Chapter 1

"Sit down!" Isobel Knox cried loudly over the bellowing sound of many male voices raised in high dudgeon. Silence slowly fell over them as they each looked at her one by one. "Either speak as one man, or dinnae speak at all. We've been runnin' around in circles for minutes, and we cannae reach a resolution."

She surveyed the scene before her with a sense of dread growing in her belly. The Clan Clyde council chambers were bedecked with many candles, but the flickering light did little to penetrate the darkness at the edges of the room. Isobel had grown accustomed to it over time, but it was still a disheartening place.

When she first set foot here, many weeks before, she remembered the overwhelming burden she had felt on her shoulders. Mediating between Clan Clyde and Clan MacRoss had not been an easy task, and that was putting it mildly. At the time, she had felt fear run through her at being responsible for steadying this rabble of men.

She smiled to herself—how times had changed.

Slowly, the men surrounding her took their seats, some more reluctantly than others. Angus remained standing, as she had known he would, his solemn expression matching that of almost every other man in the room as he met her gaze.

"Say yer piece then, Angus," she said softly, sitting up a little higher in her chair and glaring at one of the council members who seemed to be about to interrupt.

"Everyone in this room kens Laird MacRoss is a valuable ally," Angus began, his words sincere and warm as he spoke. "And he's been a sturdy rudder, steering us through this recent storm."

A few of the council members murmured their assent.

Angus looked directly at Isobel, his jaw set. "But he isnae the Laird of Clan Clyde. He cannae be, and wouldnae be a suitable leader for us. He's too far from our boundaries, too far from our home. If we should ever need him for an urgent matter, it could take him a day to reach us. Longer, if the rain falls."

Isobel sighed, turning the words over in her mind, willing them to be false, yet knowing he was right. She was well aware of how far it was to Clan MacRoss—she and her sisters had walked the distance in the dead of night, with nothing but hope and despair to guide them.

"Ye care for our people, Isobel," Angus continued. "Ye and yer family ken our lands and our ways. We must secure a laird for our clan. Someone who will put our people first."

Isobel glanced up at the tired faces around the room, feeling unease skitter down her spine. If they could not accept the laird of a neighboring clan, one who had freely offered to rule them, then they would have to find their own. That meant only one thing: an alliance by marriage.

Isobel tried to keep her expression neutral, ensuring that none of the anguish the idea instilled in her was visible on her face. She hated the thought of marriage, of being tied to duty and service. It made her heart feel like a canary might—trapped in a cage, singing for freedom with no one to hear her song.

She looked at Angus's face and saw the determination in his gaze, the knowing superiority of his expression. She almost let out a frustrated curse as she considered her infamous reputation. There wasn't a man around the table who had not heard of her frequent escapades away from the castle grounds.

Everyone knew Isobel Knox was a wild will-o'-the-wisp, untamed, unbridled, and outspoken. In their minds, she would need to be shackled to a man to ensure she behaved as a lady should. She scowled inwardly at the very notion.

"Laird MacRoss must see it's the only way to ensure our clan's future, following Geoffrey's death," Angus barreled on. "None of us discounts what ye have done for us these past weeks, but it cannae be for the long term."

The faces around the room were all looking at her with an expectant air of understanding, as though this was the easiest decision in the world. She felt nausea rise in the back of her throat.

So, it has come to this. I'm to be caged by marriage in the name of duty.

Having said his piece, Angus took a seat, the high screech of the chair mimicking the scream Isobel wished to let fly from her lips at the injustice of it all. But as she prepared to respond, another man rose to his feet. A few seats down from Angus, Hamish Baran stood tall against his fellow council members, his greying hair turning amber in the firelight.

"We have all heard the rumors." His voice was low, but it echoed through the room with quiet authority. "The Laird of Clan Rothach has returned to claim his birthright. Ye may have heard yerself of the wild nature of his past. Years at sea as a pirate, livin' the darkest life there is, and now he's on our doorstep. Alex Bain is as cruel and heartless as any man alive."

