Chapter Two

The Present ~ 1475

Rough Bounds, Scotland

Something in the air shifted, sending a ripple of warning down Grace MacDonald's spine. She gripped the reins of her horse, the leather cutting into her hands. Ahead of her, the line of MacLaren and MacDonald warriors on horseback stopped, and all her muscles tensed.

"Prepare to fight!"

The deep, bellowed command burst from Errol MacLaren and split the relative silence that had encompassed them since they'd entered the thick canopy of the forest. Momentary panic seized her as she scanned the area for enemies, but she did not see what Errol clearly did. He'd moved his horse out of line, drawn his weapon, and started barking orders at the two dozen warriors that were en route to join the battle for Castle Tioram, her uncle's stronghold.

"Grace?"

She glanced to her right where her sister sat atop her horse. Fright danced in Arya's wide blue gaze, and she gripped the reins of her horse so tightly that the divide between each knuckle became prominent. Dread filled her as the men in the line started drawing their weapons.

"Grace! Arya! Take cover!" Errol yelled as he waved his sword toward a trail that led off the main path.

"Grace, I'm scairt!" Arya cried out.

Grace nodded. She feared she'd made a dreadful mistake, but there was no changing her mind now. "Follow me!" she snapped at her sister, then turned her horse toward the trail and gave the beast a little tap to get him into a full gallop. She glanced back to ensure Arya was behind her, and she yanked the reins of her horse in utter dismay. Arya was some ten paces back, frozen in obvious fear. Behind Arya a line of bare-chested warriors with berry-stained faces streamed out of the woods as if from nowhere.

"God's blood," she muttered, riding back down the hill toward her sister and the frenzy of fighting that had already ensued. The clank of metal against metal filled the woods as well as grunts and shouts from the men. She couldn't tell who was winning the battle: Errol, his warriors and her father's men, or the attackers.

She rode fast toward her sister as Errol's words about the Rough Bounds came back to her.

Murderous thieves infest the forest.

Women disappear there all the time.

It's so dangerous in the Rough Bounds that some fifteen years ago, the king created a group of warriors called the Northern Watch to aid in subduing the fighting, thieving, and pillaging.

She reached Arya as two of their father's men fell to the attackers and then one of Errol's before he took that enemy down himself. Grace reached over and grabbed the reins of Arya's horse, intent on getting her sister out of harm's way. The horse whinnied but allowed her to turn him toward the path, but she stilled as black fear washed over her. Two huge warriors blocked the path, but they did not seem to have noticed them yet. Grace thought to simply ride into the thick of the woods next to them, but Arya began to scream, and the men looked to them at once.

She glanced behind her, searching for Errol and found him engaged in combat. Bodies littered the ground between them—mostly Errol and her father's men. Errol blocked an incoming blow from the left and then one from the right. God, was he going to die? He'd not wanted to bring her and Arya with him into the dangers of battle, but she'd been desperate to see her father after all the horrid dreams she'd had about his death of late, and so she'd used the greatest weapon she possessed to convince Errol: the love she knew he held for her. She swallowed as shame washed over her. Then she found herself screaming, the sound pouring from her mouth, as Errol felled his opponent, and he looked toward her, his eyes going wide.

"Grace!" he bellowed, the desperate sound ricocheting toward her and bringing her back to the immediacy of the moment. She glanced behind her as the two warriors that had been blocking the trail approached. Errol would never reach her and her sister before the enemy did. The horses who'd lost their riders started scattering away from the fray, and Grace's own beast danced from foot to foot while Arya's mount swished his tail.

Errol sheathed his sword, and confusion hit Grace, but then his bow and arrow appeared. "Duck and ride!" he yelled at her, even as an arrow flew past her and lodged in the forehead of one of the men riding toward them. The man fell from his galloping horse, and Arya screamed. Another arrow flew by and struck the second man directly in the eye. He cried out, fell from his horse, and lay unmoving on the ground.

"Ride, Grace, ride!" Errol shouted.

