Highland Honor

By Christine Young

Willfully stubborn, innocently courageous, Callie Whitcomb braves a journey through the treacherous highlands to the Macpherson castle. Callie flees from an unwanted marriage as well as her ruthless half brother. Naively she believes Colin MacPherson, the head of the clan, is loyal to her father and will give her sanctuary, protecting her from the vile plans that have been made for her.

As hard and as unyielding as the winter storms that sweep through the countryside, Colin is irresistibly drawn to the impetuous beauty who has magically appeared on his doorsteps. Despite his vows of revenge against her father, she stirs his passion as well as his sense of justice...but to love her would violate all his vows of revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Oct 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781936403417

Book preview

Highland Honor

The first book in the Highland Series

Christine Young

Published by Rogue Phoenix Press, LLP for Smashwords

Copyright © 2011

ISBN: 978-1-936403-41-7

Electronic rights reserved by Rogue Phoenix Press, LLP. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law. This is a work of fiction. People and locations, even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Scotland November 1512

A heavy frost sat on the frozen earth, and a full moon shone clearly between the heavy clouds dotting the sky. Lady Callie Whitcomb looked over her shoulder as she raced through the deepening gloom toward the lighted tavern ahead. Every shadow, every mournful sigh of the wind sweeping through the trees, every chilling animal sound filled her with terror. Fear for her life drove her to put all thoughts of danger aside. He would follow her, find her, and drag her home.

Home.

Don’t think of that now, she reminded herself fiercely, even while tears stung in the back of her throat and fear made her limbs tremble. Don’t ye dare think of home. It no longer exists. Nothing and no one could coax her back or make her believe there was naught but terror in the home where she’d been born.

I will never marry Lord Huntington. Never! she whispered fiercely, the chill night air solemnly echoing her words.

Her stepbrother, Archibald Covington III, made sure she could never return.

There ye be, lass! I’ve been waiting for you.

The voice rose from nowhere and surprised her. Her heart froze, lurched, then began an erratic beat, while raw nerves snapped, sending a myriad of sensations racing down her spine.

Archibald— she whispered, panic sweeping through her. He’s found me. All she could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears.

Before she could reach her destination, before she could find safe refuge from him, his men had found her. No! Not now. Not when she thought she had eluded them all.

A wave of fear sweeping through her reminded her, that if caught, she would be taken back to Archibald and forced to marry Lord Huntington.

I’ll help you down, lass.

No.

Before she could react and spur her horse forward, callous, rough hands centered on her waist then pulled her from her mount.

No! She cried out to no avail. Regaining her wits, she beat fiercely upon the man’s broad chest, tearing at his face and his thick beard with her fingers.

Ach, lass! Hold still! I mean ye no harm. Stop this— His voice was gruff and impatient.

Fear for her life had spurred her haste. Terror she might see Huntington or Archibald with each turn of the road haunted every hour of her journey. Archibald had retainers everywhere. Messages would have been sent. A highlander could be bought.

Ruffian! Unhand me! Ye barbarous Scotsman.

If Archibald had guessed what path she followed...

Verra well, ne’er let it be said that I dinna do a lass’ bidding. Just as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, his hold upon her vanished. She stumbled backward.

Instantly, she found herself sitting on the frozen earth. The man towering above her watched her with concerned dark eyes. Despite the scar stretching from forehead to chin, his mouth quirked upward in a humorous slant.

Ye be a handful, lass.

Get away from me! Confusion blindsided her. If this man had anything to do with Archibald or Lord Huntington, he would have never let her go. Yet she could take no chances.

His arms outstretched, his hands beckoning her to him, he smiled. Now calm down.

Crab-like, she scurried backwards. I will not go with ye. I would rather die. Despite her proper upbringing, she wanted to scream her frustration and bellow with anger.

Hawke is waiting for you, lass. There is no need for this panic. He means you no harm. The man stepped forward, bending over her as if to lift her from the ground.

Hawke? Callie did not want to meet Hawke. She sought Colin MacPherson. She stood before the man could touch her again, quickly dusting the dirt and leaves from her hands and moving sideways, ready to bolt. But the giant moved quickly and lethally, his huge hand closing over her upper arm. He pulled her along with him, heading toward the tavern.

Aye, Hawke. You sound as if you’ve ne’er heard of the mon. Well, I suppose ‘tis good you dinna let on about your identity to just anyone. He waits for you and the papers you were to bring with you.

