Chapter 2

2

T he morning sun dawned bright and clear as if mocking the storm swirling inside Erica. The entire estate was buzzing with anticipation, and the loud voices of the guests drifted up to her windows.

Gazing out blankly at the gathering men below, she sighed deeply.

I wish the sun wouldnae shine so brightly.

Their excitement was palpable as they hefted large wooden beams and hammered stakes into the ground. In a world that made sense to her, she’d be allowed to stay by her father’s side, nursing him through his sickness. Instead, here she was, about to be a prize in an embarrassing and barbaric competition.

“Lady Erica! Ye must hasten yerself. Yer faither and maither are about to step out. Ye cannae delay any longer,” came Kara’s voice from behind her.

Erica turned to find her maid scanning the untouched breakfast tray on the small table.

“Ye should eat this biscuit before ye go,” Kara said, pushing the treat toward her.

“I’ll eat later,” Erica muttered and turned back to face the window. Her stomach twisted with so much anxiety that she was unable to take a bite.

Today, her fate would be sealed by the hands of strangers and the whim of tradition, something that had never felt more real than it did now.

She ran a hand through her unruly brown curls and squared her shoulders. If she were to have any chance of stopping this madness, she’d have to confront her parents before the games started.

Why is this happenin’ to me? Why could I nae also participate in the games, and if I win, I’d win me freedom?

“One day closer, Me Lady,” Kara said almost dreamily.

“I willnae be marryin’ this week, Kara.”

Before her maid could respond, Erica bolted out of her chambers, leaving her behind. She took the steps two at a time in a haphazardly laced-up gown before she burst into the Great Hall.

It was quickly emptying, save for a few lingering servants. She figured that most of the participants and spectators were gathering outside, eager to witness the feats of strength and skill.

Using a wall sconce to stand on her tiptoes, she spotted her red-headed mother near the hearth. Lady McFair was deep in conversation with her Laird McFair and Thomas. Laird McFair looked paler than ever.

Rolling her shoulders back tightly and taking a deep, steadying breath, Erica started toward them. The words that had gotten her through her father’s illness these past few months echoed in her head with each step.

He is a great man. He is a powerful man. He is loved. He is happy.

His illness had taken its toll, quickly, but the stubbornness that defined him still lingered in his gaze. Her mother was adjusting the shawl over her shoulders, her face strained with worry. The sight tugged at Erica’s heart — another reminder of why she couldn’t leave her father.

She made quick eye contact with Thomas as she approached, and the glare she shot him was enough warning for him to excuse himself so she could speak to their parents alone.

“Faither,” Erica greeted cheerfully, moving closer to Laird McFair, her skirts swishing about her feet. “How are ye?” she asked as she knelt beside him lovingly.

He looked tired, and she thought for a moment that he might not be getting enough sleep.

“Ah, lass. I’m fine… just fine.” His face softened when he spoke to her, but his eyes sharpened with an understanding of her true purpose. He knew why she was there. “I thought ye would be down to watch the games.”

“I’m nae interested in watchin’ brutes fight over me like I’m a prize mare,” Erica replied, her voice tight with frustration. “This isnae fair, Faither. I have nay desire to marry a man just because he can throw a log farther than the rest.”

Her mother rose and smoothed down her gown, also giving them space. Alba never had much to say when Tavish made up his mind, and it was clear from her quiet retreat that this time would not be any different.

“Daughter,” Tavish began, his voice soft but unyielding. “I ken this seems harsh to ye, but ye must understand that I’m doin’ what I believe is best for ye.”

“Best?” Erica snorted.

A flash of movement outside caught her eye. It was the murderer, Laird MacKinnon, and while she felt an entirely new sense of urgency to plead her case, her argument came out clumsily.

“How can forcin’ me into a marriage with a stranger be best for me? I dinnae even ken these men! And… and Laird MacKinnon—he’s dangerous, Faither! There’s something unsettling about him. How could ye even let him compete?”

Does he nae remember that he killed his entire family?

Tavish’s lips thinned as he leaned forward slightly, his legs threatening to give way beneath him at any moment. Erica almost stood up, her arms open wide to offer assistance, but he recovered quickly and said firmly, “MacKinnon is a good man.”

The conviction in his words halted her argument.

He never defends anyone so vehemently… I thought he barely kenned him? Who is this strange man?

Her confusion threatened to bubble over, and she quickly masked it with her anger. “How can ye even say that? Ye’ve barely spoken of him,” she pointed out in a hushed whisper. “I just met him last night, and yet ye are ready to give me away to him? And Thomas said that?—”

“I have spoken with yer braither,” her father said with stark disinterest. “He doesnae ken what he speaks of. Ye will say nay more about it if ye ken what’s good for ye.”