Her heart gave a jerk, but her attention went to the ledge that loomed some twenty feet above them. Three men wearing wolf skins on their bare chests and berry stain on their faces lined the rough mountain terrain, and two of them pointed their bows downward at her and Arya. Behind her, very near, swords clashed, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Errol fighting his way toward them. She couldn't leave him. He'd die. She withdrew her own weapon and frowned. The small size of the dagger in comparison to the massive swords of the enemy dismayed her. She'd wanted to take her sword, but Errol had refused. She'd only relented in exchange for passage on the journey, but it had unnerved her and reminded her they did not suit. She didn't want to wed a man who would not allow her a say in decisions, and yet, here she was on the precipice of being betrothed to such a man.

"Grace," Arya whispered beside her. The word came out shaky. "Who are these men?"

"Wolf Warriors," came Errol's voice from directly behind Grace. His gaze met Grace's, and frustration and fear darkened his eyes. "I told ye to ride."

"I could nae just leave ye."

"Incoming!" someone yelled behind them.

There was no time to react. The first arrow hit Grace's horse in the neck, and she cried out as her faithful beast fell forward, causing her to go flying off him. She landed hard on her knees and slammed into thick, unforgiving tree roots. Pain shot through her body and seemed to burrow into her bones. Her hands hit a patch of icy grass and gnarled roots that cut straight through her skin with stinging precision, bringing tears to her eyes and blood to her palms, but there was no time to assess the damage or allow the pain to consume her.

On a gasp that filled her lungs with air so cold it burned her throat; she scrambled forward toward her dagger lying in a patch of snow. An arrow buried into the ground on her left and then her right. Her sister screamed from above Grace and then was thrown to the ground in the exact same manner Grace had been, except Arya rolled to her side and curled up in a ball, covering her head with her hands and sobbing. Grace grasped the dagger with numb, slippery fingers but managed to hold on to it as she turned to make her way to her sister.

She scrambled across the snowy ground, leaving a trail of bloody handprints. Death was all around her.

"Arya," she called, reaching her sister and grasping her arm. Grace pulled frantically on her. "Arya, we have to hide!" she said, shaking her sister.

Arya's only response was a sob that came from the cocoon she'd created. Grace didn't have time to be gentle. She jerked Arya's arm to the left to flip her on her back, and when her sister gazed up at her with glazed eyes, Grace bent over and slapped her hard.

Arya cried out, her hand fluttering to her cheek, but her gaze cleared before filling with sharp fear. "They're trying to kill us!" she screamed, grasping Grace.

Grace didn't waste time. She glanced around as she took her sister's hand and tugged her to a sitting position. Behind her, Errol was once again locked in combat. To the left and right the thick woods surrounded them, but the bodies of fallen men littered the ground. Glancing to the right, a cry lodged in her throat. Gilroy, her father's head of guards who had been left behind and in charge of the castle, lay motionless, his eyes wide open and blood running from the gash across his neck.

Gilroy had brought a dozen guards along to accompany them, but she did not see a one of them standing. The only men still on their feet were Errol and the two men he was fighting. Every one of her father's and Errol's men had been cut down with either arrow or sword. Fear curled icy fingers around her heart with a sudden understanding. "They're nae trying to kill us," she whispered, judging the distance to the woods on her right. She thought they could make it, but then they'd be leaving Errol to his death. She could not do that to him.

"What do ye mean, they're nae trying to kill us?" Arya asked, her voice pitched high with hysteria.

"They shot our horses, nae us." Cold tendrils of fear unfurled to grip around her heart and shoot ice through her body. "There are some things worse than death," she said, her mind scrambling for what to do. "These men dunnae want us dead."

"Where are the men who were supposed to meet us and guard us through these woods?" Arya wailed.

Grace bit down hard on her lip. The men of the Northern Watch had not been at the appointed place—the waterfall trail that led into the forest—at the appointed time, and in her haste to get to her father, she had used Errol's pride to persuade him to travel through the forest without the guides he'd requested. Guilt and shame once again burrowed into her. Errol had requested safe passage from the Watch after the king's missive had arrived for her father, and he had been tasked with delivering it.