To no avail, she dug in her heels. I have no papers. Only the letter her father had written before he died and that was meant for Colin MacPherson, not some man named Hawke.

‘Tis all right, lass. You dinna need to tell me anything.

No! It is not all right. I won’t go with ye. I won’t go back.

We’ve got her, Hawke.

Aye, I see that you have. Laughter rang out from the shadows of the tavern. Bring the wee lass inside where we can talk.

Nay, ye have no right. Callie stiffened, searching the porch, every nerve strung taut. I am not chattel ye can push here and there.

Music, sounds of laughter, the scent of ale and peat smoke floated and clung to the heavy night air. A man moved forward, silhouetted by the backlight of the tavern.

I have every right, he said, but he made no move to change her situation or to tell his henchman to unhand her.

Struck by his size and with every nerve tightened, she inhaled a deep, ragged breath. When he stepped into a pool of light, she nearly gasped aloud. Moonlight gave his strong, well-chiseled features definition and there was a strange, vulnerable expression on his face.

Oh, but he was tall and his hair was as black as the night and the shadows surrounding him. His long, dark hair was pulled back and secured at his nape with a leather strap, his muscles rippling with every movement. At his side, he’d strapped a claymore, and a dirk was tucked into the top of his knee-high stocking.

Behind her, Pansy moved uneasily then trotted off into the darkness. Pansy—

Dinna fret, lass. Hawke will send a mon after your pony.

Hawke, Callie said his name aloud, returning her consideration to the man on the porch. She sensed his attention bone-deep, and her heart thundered, every instinct within calling out for her to flee. They thought she was someone she wasn’t. Sensations she’d never felt before swept through her.

She’d always known Archibald was wicked, but if she hadn’t seen his evil with her own eyes, she would have never believed him capable of such horrific deeds.

She didn’t want to remember. In the dusk of the evening, she had been where she wasn’t supposed to be, retrieving a doll for Archibald’s little sister. She’d followed the doll as it rolled endlessly down the steep embankment. Then she’d seen her stepbrother and the man she was supposed to marry, Lord Huntington, killing a man, the dagger piercing the victim’s heart.

The next day she had risen before dawn and packed one bag. With all her money sewn into the hem of the dress she’d bought from one of her servants, she’d donned her warmest cloak, saddled her mare, Pansy, and left the keep. No one had stopped her or sounded an alarm. Callie had told no one about the murder because she trusted no one. She’d been too terrified of the very walls in the castle to tell anyone.

Her body trembled and her nails dug into her palms.

By the look of the size and breadth of his hands alone, he could break her neck as easily as she could snap a twig.

Still gazing in her direction, he leaned against the post supporting the porch roof. It seemed he watched the stars and the moon. Yet she felt his eyes upon her.

Without giving her a second look, he pushed away from the post. With a casual nod toward her and his man, he walked into the tavern. The breath she’d been holding rushed out. The potent hold he had upon her senses dissolved and she could think again. Still, her heart pounded in alarm and she inhaled hoarse, ragged breaths.

Hawke wants ye inside where ‘tis safe. The burly man pulled her along with him.

You could tell all that by his nod? she questioned, wondering what evil demon had insinuated itself into her brain.

When she entered the lighted room, a blast of warm air hit her as well as the scent of freshly baked scones. For a moment, all sounds stopped and there was only silence in the tavern.

Sitting at a table in the back of the inn, Hawke turned his gaze her way. Callie saw only the man, the steel gray of his eyes, the unusual warmth of his expression—and once more the slight flicker of vulnerability.

Despite the weakness she noticed for one fleeting second, this man who somehow drew her to him was dangerous.

She was suddenly set before him. When she stepped back, his hand shot out to hold her wrist. Do you have something for me, lass? he asked, his voice, though soft, demanded an answer.

I . . . I don’t know what you mean. Her words were brittle, cracked.

What is this? He asked, his voice harsh, his eyes challenging. Don’t play coy. I don’t have time for games with a wee lass, even if she has the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen. The roughness in his voice softened, and with his other hand, he picked up a lock of her hair, rubbing the long strands between his fingers. Silken.

Sir. With his slight touch, an unexplainable warmth rushed through her.

He dropped his hand to the table, her hair swinging free. Yet, he still held her wrist. Your eyes tell me you know what I speak of. Out with it. What do you have for me? Documents mayhap? Proof of his crimes.