Hamish had the entire room's attention. Isobel could feel the alarm spreading through each man, like mist creeping across a valley floor.

"This is nay time for us to be divided and leaderless," he continued. "I second what Angus said—ye've done admirably well since Laird MacRoss sent ye back to us, but now is the time for things to change."

He took his seat amidst much nodding from those around the table. Isobel knew he spoke the truth, they all did, but the idea of cowing to their wishes was a bitter pill to swallow.

Her sisters, Emma and Nora, had both found love and happiness in marriage. Isobel knew that it had brought them both great joy, and yet she and her siblings were not molded from the same clay.

Isobel had a need for the outdoors that her sisters had never felt with the same intensity. Nora was a skilled healer and respected the natural world beyond all things, but she didn't feel the same belonging in it that Isobel did.

Isobel rode through the glens every chance she got, enjoying nothing better than to dive into a wild pool in her underclothes, be damned who might see.

She could shoot and ride as well as any man—better in many cases—even going so far as to give lessons to some of the guards in the keep when they plucked up the courage to ask her.

That was not the conduct of a laird's wife. She had a wild spirit, and she refused to smother it. To her, marriage was servitude, boredom, and conformity, when she longed to run wild as a river, claiming the world as her own. She could not imagine any man worthy of sharing a life with her.

"We cannae delay," Hamish continued, perhaps taking her silence for disagreement. "Alex Bain is a threat we must confront now. I believe ye must marry within the month to secure our fate."

Isobel looked around the room, aware that it was not just her life that was at stake. These men had been tolerant after Geoffrey's death, but Hunter Murray had still murdered the man who had once ruled over them all. If she didn't comply, there was a chance Clan Clyde would rise against Clan MacRoss, putting Hunter, her sister Emma, and their wee bairn in grave danger.

One month to find a man I can tolerate enough to marry. Unthinkable! How am I supposed to find a spirit that matches me own?

Isobel hesitated as an idea started to form in her mind. Perhaps there was a way she could agree to their demands yet indefinitely delay the result. She could find a worthy husband, whilst enjoying a game at the same time. She felt a spark light up in her mind—who didn't love a game?

A ghost of a smile flickered across her face as she reluctantly made her choice. She knew what she must do, and if she was cunning, she would be able to comply with their wishes on her own terms.

"Gentlemen, I have heard what ye have said, and I agree with yer concerns. Ye are right, Laird MacRoss is a fine man, and a finer braither-in-law, but he cannae lead both our clan and his own." She took a deep breath. "I'll agree to yer terms, and find a suitable laird to marry, who can bring peace and prosperity to our lands."

As she spoke, it was as though the entire room let out a collective sigh of relief.

"But," she continued resolutely, "I will choose a man who is worthy of Clan Clyde. If he can best me in an archery tournament, that will be the man that I marry."

* * *

One Week Later

Isobel let out a slow breath as she counted backward from ten. The taught bowstring cut a familiar groove in her fingers as she waited for the perfect moment to let the arrow fly.

Behind her, her sister Emma stood with her newborn son, watching her with thinly veiled exasperation. A few feet down from her stood Laird MacLaughlin, her most recent opponent, who was about to discover his shot was not as famed as he supposed.

Isobel loosed the arrow, watching the tight feathers spin away from her, barely needing to look at the target to know where it would land. The arrow thudded deep into the straw, dead center, almost six inches to the left of Laird MacLaughlin's final attempt.

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief and turned around, schooling her features to ensure she did not appear too conceited. Another husband thwarted—this had been easier than she had dared to hope.

"Lady Isobel is the victor!" came the booming voice of Angus, who had agreed to adjudicate the games.

She had been competing for almost a week, and she had beaten every single opponent with barely a flicker of doubt. Angus and the council were becoming increasingly aggravated.