Errol had wanted to wait at the waterfall when the men of the Watch had not arrived, but she had convinced him they had enough men with them that they didn't need the aid of the Northern Watch—men who had been tried and found guilty of horrid crimes and had sworn an oath to serve for life in order to keep their own. By order of the king, their duty was to give safe passage and help quell the clan wars.

She didn't know a great deal about the Rough Bounds, other than there was a constant power struggle among clans that resided here. She'd overheard her da speaking of it before he'd left to answer her uncle Niall's plea for aid. It seemed the clan wars of the Rough Bounds had spilled across the sea to the island where his stronghold was, and the "nasty MacLeans"—her father's words—were trying to take Uncle Niall's home from him.

"Grace!" Arya cried. "Errol!"

Grace shook off her stupor and located Errol, who was now on his knees with one man standing over him, guarding him, and the other man slinging a rope over a tree branch. They were going to hang him! She had to help him, but her first responsibility was to her sister, to hide her. "Hurry and follow me! Ye need to hide," she urged Arya, fearing the enemies would kill Errol before she could aid him. She reached the thick brush of the woods, paused, and turned to Arya directly behind her. "Dunnae stop!" she said, motioning to the woods. "Keep going!"

"Nae without ye!" Arya gasped.

Grace looked behind her, and her stomach fell. The attackers had slipped a noose around Errol's neck. Her stomach clenched. Errol had mentioned that Rough Bound marauders had a practice of leaving a fallen foe hanging. She faced Arya once more. "Aye, ye will go without me, because if they catch us, they will simply abuse us both, and I'd rather die kenning ye escaped that fate than live to be abused alongside ye and ken I failed ye. So go! Go east until ye hit the water and give whomever ye can find Mama's ring for passage," she finished, taking off her mother's ring, which she'd given Grace on her deathbed. She pressed it into Arya's hand. "If ye dunnae flee, I'll nae ever forgive ye."

Tears streamed down her sister's face. "And if ye die," Arya said, leaning forward and hugging Grace fiercely, "I'll nae ever forgive ye."

Grace pressed a kiss to her sister's cheek. "Then I'll do my best nae to die." She released Arya, hid her dagger in the fold of her skirt, and stood. There was no time for a surprise attack to try to save Errol. She had to use a different sort of stealth. She glanced behind her and released a relieved breath to see her sister had done as she'd been told and disappeared into the woods.

She turned back toward Errol and the men. "He's mine to kill!" she shouted, making her voice as loud and clear as she possibly could. The men standing over Errol both looked at her, as did Errol. She took a step toward them, but her feet felt lodged in muck, and she had a moment of panic that she might not be able to use her legs. She was that scared. Her heart thumped a hard beat, making her chest ache, and her limbs shook, but she took another step and then another, and then she was striding toward the men with her hand gripping her hidden dagger. The closer she drew, the more fearful she became.

They didn't look like men of this time. Their appearance reminded her of the Vikings of old her mother had spun tales about to keep her and Arya from venturing off into the woods by themselves. It wasn't simply that they had used berries to stain their faces or that they wore wolf skins. Their heads were shaved on the sides with only a strip of hair down the crown of each of their heads, and their eyes held a hardness that spoke of men who had no use for pity or mercy and were used to simply taking what they wanted, whether it belonged to them or not.

Their skin was weathered and rough looking, and they had thick full beards, one silver and one a reddish-brown color. She skimmed her gaze over Errol and winced inwardly at the horrified look on his face, knowing that even now, on his knees with death looming over him, his horror was for her and what might happen to her. He was a good man, and she wished she loved him as he wanted her to, as her father wanted her to, but she didn't love him in the heart-fluttery way her mother had described loving Grace's father. Grace loved Errol like a best friend.