Before she could answer the tavern door burst open. Blue and white blurred together. Her stepbrother’s retainers barged into the tavern. Hawke’s grip loosened. She yanked her hand free and holding her breath, she watched in silent terror, her nerves ripped apart while her stepbrother’s men swarmed into the Boar’s Head Inn.

Hawke rose. Ian. His unspoken command did not go unheeded. Another man grabbed her elbow. Hawke nodded toward the kitchen. Keep her safe.

Nay, Callie protested, struggling to break the man’s hold. Let me go!

Hawke drew his sword, the steel gleaming in the tavern light. Metal clashed, the noise reverberating within her soul.

Ian pushed her forward, his hand resting at the small of her back. Hurry lass.

Hawke! His men cried out. Ian whirled, his hand now on his weapon.

Covington, Hawke answered. All seemed to be understood with that one word.

The smoke-filled tavern sizzled. Swords clashed. Steel met steel. Cries wrent the heavy air.

Ian propelled Callie into the kitchen. Stay here. If I dinna return in a few minutes, leave. Go to castle MacPherson and tell them Ian sent you.

Callie’s heart leapt and felt as if it lodged in her throat. Archibald had come for her, had sent his men. She knew they would chase her yet her feet were frozen to the floor. She could not move.

Ian turned to the girl in the kitchen. See she does as I’ve told her.

The girl nodded.

Drawn to the ungodly noise in the tavern, woodenly, Callie walked to the door and peered into the room. Covington and his men outnumbered Hawke and his. Yet Hawke’s men fought with skill and courage. In a matter of minutes, the Scotsman had sent her stepbrother and his men retreating from the blood-spattered tavern.

On unsteady legs, her heart in her throat, Callie stepped into the room.

Hawke turned, wiping blood from his claymore. His gaze traveled from Ian to her then back. He nodded to Ian, yet his features were grim. Ian laughed, slapping Hawke on his back. I couldnae let ye have all the fun big brother.

Come along, lass. Hawke grabbed a cloak from a coat stand then ushered Callie from the tavern.

Callie had no time to protest, no time to ask questions or argue. Indeed, she did not want to protest, for she needed to be away from the tavern and even farther away from her stepbrother and his men.

They had found her. They would find her again.

No one could make her wed Lord Huntington. But if she refused, Archibald might sell her to someone even more detestable. Chills swept through her. Unforgiving, unrelenting waves of cold filled her with unbidden terror.

Hawke? she asked, her voice trembling.

Stay with me, lass, he told her. We have unfinished business I mean to take care of before the night is over.

Unfinished business? What did he mean, and what was she doing following behind this man like a trained puppy? Yet at this moment, following this man seemed prudent and wise.

Keeping to shadows, they entered the stables from a back door. The stable boy had Hawke’s big stallion saddled and ready.

We couldnae find the lady’s pony, the boy said.

Hawke nodded, mounted and offered her a hand up. Best we hurry.

Despite her misgivings and her fears, she was in complete agreement. Hawke had become her salvation. She grabbed his hand, and he swept her up behind him.

Hold on, he told her as he spurred his horse and the stallion leapt forward. The frigid wind whistled around her ears.

What had she gotten herself into? She had abandoned a home, a family, and now she was riding into the highlands seated behind a man she knew nothing about save his name.

Hawke.

Yet she rode from certain peril. Rode from the evil that surrounded her stepbrother. And she raced from her betrothed, Lord Huntington.

So what lay ahead?

An uncertain future at best.

The horse flew with the wind and Callie held on tightly to the man. Muscle rippled and bunched beneath her fingers, warmth from his body kept her from feeling the brunt of the numbing cold. He didn’t speak and neither did she. Behind them, his men followed.

The horse’s hooves pounded the cracked, frozen earth. An owl hooted and the ebbing silence filled her with a deep foreboding. Suddenly, he turned east, racing along a narrow path, brambles and branches tearing at her hair and her cloak. She was sorely tempted to jump from the horse and let fate take its course. But the image of Huntington loomed in her head and a fine, trembling shudder swept through her.

She hid her face, pressing her cheek and her nose into his back, clinging more tightly to Hawke. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, she could hear the even beat of his heart, the steady flow of his breath into and out of his chest. He reminded her of strength and courage, of Scottish heather and mist. His midnight black hair fell free from the leather thong binding it. The strands clung to her eyebrows and whispered across her cheek.