Erica blushed with immediate shame and confusion, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands to rid herself of the lump in her throat.

“Aye, Faither,” she relented, her mind reeling.

Did Laird MacKinnon kill his family? Surely nae, or else Faither wouldnae have invited him… Would he?

“I kenned his faither well enough,” Laird McFair continued, “and though Hunter Buchanan has suffered, he has proven himself a capable laird. He is strong, reliable, and the Laird of Clan MacKinnon—they’re a strong clan. Ye deserve someone like him. Someone who can protect ye.”

His breath hitched, betraying the toll his illness had taken on him, but his emphasis on the man’s name and title was strong enough that Erica slightly winced at the mention of them.

Her heart clenched. She hated everything about this conversation. She wanted to argue with her father fiercely, but not when his skin was so ashen and his breathing was so shallow.

He’s so fragile… I cannae leave him!

“Faither, I dinnae need protection,” she said softly, inching closer to him. “I need to stay here, with ye. I want to help ye, nae be sent off to a man I barely ken.”

Tavish reached out and patted her hand with his ice-cold fingers. “I ken it’s hard, lass, but I’ve thought long and hard about this. If I leave this world soon, I want ye to be safe. And these men competin’ for yer hand are all capable of protectin’ ye. Should Laird MacKinnon win, he will make sure that ye are safe. As would any of these men.”

The lump in her throat thickened. She couldn’t bring herself to argue anymore. The weight of her father’s words, his unshakable belief that he was doing the right thing, settled heavily on her shoulders.

She rose to her feet slowly, her voice quiet but laced with desperation. “Please… just think about it, Faither. There must be another way.”

But as she left the Great Hall and stepped out the front door with her heart in her throat, she already knew that her father wouldn’t change his mind.

Outside, the first contest had just begun, and the crowd’s cheers filled the air. Erica forced herself to join the spectators.

“Come to victory, Me Laird!” she overheard the Cameron clansmen shouting as their Laird balanced a caber precariously.

The shouting assaulted her senses, her focus shifting back and forth as she let her feet guide her toward the platform.

She weaved through the throngs of strangers, hopeful to find her red-headed brother. Thomas was usually the one who found her in the crowds, knowing that she got overwhelmed quickly.

“Push, Me Laird! Push!” a large, blonde MacDonald clansman yelled from just behind her.

Erica let out a sharp yelp and even flinched.

“Ye well, lass?” the man asked, with laughter in his voice.

When Erica cracked open her eyes, hopeful to see Thomas—or any of her siblings, for that matter—she saw him . Laird MacKinnon. He wasn’t hard to spot, even from an angle. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach madly.

“Aye,” she said numbly as she walked around the perimeter, her gaze fixed on Laird MacKinnon.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he dominated the space around him. His brown hair, which had hung just past his ears the night before, was tied back loosely, accentuating his stern features. His muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he hefted a caber, the large wooden pole towering over him.

Even from a distance, Erica could feel the intensity of his distracted stare.

The caber toss was a show of strength, and it was clear that he excelled at it better than the other suitors. With barely an exhale, he lifted the massive log, balanced it, and then sent it flying forward. The crowd erupted in cheers, impressed by his power, but Erica’s frustration simmered.

Nay, he cannae win…

Her eyes scanned the crowd for James Morris, but Laird MacKinnon’s towering figure distracted her once more.

There was something about the way he moved — his control, his quiet determination — that made her pulse quicken. Her gaze lingered longer than she wanted it to, and she clenched her hands into fists, angry at herself for even noticing.

Stop it! He’s just like the others, fightin’ over ye like ye are nothin’ more than a trophy. Disgustin’.

But as the day went on, her frustration only grew. Laird MacKinnon won event after event — caber toss, hammer throw, archery, and stone put — with an ease that left the other men struggling to catch up. Even James looked sour as he came in second in almost every game he signed up for.

Despite herself, Erica was inexplicably drawn to Laird MacKinnon. She watched the way his muscles strained against his shirt, how the sweat trickled down the side of his neck. It was unnerving how affected she was by him, a man she barely knew and did not want to marry.

“Ye seem distracted,” came a voice from beside her.

Erica turned sharply to find her sister, Olivia, grinning at her. “Shut it,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at her but working to slow her heartbeat.

Olivia’s grin widened. “I’m just sayin’, for someone who claims she doesnae fancy the Buchanan brute, ye have been starin’ at him for longer than ye should.”

Erica scoffed in indignation. “I havenae ?—”

“I mean, his arms are so big. He’s incredibly strong…”

“That is enough!” Erica hissed, careful to keep her voice low.