She forced her attention from Errol, swallowed the lump in her throat, and assessed the hardened men before her. Her best hope to save herself, her sister, and Errol was to kill the older man and then lunge for Errol's sword. It was lying on the ground beside him. She lifted her chin and met the silver-haired man's eyes. "'Tis my right to kill him. He took my innocence."

Errol didn't make a sound, but she could feel his shock at the lie slam into her.

The attacker before her curled back his lips to reveal a perfect row of straight teeth except for one missing in the front. "Ye dunnae have any rights in these woods, except what we grant ye," the man snarled.

"Ye dunnae own these woods," Errol bit out, and for his outburst, the older man turned swiftly toward him and kicked him in the face. Bone crunched and echoed in the silence. Grace had to bite her cheek to keep from crying out at the sound and sight of the blood that poured from Errol's nose before his head fell forward.

"This was our land long afore ye Highlanders came and tried to claim it as yer own. And when ye dare set foot on our land, yer women become our women."

Her pulse spiked at the dire words. It was exactly as she had thought. These men had not attacked her party with the intent of killing her or her sister but with the intent of ravishing them. They saw killing her father's and Errol's men as their right.

"Ye're a berserker," she said, pulling the word from the dusty childhood memories of her mother's nighttime stories.

The man gave a sharp, chilling laugh, as did his companion. "My ancestors were. We've nae been called that in quite a while. We're Wolf Warriors." He moved his gaze away from her face, down her body, and then inched it back up. Her skin crawled. "These woods are all that is left for us since ye Highlanders have come, but we're taking back what is ours bit by bit."

"These woods and all the land here belong to the Lord of the Isles," Errol said.

Grace silently cursed his foolishness as she looked to him. Blood still dripped from his nose, and the rope around his neck pressed so hard into his flesh that it bulged on either side. He was going to get himself killed with his loose tongue. The Wolf Warrior before her started to move toward him, so she stepped in front of him before the attacker could and slapped him.

"Filthy beast," she hissed. "The Lord of the Isles is a greedy pig, and ye are his servant." If Errol had the sense she had always believed him to have, he'd keep his mouth shut from here on and let her try to save them all. She twisted to face the man she intended to kill once more.

He regarded her with a mixture of skepticism and interest. "Ye dunnae care for the Lord of the Isles?"

"Nay," she supplied immediately. "He sent this man to burn my family's home because my da did nae have the coin to pay the tax the Lord of the Isles claims my da owes him. And nae only did this man burn my home but he ravished me. 'Tis why it is my right to kill him."

"What do I get if I allow ye to kill the man?"

"Aye, what do we get?" the younger man inserted.

"Shut yer trap, Jaral," the older warrior snarled. "Ye get what I say and after I get mine."

The younger man gave his elder a long, hard look but finally nodded. "As ye say, Grendel."

Grendel locked his gaze on Grace once more. "Persuade me," he said, his lips curling up over his teeth in a gritty smile.

A shudder ran through her that she hoped she managed to hide. She surveyed the distance between the two men. If she could stab Grendel in the gut, then dip down and grab the sword, she might have a chance. She closed the distance between them, and the smell of body odor swept over her, making her stomach turn. But she raised her left arm, hoping to somewhat block her actions from Jaral's immediate view, and she lifted on her tiptoes as if to kiss Grendel. When her lips were so close to his, the heat of the man nearly overpowered her, she slipped her hand out from the fold of skirt and thrust her dagger forward.

Grendel jerked backward before the weapon made contact, gripped her wrist, and twisted it so hard that she dropped the dagger and screamed as tears of pain flooded her eyes and she was forced to her knees. Grendel plunged his fingers into her hair, yanking strands out of her scalp as he did so, and jerked her head backward hard and fast, taking her breath and sending a wave of nausea over her.

He tossed her dagger away as he bent forward, looming over her and grinning. "Ye should have said ye like games, lass. I'm going to play one with ye now. It's called ‘Make Ye Scream.'" With that, he jerked her onto her back as he bent beside her, straddling her, and she did begin to scream for what she feared was about to come.