Strangely, his hair was soft, silken. She wondered at that. She had never touched a man’s hair, or felt the softness of the locks slide across her face.

And she had never before held herself so close to a man that she could hear the beat of his heart and feel his muscles rippling beneath her fingertips.

A shiver wracked her body, and it seemed he felt her tremble against him.

Are you alright? he asked, but he didn’t slow the steed, nor did he seem to want a reply. She moved closer against him, tightening her grip and letting the warmth of his body ward off the freezing night, her fears and the aching loneliness she’d felt since her father died.

A light snow began to fall, and she wondered when the clouds had arrived to cover the moon. The snow was both a blessing and a curse. The horse would leave a trail a child could follow. If snowflakes continued to fall, they might well cover the tracks left behind by Hawke’s horse.

The sky was dark now, so very dark she could barely see her hand in front of her face.

With time, she drifted to sleep, and when she woke, one of his strong hands held both of hers together at his waist. Dawn was beginning to deepen the sky with muted colors, mauve, a soft apricot and the deepest amethyst. Now the snowfall was light. He’d slowed the horse to a walk.

Thick forest rose to meet the sky on one side, and vertical granite walls rose on the other side. They followed a path that curved and led upward into the rocks.

The constant ache in the pit of her stomach made her realize how very hungry she was. She’d eaten nothing at the tavern and at the moment, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any food at all.

This was the sixth day of her self-imposed exile.

As if he guessed at her exhaustion, Hawke gave encouragement. We’ll stop soon. What is your name?

Callie, she said but offered nothing more.

Well, you’ve done well, Callie. His deep voice rumbled against her cheek. The compliment warmed her heavy heart and soothed the ache in her muscles.

Thank you, she said, so softly she wasn’t sure if he would hear.

And you are welcome. But there is no need of thanks. I speak only the truth.

As do I, she told him, closing her eyes and willing herself to hang on a few minutes longer. He’d said they would be there soon. Wherever there was.

~ * ~

Callie. Hawke let the name linger in his mind. A prickly sensation slivered down his spine, yet he pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to dwell on the sudden gut reaction he had to the name.

Hawke couldn’t help himself. He’d taken an immediate liking to this wee lass with hair the color of brightest sunshine. Unlike anyone—man or woman—he’d ever met before, with her crystal clear, blue eyes she’d held his gaze and challenged him in return. She had not turned from him. Nor did it seem he frightened her. Even though she’d not wanted to admit to carrying the documents he sought, Covington’s men had been following her, and she had acted quickly and expeditiously.

If she’d hung back at all, he would have left her in the tavern to fend for herself. A small wave of guilt swept through him. Well, he’d learned a long time ago a man had to watch his back, and he suspected she had learned the same. For this short interlude they would do well together.

Snuggled against him, she was warm and soft, fragile, yet strong. She smelled of sweetest roses and made him think of unchecked courage. He never before associated courage with a woman. But here it was in a neat little bundle of femininity.

Courage.

Her tiny sounds through the night as she slept had filled him with a burning need to hear sounds such as those when he made love to her. Her small fingers pressing gently into his belly and resting even lower when she’d fallen asleep had nearly undone him.

No getting around his needs, he wanted her, nay burned for her and he would have her before this clandestine business with her was over. He had no doubt that he could easily convince this lady to come to his bed.

Arrogant, he told himself with a soft chuckle. But he wasn’t really. She was a servant girl. Surely, she’d had countless lovers. One more would never matter. He would see to her pleasure, give her gifts that would make her smile and laugh.

Inwardly, he groaned. Business first. He had to have the information he looked for and soon. If she didn’t carry the documents he sought and proof of Covington’s treachery, he would have to gain access to the English Lord’s castle.

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a loaf of bread. Tearing off a large hunk, he offered the piece to her.

She accepted the bread. He thought he could hear her sigh of pleasure.

You always eat and ride? she asked.

He liked the sound of her voice, a little too high for a lady grown, but it was soft and she was well-spoken. She carried herself with the poise and grace of a lady born. Perhaps she wasn’t used to serving the rich folk. Perhaps she was a governess, born on the wrong side of the bed sheets, a bastard. He paused thoughtfully, letting the idea sink home.

When I have to, he told her. We do have Covington’s men chasing us.

I think not, well, she paused, they are Covington’s men, but if I’m right, he sent them to bring me home.

Bring you home? Hawke queried, his mind racing. He didn’t want to be wrong about her.

