.
Finley didn’t even turn around.
His shoulders remained rigid beneath his Cameron plaid, his attention fixed on the darkening road ahead. "We're pressin’ on."
"It's nearly dark, Finley." Enya urged her horse closer to his, ignoring the warning glance from one of his men. "The sea cost us hours. We cannae see the?—"
"I said we're pressin' on."
Behind her, Amelia's mare whickered nervously, and Enya felt her maid's unease like a physical thing.
The forest pressed close on either side of the narrow road, shadows deepening between the trees. This stretch was known for ambushes. Everyone knew it.
"Ye're bein' reckless," Enya said, and this time she didn’t bother keeping the edge from her voice. "The men are tired, the horses are weak."
"The men will dae as they're told." Finley finally glanced back at her, his storm-grey eyes flat. "As will ye."
Enya's jaw tightened.
Years of her brother's commands, and still every instinct in her wanted to push back. When they were children, things had been different. He had been her best friend, he had protected her and had played with her. But that had all changed when their father had died and he had become laird. "I'm nae questionin' yer authority, braither. I'm questionin' yer sense."
One of the guards coughed, poorly disguising a laugh. Finley's expression didn’t change, but his knuckles whitened on the reins.
"Yer sense," he said slowly, "has led tae how many broken betrothals now? Six? Seven?"
The blow landed exactly where he'd aimed it. Enya felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
"That's nae fair."
"Fair?" Finley turned his horse to face her fully now, and there was something cold in his gaze that made her throat tight. "Ye want tae speak of fair, Enya? The MacDonalds called ye cursed. The MacLeods wouldnae even receive ye. Duncan MacRae took one look at yer eyes and said he'd sooner bed a corpse."
"Finley." Amelia's voice was soft but firm when she tried to step up. "Please."
He ignored her. "Every clan in the Highlands has refused ye. Every. Single. One. And now ye've the audacity tae question me when I'm deliverin’ ye tae the only man who cannae refuse?"
Enya's hands trembled on the reins, but she forced them still. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. "I ken what I am tae them."
"Dae ye?" Finley leaned forward in his saddle. "Because ye seem tae think ye have choices here, lass. Ye dinnae. This marriage tae Harald Alvsson is happenin' whether ye like it or nae. It's the only alliance left open tae ye, he is the only man thathastae take ye because the king commanded it."
The truth of it sat like stones in her stomach. He wasn’t wrong.
The king's decree was the only reason a Norse laird would accept a bride the Highlands had branded untouchable.
"I never said I wouldnae marry him," Enya said quietly.
"Nay?" Finley's smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Then why are we havin' this conversation?"
"Because I'm nae cattle tae be driven through the night without rest. Because these men deserve better than tae risk their necks on a road kent fer ambush."
"These men follow me, nae ye." Finley turned his horse back to the road. "And if ye're so concerned about necks bein' risked, perhaps ye should remember whose neck depends on this marriage succeedin'."
He spurred his mount forward, effectively ending the argument. The guards fell into line after him, leaving Enya and Amelia to follow or be left behind in the gathering dark.