Olivia shrugged, clearly enjoying her sister’s discomfort. “But he’s a fine competitor. Better than James, at least.”

“Oliv—” Erica started to argue, but her sister had already skipped away.

She glanced over at James. He was frowning at the scorekeepers, his expression sour as Laird MacKinnon walked past him without a glance. James had done well in the games so far, but not nearly well enough to win her hand. His frustration was visible.

Imagine being on the receivin’ end of that ire. I wonder if his wife had—Och!

She clapped a hand over her mouth instinctively, immediately ashamed of her thoughts.

She studied James from afar a moment longer. The man was obviously still mourning, and yet he prioritized his clan and came here. It was admirable. He was of good stock and a good match. Though, even the thought of marrying him at the end of the week made her blood boil with anger.

He’s kind and admirable, but I willnae be forced to marry… even him.

As the day drew to a close, one of the McFair councilmen called out to the spectators, immediately silencing them.

“The results are in!” he announced proudly, the paper scroll falling over his chubby hands. “Hold yer cheers until the end!”

His demand was very strictly adhered to as he listed off the winners of each game.

“MacKinnon. Caber toss.”

One, Erica tallied anxiously.

“O’Farlane. Archery.”

One. She raised her fingers into a matching count, James on one hand and Laird MacKinnon on the other.

“MacKinnon. Stone put.”

“Two,” she whispered, raising another finger.

“O’Farlane. Sprint.”

Two and two.

“MacKinnon. Hammer throw.”

Erica held her breath with the rest of the crowd. It seemed like even the flora and fauna followed suit.

There’s only one more game…

She hoped that the next game’s winner was James.

At least then, with a tie ? —

“Quoits. O’Farlane.”

The crowd erupted in applause. Hunter and James had tied, which meant the deciding contest—tug of war—would be held the next day.

“Everybody loves tug of war,” Laird McFair said, chuckling and clapping along.

Erica felt a tinge of hope bloom in her chest as she followed her parents back inside the keep.

Hopefully, James will win. I’d rather the less dangerous man prevail—perhaps then I’ll be able to get out of the marriage. I think James would understand and agree to postpone it.

Kara was in her chambers when she pushed open the heavy door. It was almost as if the maid hadn’t left.

“Me Lady,” Kara said melodically and got back to laying out her evening dress.

Erica leaned over her maid’s shoulder to see which dress her mother had chosen for her, and scoffed. “That one doesnae fit me anymore,” she lied easily.

Kara only tsked in response. She then waddled over to the bath to pour some fragrance into the water. “‘Tis ready, Me Lady. In ye go.”

Erica sighed heavily. “Hopefully, I’ll drown,” she murmured half-heartedly.

Kara tsked again as she hung the towels by the roaring fire. Then, she laid out the trinkets and jewelry Erica was to wear that evening for dinner.

“If I dinnae drown in this bath, this competition will surely do the trick,” Eric added.

“Ye shouldnae say such things, even in jest, Me Lady. Ye ken that well enough. Any lass would feel honored that so many suitors have sworn their loyalty to her faither. They love him as much as ye do. They all wish to see ye taken care of.”

Kara’s frankness startled her, and her skin prickled with the realization. Erica opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to come up with a retort, but for once, she was rendered speechless.

The minutes ticked by as silence fell over her chambers. Neither spoke as Erica toweled off her body, stepped into the dress, and let Kara fix her hair.

“Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost,” her youngest sister, Eileen, teased, nudging her with an elbow as she entered the dining hall minutes later and took her seat.

The room was filled with music and the smell of roast meat. The celebration for the games was in full swing, but Erica’s mood was far from festive.

“Ye should go to bed, Eileen,” she snapped before walking past her sister without another word.

Her youngest sister rarely got involved in things such as these, and being almost ten years apart, they never spoke that way with each other.

What happened upstairs between her and Kara was odd enough, let alone this conversation. The feeling of dread settled deep in her chest. Tomorrow would decide her future, and the weight of it was suffocating.

Erica wanted to stay with her father, but the pressure from both of her parents had become undeniable — even Thomas was looking at her expectantly. They were all convinced that marrying her off was the best way to secure her future. And now, with Laird MacKinnon leading the games, she was starting to believe them.

She scanned the room and found James first. He was leaning over the table and speaking with a few other men, his eyes occasionally darting toward her. He was confident, strong, and determined. It was obvious he was speaking to them about tomorrow’s game.

Careful not to give herself away, Erica refocused on the banner behind him before letting her eyes wander around the rest of the hall.

