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The chain bit into her skin, scraping, and for one savage moment, Sorcha thought it might tear her neck open. She cried out, fingers clutching the pendant as if sheer will could hold it. But the chain snapped with a sharp pop.

The emerald slid from her grasp. A flash of green. A flash of silver. And then it was gone, clutched in his fist like a prize.

Something inside Sorcha broke. Her mother was gone. Her home was gone. Her clan was gone. And now even the small thread she had clung to, the promise of a future, of a life that might still hold beauty, was gone.

The men shoved her back. She fell hard onto the wet ground, palms scraping stone. Mud soaked into her skirt.

“Stay down,” the first man warned, pointing a knife she hadn’t seen before. “Unless you want your brother’s fate to fall on you.”

Sorcha froze, trembling. Her body shook violently now, delayed fear rippling through her bones.

The men retreated, disappearing between the trees as quickly as they had come, their laughter fading into the wind.

Sorcha lay in the cold mud, staring at the empty space where the pendant had rested. Her neck burned where the chain had cut into her. For a heartbeat, she could not move. All she could hear was her own ragged breathing, the wild pounding of her heart, and the soft whisper of the forest.

No one was coming to save her. Not William. Not her clan. Not God. If she wanted to save her brother, she would have to crawl through hell and do it herself. Sorcha rolled onto her side and pushed herself up. Her arms trembled. Her hands were raw and trembling and stained with mud.

She found the knife where it had fallen, half buried in leaves, and tucked it back into her sleeve with numb fingers. Her cloak hung crooked, torn at one shoulder. She pulled it around herself anyway, though it did little to stop the wind.

As she staggered to her feet, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She swallowed hard, forcing it down. If she fainted here, she would die here. Or worse. She took one step. Then another. Pain radiated from her shoulder. Her throat stung. Her knees shook, but she walked.

And as the path began to rise, as the trees thinned at last, Sorcha caught a glimpse ahead through the branches, a dark silhouette against the winter sky.

The outline of Foulis Castle.

Her vision blurred. She blinked, and tears slid down her cheeks, hot against the cold. She had wanted to arrive with dignity. She had wanted to arrive as Sorcha Sutherland, proud and whole, a lady worthy of kindness. Instead, she came as she truly was now—broken, stripped, desperate.

Still, she kept walking. Because Destiny was there. Because Cameron, laird of the Munro clan, was there. And because Gavan Munro, her enemy, her victim, her judge, was there too. The last man she deserved to ask, but the only person who could save her brother.

Sorcha pressed a shaking hand to her chest where the necklace had been, feeling only the emptiness beneath her fingers. “Forgive me,” she whispered, not sure if she meant her mother, her brother, or Gavan.

Then she stepped out of the forest towards the gates. Towards judgement, and she hoped, mercy.

As she approached the gates, the wind struck her full in the face, snapping the torn edge of her cloak. In the distance, a figure appeared atop the gallery, someone looking down.

Then another.

Sorcha’s heart lurched as she recognised the shape of a woman in a cloak, hair caught by the wind. Destiny. For a heartbeat, Sorcha couldn’t breathe at all.

Destiny leaned forward as though straining to believe what she saw. Then she lifted a hand to her mouth.

And Sorcha knew Destiny had recognised her. Sorcha’s knees nearly buckled with relief so sharp it felt like pain. She forced herself to stand before the gate with as much pride as she could muster, even though she had no idea what was waiting for her on the other side. She had come too far to turn back. She would beg if she must. She would work until her hands bled if that was the price of saving William’s life.

Destiny turned and vanished from the wall as if she had flung herself down the stairs.

And as Sorcha waited, it seemed to her that the world held its breath.

Chapter Two

From above the tower window beside the gate, a face appeared, one of Foulis’s guards, his cap pulled low, his breath steaming as he frowned down at her.

“What business?” he demanded, voice rough. “State your name.”

Sorcha swallowed. Her throat felt raw, scraped hollow by miles of fear.

“Sorcha Sutherland,” she said.

The guard’s eyes sharpened. His gaze flicked over her, seeing the mud on her clothes, her torn cloak, the blood on her cheek, and her hair escaping its pins. Suspicion tightened his mouth.