Against his back, he could feel her nod. But she didn’t answer right away. I ran away.

She was Covington’s mistress. Beneath his breath, he swore. So, he had been wrong, and he’d fled the tavern before he could meet his contact. Months might pass before he would have another opportunity. Somehow, he didn’t mind. Not with this pretty little thing tucked tight against him, her curves beckoning him. He could live with that very nicely.

That’s all you ‘ve got to say? You saved my life, and I am indebted to you.

Then I would collect, he told her, his voice growing husky with the pent up desire he felt for her. He’d felt her breasts pushed against his back for hours now, and he longed to know the taste and texture of their rosebud tips, yearned to know if her passion would rise within her until a sweet, hot tempest flowed between them.

A gentleman would not say such a thing, she told him, her voice soft, slightly teasing.

Despite her dire situation, she flirted with him, he realized. And he liked the idea. He threw his head back and laughed. What makes you think I am a gentleman?

He felt her sharply indrawn breath, and felt the slight tremble of her fingers where they rested on his belly. Truly, he should not tease her so shamelessly.

Because you rescued me. Dispatched Covington’s men as if they were children. Because I have put my trust in your hands, and I don’t know who you are or what you are. You could be...

She stopped abruptly. A murderer? he questioned

Yes.

I assure ye I’m not a murderer. But neither do I pretend to be a gentleman.

Then what are you? she asked.

A man in dire trouble. He meant to tease.

Because of me, she said, taking his words far too seriously. I am sorry.

They fell silent then. The terrain changed slightly, the snow continuing to fall.

When he looked back, their tracks were covered. Several times they stopped and she stretched her legs, seeing to her needs. Each time she dismounted, he could tell it grew harder for her to get back onto the horse. Every muscle and joint in her body must ache. Each time he forced them to move on his concern for her grew.

Now the sun, its glow muted behind clouds, was slowly dropping in the sky. Soon the large orb would rest on the western horizon.

She pressed her hands tighter against him, and he inhaled sharply. Where are we going? And I thought you said we’d be there soon. That was this morning. By the look of the sun, we are nearing evening.

Ah, I think I like that. A woman who can tell time by the height of the sun.

He laughed when she graced him with an unladylike snort. It is nothing. My father taught me.

If you have a father, then why is Archibald Covington searching for you? If you have a home, why are you running? And who are you running too?

My father died a few months past. I was seeking Colin MacPherson.

The MacPherson? he asked. For some reason he couldn’t explain to himself, he had no desire to tell her she had found the man she sought.

Yes.

Her voice was so soft and filled with pain, his heart burned with the sorrow she felt. He remembered when his father had died and the ache that would never go away. That pain still lingered when he recalled the man who had loved him and raised him.

And so you have no one save the wicked Archibald Covington to count on and protect you.

I have no one.

She must trust him completely, or she was not as wise as he had thought. Of course, he acknowledged being wise was not always the same thing as being smart. Vulnerable and alone in a world he didn’t think she was used to, she had been forced to put her life in his hands.

He, Colin MacPherson, was an honorable man, but he hadn’t bargained for this woman to come into his life. He was loyal to his clan, but he held no loyalty for a stranger. Yet what if she wasn’t as she seemed? Her fingers—holding tight across his middle—were soft, her nails well-groomed. This lady was used to a life of ease.

So, who was she really?

You, sir, she spoke suddenly, have evaded my question long enough."

Suddenly they emerged from the forest. Straight ahead she saw a castle rising from the ocean, a narrow land bridge connecting it to the shoreline.

I doubt if Covington’s men will venture this far into the highlands. If they do, I will welcome them. Then we will decide what to do.

He is not really that smart nor does he have a whit of patience. I’m sure he will abandon the search quickly, she told him.

Perhaps—

You don’t believe me.

And you haven’t told me why he sent them after you, lass.

She fell silent, and Hawke didn’t like the quiet. Indeed, her reticence told him more than she would ever know. The reasons for the search were grave, and if he guessed correctly, he doubted Covington would call the men home until she was found.

~ * ~

Ye lost them? Archibald Covington screamed at the messenger, his disbelief changing to a simmering anger with the incompetence of his men. A lady who has never been on her own eluded my men? She escaped without a trace? Ye say she met a man?

The messenger nodded. It wasn’t just any man. It was Hawke. No one has ever taken The MacPherson by surprise, least of all a dozen of your retainers.