Her eyes landed on Hunter. He was seated at the far corner of the room, alone, watching the revelry with a detached expression. A glass of whiskey rested in his large hand. But there was no sign of victory or arrogance on his face, just quiet contemplation.

Something in her shifted when her mother motioned for them all to go to the Great Hall, and before she could stop herself, she made her way toward him.

“Laird MacKinnon,” she greeted quietly when she reached his side.

He looked up at her, his gray eyes unreadable, and stood up. “Lady Erica.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the hall fading into the background. Erica had never been one for small talk, and Hunter seemed even less inclined toward it.

“Ye did well today,” she said finally, feeling awkward under his intense gaze.

“I did as I needed to,” he replied simply, his voice low and steady. “It wasnae a game to me.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and her stomach twisted. There was something else hanging between them — something unsettlingly familiar. The way he spoke, it was as if he, too, was grudgingly participating in the competition.

Does he nae wish to be here?

But before she could muster up the courage to ask him herself, the noise in the hall came rushing back. Laird MacKinnon’s eyes darted behind her before landing on her again. She turned to follow his gaze.

James was approaching quickly from the other side of the room, and Erica let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A not-so-lovely chill ran down her spine, for he suddenly looked different. His smile was somehow too wide now and his eyes too cold.

Erica turned back and looked up to see that Laird MacKinnon was still staring at her. The shadows accentuated his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. She tore her gaze away from him and smiled politely at James when he stopped before them.

“Laird MacKinnon, Lady Erica,” he greeted smoothly, slipping into the space between them. “Enjoying the festivities, I see.”

The large, imposing Laird MacKinnon did not even move a single muscle at the intrusion. Erica hadn’t realized how close they were standing next to each other.

Did he move closer?

It was almost improper, and she blushed, though she thought twice about moving away and drawing James’s attention.

Laird MacKinnon’s eyes refused to leave hers. After an excruciatingly long silence passed, he simply raised his glass to his plump lips and took a sip. The oaky scent of the liquor caressed her senses, as if he knew it would ease the tension in her shoulders.

The palpable tension between them kept her rooted to the spot, feeling caught between two giants poised for war.

Why are they here? James is clearly still mournin’, and it doesnae seem like Laird MacKinnon wants to be here at all.

Looking between the two men, Erica finally returned the greeting. “James.” Her voice was somehow steady, though her heart thudded in her chest.

James turned toward her, his face lighting up with what seemed to be genuine pleasure. “I was hopin’ to have a word with ye, Erica,” he said, as if it was obvious.

Perhaps it would have been had she not been distracted by Hunter’s piercing stare.

James stepped in front of Hunter and offered her his arm to lead her away. Somehow, a pit formed in her stomach, urging her not to take it.

Erica stepped back and smiled politely before responding, “I will come find ye, James. I was just congratulatin’ Laird MacKinnon on his victory, among other things.”

A flash of annoyance crossed James’s face quick as a whip, and Erica pretended not to notice.

What was that?

“Ach! Go on then. But let me just say, since ye must ken…” he started, leaning in a little too close for comfort. “I fully intend to win tomorrow. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure ye are mine, Erica Kilmartin.”

Erica forced a smile. It wasn’t the intensity of Laird MacKinnon’s unyielding gaze over James’s shoulder that made her skin prickle, but rather the vow that James just made.

“I suppose we will see, right?” she replied, keeping her voice light.

His eyes brightened—he had surely mistaken her discomfort for coyness. “Aye, but I swear it to ye. I’ll say it in front of everyone—I’ll be yer husband by the end of the week. Nay one will stand in me way.”

He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She stiffened. The gesture was intimate. Far too intimate for her liking. She tried to focus on the conversation, but her eyes drifted over James’s shoulder to meet Laird MacKinnon’s hard ones.

She watched him raise his glass once more, her gaze falling to his lips as he leisurely sipped on his whiskey. His piercing grey eyes had never left hers, but his expression remained unreadable.

Another shiver ran through her, and she quickly refocused on James, who was still speaking.

Oblivious to her distraction, his hand lingered on her arm, the pressure of his fingers growing.

“Ye are just so incredibly beautiful, Erica,” she heard him say, his voice dropping as if they were sharing a secret. “I will treat ye well, better than anyone else could. Ye’ll be happy with me, I promise.”

Her thoughts had again drifted to Laird MacKinnon—she had barely heard James.

Why is he lookin’ at me like that? And why can I nae shake the feeling that, despite everything, he understands me better than anyone else here?

Her eyes flicked back to Laird MacKinnon, who was silently daring her to look away again. She swallowed hard, trying to focus on James’s words, but it was no use.

For the life of her, Erica could not look away from the imposing figure of the man who would likely win the game tomorrow.