Isobel approached Laird MacLaughlin, feigning timidity in her smile, bowing to him, as he too dipped his head in acknowledgment. The wind was up today, and she could feel her hair fluttering behind her.

When Geoffrey had ruled their lives with an iron fist, he had forced her to cut her hair short. Every inch it grew was a reminder of her newfound freedom, and she would not be forced to give that up—not by any man.

"Ye are a truly excellent shot." Laird MacLaughlin gave her a rueful smile. He was a good deal older than her, with greying hair at the temples, but his face was kind and sincere. Unlike some of her prior opponents, he also seemed gracious in defeat. "I am bested, I admit it freely," he concluded, bowing low once more.

"Ye are welcome to stay and enjoy the feast, M'Laird. Ye're a worthy opponent, to be sure."

He took her words for the dismissal they were and walked back toward his man-at-arms.

Isobel returned to her sister, holding out her forefinger to her nephew with a warm smile. He grasped it tightly and brought it straight to his wee, toothless mouth.

"Ye're causin' unrest, Izzy," Emma whispered, a hint of amusement on her face, but there was worry in her eyes.

"I willnae be rushed by the council," Isobel stated, a little sharper than she'd intended. "I shall take a husband who is worthy and nay other."

"Oh, aye?" her sister hissed. "And what makes a man worthy to wed when all he can do is plant an arrow in a stag's heart? Ye'll have him out hunting from dawn until dusk?"

Isobel grinned with approval, and her sister chuckled, shaking her head.

"Ye're an impossible woman, Isobel Knox."

Emma's eyes turned soft as they settled on something over Isobel's shoulder. She turned to see Hunter approaching, his eyes on his wife and child, the heat in his gaze familiar and warm.

"Felled another one, then?" Hunter asked Isobel, his voice low so as not to let the visiting clan members hear. He gave Isobel a knowing look. "People are startin' to question if anyone will ever be worthy of ye."

Isobel was about to retort with her usual wit when a sudden hush fell over the gathered crowds. Hunter tensed up, always aware of the danger lurking nearby, and they all turned as a group of men entered the clearing.

Isobel frowned. No other clan was expected to arrive today, she had seen to the invitations personally.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she saw three men approaching them. They were like no clansmen she had ever seen. Their faces were marked by years of toil. The way they walked, and the way they dressed marked them as outsiders immediately. But it was the figure at the head of the group that caught her attention.

The group's leader was a huge man, his dark hair fluttering in the breeze, his eyes as green as the forest floor she rode through every day, wild and fierce as an eagle. He had a livid scar across his left eyebrow, running down to the top of his cheekbone. Everything about him seemed ragged and broken, as though he were a rock battered by the sea.

As a councilman approached her, a rumbling murmur rose from the crowd, a wave of fear rushing through them like the wind through a forest canopy.

Isobel took a sharp breath, realizing with dismay who the stranger must be—a single name being whispered through the air on all sides confirmed it. Her games had caught the attention of Alex Bain, the Pirate Laird. Precisely the one man she did not wish to stand on their lands.

How dare he invite himself to me private games between reputable clans?

She scowled. It was not his place to ignore common customs, no matter his station in life. Isobel felt rage course through her as she watched him approach, his face arrogant and proud.

Hunter took a step forward—as Clan Clyde's acting laird, it was right that he should greet the newcomers and find out their business—yet Isobel could not stay silent. These were her games to control. No one was going to disrupt them, no matter who they were.

She stepped forward, blocking his path. Hunter looked down at her with a stern expression, but she fixed him with a stubborn glare that brooked no argument. He stepped back, giving his wife a tired glance, as Isobel went to greet their uninvited guests.

She walked swiftly forward, bow in hand, feeling her hair fluttering in the wind coming off the hills. She reached the middle of the archery range and stood on a small tussock, her hand on her hip, looking over at the newcomers with as much disdain as she could muster.

"This is a private game," she shouted over the hum of the assembled crowd, "ye werenae invited."