Slowly, Archibald began to shake with fury, his face contorting with rage. Hawke! His fist landed hard on the table, shattering the wooden furniture, the pieces clamoring on the floor. Hawke! He has taunted and teased from a safe distance. He threatens, yet he is too afraid to enter my lands. The rumors... they are false! He whirled on the man. I want them, Hawke and Lady Callie. Don’t stop the search until she is found. I want her alive, ye hear me. I want her alive because she will marry as I see fit. His body heated with the rage simmering and sweeping within. She has no say.

I will deliver the message. The man bowed and quickly backed from the room, leaving behind a furious Archibald.

Archibald paced the length of the room, thinking, and dreaming up a horrific torture for his darling, spoiled stepsister. A torture that would last for years if her aging husband lived that long.

For the first time, Archibald smiled.

And he prayed the elderly husband he chose for Lady Callie wouldn’t live a very long time, because he had another man in mind when the first husband died. He’d arranged it all, right down to the distribution of the inheritance. He would gain all that was hers. Everything. The money. The lands. The title.

She didn’t deserve Simon Huntington. He would have to wait to marry her.

Callie would once more be left with nothing. She would be vulnerable and at his mercy.

Archibald laughed and rubbed his hands together. The gesture was an invitation for his mistress to join him. He poured them both a glass of wine and settled on a huge chair in his bedroom. The Lady Anne ventured from the other room, through the connecting doors.

She was widowed and she always proved to be perfect company. She did as he asked and never voiced an opinion unless it was to agree with him.

He handed her the glass. She sipped, her head tilting slightly and her eyes beckoning him, her dark, sooty lashes fluttering softly against her alabaster cheeks. She was pretty with large, voluptuous breasts and hips that flared provocatively from a tiny waist. But what he liked best about Lady Anne was that she was more than willing to do whatever pleased him.

Come here, he said and patted his thighs. Ah, but she smelled of lavender. He’d bought the perfume from a ship just in from France.

She purred and walked slowly, her gently rounded hips swinging enticingly, one hand on the tie that kept her robe closed. She tugged slightly and the fastenings fell free, the robe slipping from her slender arms to pool on the floor.

He could see her body now, outlined beneath the gauze-like veil of fabric flowing around her. He wanted to taste her, explore the very essence of her and most of all he wanted her to touch him everywhere. He groaned with need, and she smiled, bending over him so that he had a perfect view of every sweet part of her. She touched her mouth to his, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips. When he opened to her, her tongue darted inside then out, quickly again and again in a parody of the sex act.

He enclosed both her breasts in his hands and squeezed. She would stay the night. Oh, yes, she was his for the night.

Oh, Archi, she moaned softly. her gown slipping from her body until she was beautifully naked in front of him. She straddled his thighs, and his fingers found her moist, hot center.

Anne, he said, unfastening his britches. But it wasn’t Lady Anne he thought about. It was his beautiful stepsister, Callie.

He would have her one day, he vowed.

Indeed, he would have her within his power.

Chapter Two

A battle cry wrent the air. Thundering hooves pounded the frozen earth.

Hawke and his men stopped their horses before they turned toward the woods. Once again blue and white blurred together into one long column. Morning sunlight glinted against finely honed steel.

‘Tis Covington’s retainers. Hawke’s voice sent a cold chill down Callie’s spine.

She had prayed he wouldn’t follow even though she was sure her prayers would go unanswered. Archibald wanted the money and the power her marriage to Lord Huntington would bring him. He had bargained her away as if she were chattel.

Nay, a thousand times nay. Blood pounded in her ears as loud as the hoof beats descending upon them.

They followed us. Hawke was grim, his body tense. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. When he turned in his saddle, Callie saw that his eyes had narrowed and his dark brows were drawn together.

Covington wants me. ‘Tis naught to do with ye or your clan, Callie’s voice shook, fear spiraling through her. She gripped Hawke tighter, her fingers pressing into his hard flesh. Don’t let them take me. Please, she whispered to him a shudder racing through her. I’d rather die.

We will speak of this further when you are safely tucked behind my battlements, he gritted out through clenched teeth, his voice ringing in her ears.

His stallion danced, seemingly eager to meet the enemy. Yet Hawke turned the steed, setting his sights on the castle and Callie’s safety. For now, hold tight. Ian, Lachlan, see what it is they want. I’ll be right back.

He turned the stallion and they bolted forward, racing across the narrow pathway to the castle. The roar of the wind