James’s grip on her arm tightened slightly, and she winced.

“James, please,” she said, gently tugging her arm free. “I think I need some air.”

But before she could take a step, a massive shadow fell over them.

Laird MacKinnon had moved and closed the distance between them. She hadn’t realized that she and James had moved so far away from where they had been standing earlier, but Laird MacKinnon was now standing directly behind James and commanding attention.

The air seemed to shift, and James’s expression darkened.

“Is there somethin’ ye need, MacKinnon?” he asked, his voice sharp with irritation.

Laird MacKinnon’s eyes remained on Erica as he said, “I was just about to ask ye the same thing, lad. It looks like the lass needs a break from yer company.”

James bristled at the insult. “We were havin’ a conversation. Perhaps ye should mind yer own business.”

Laird MacKinnon finally tore his gaze away from Erica. His jaw was set in a cold, unyielding way that sucked the warmth from the room. He didn’t need to respond. One look from him was enough to send a message—one that even James couldn’t ignore.

After a tense pause, James let out a strained chuckle and stepped back with a half-hearted grin. “I’ll leave ye to it, then. But remember, MacKinnon, tomorrow’s still anyone’s game.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration.

Erica exhaled, unsure whether to feel relieved or infuriated. She turned to Laird MacKinnon, her eyes flashing with a maelstrom of emotions. “That was rude,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “He wasnae doing anythin’ wrong.”

Laird MacKinnon raised an eyebrow, his expression as cool as ever. “To me, ye seemed like ye needed rescuin’. The way ye kept glancin’ at me while he prattled on, I thought ye were beggin’ for it.”

Erica’s mouth dropped open in indignation. “Beggin’? Ye think I was beggin’ for yer help?” she snapped, her temper flaring. “I was perfectly fine, Laird MacKinnon. I didnae need ye to swoop in and pretend to save me. Ye are just—just?—”

“Just?” he prompted almost playfully, his lips curling into a devastating grin.

“A brute!”

Laird MacKinnon’s eyes darkened at the word. A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face, and he took a step closer to her. His tall frame towered over hers, and the air between them crackled with tension.

“A brute, am I?” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly calm. “Better a brute than a spoiled bampot who cannae keep his hands to himself.”

Erica’s heart pounded in her chest. His proximity made her skin tingle, every nerve alive with a confusing mix of anger and awareness.

She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “James isnae a fool. He might nae be… like ye, but that doesnae mean he would make a terrible husband.”

A slow, mocking smile spread across Laird MacKinnon’s lips. Erica’s eyes fell to his mouth as his teeth glinted in the low torchlight. “Aye, I’m sure he would bore ye to tears within the week.”

She glared back up at him, her fingernails digging into her palms. “I would rather be bored than married to someone like ye. Ye are an arrogant, overbearin’, entitled br?—”

“Brute?” His expression shifted. The mirth in his eyes flickered out and was replaced by something more intense.

Erica’s breath caught in her throat.

He reached out, his hand gently but firmly tilting her chin up so that she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. His eyes fell to her mouth before slowly rising to meet her eyes.

“And yet,” he said softly, his voice sending a shiver down her spine, “Ye cannae seem to look away from me.”

Erica’s pulse quickened, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed for her to pull away. His touch was firm yet gentle. The heat of his hand, the smell of whiskey on his breath, and the fire in his eyes made her feel as though she were standing too close to a fire.

She hated the way her body responded to him, the way his presence seemed to stir something inside her that she didn’t understand. Silence fell between them as she wrestled with her conflicting emotions until, finally, she dared to take a step closer to him.

“Laird MacKinnon…” Her voice was surprisingly firm, and defiance flickered in her eyes.

“Me name is Hunter Buchanan. Feel free to use it, lass. I reckon that ye already do,” Laird MacKinnon interjected, a hint of playfulness in his dark eyes.

“I will never marry ye, Laird MacKinnon,” she said defiantly. “Nae if I have any say in it.”

His eyes bored into hers with a fierce reckoning, and his thumb brushed lightly against her smooth skin, sending sparks through her body.

“Aye, but that’s the thing, is it nae? Ye dinnae have a say in it, lass,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Tomorrow, Morris will lose, and ye will be mine, Erica Kilmartin. Whether ye want to be or nae.”

Before she could respond, before she could even find the words to fight back against his infuriating confidence, he released her and turned around, walking away with the calm authority that he always carried.

Erica stood frozen in place, her heart pounding, her skin still tingling from his touch. Anger, frustration, and an infuriatingly unsettling attraction swirled within her, leaving her breathless.

He cannae win tomorrow. There’s nay way I’ll marry that monster!