Page 1 of Following Her Highland Journey (The White Witch’s Apprentices #2)

PROLOGUE

T he howling of the wind and rain outside was deafening, as though the Cailleach Bheurra , the great storm hag herself, had conjured it to destroy the world. The rain was so heavy that it even forced itself through the thin slit that passed for a window in this dank, dirty dungeon, soaking the ground around it as the icy air blasted through.

Huddled in the corner of the dungeon, her arms crossed around herself for warmth. Adair shivered and watched as the elements breached the walls, wondering if they would claim her life tonight. The idea didn't scare her as it probably should have. In fact, some part of her welcomed it—an excuse, an easy path, a way to be done. She wondered if, perhaps, this might be her only escape.

Adair had always carried a secret fear of storms in her heart. As a child in a port town, she'd been surrounded by sailors and laughing merchants, boys who'd bring her wilted flowers or clovers from the shores or Ireland or even on a rare occasion a seashell from the beaches of France or Spain. She'd kept those treasures, each one, the flowers pressed into a book, the stones and shells in a jar, each representing the dream of the world that expanded so far around her. The older merchants would regale her with stories of their travels, and through them, she'd explore the whole world, even from her little farm.

But she'd never been allowed to clamber upon one of the boats, never so much as experience a quick trip in a rowboat when it was offered. Her father had never denied her anything except for that. She didn't blame him, though, not at all, not then and not now. She knew how her mother had been taken from them—an innocent journey with her sailor brother out to sea had chanced a meeting with a raging storm, and no sign of either of them had ever returned. Adair could barely remember her mother, but the fear of the storm had stayed with her ever since. To go from life to death in a gust of wind…

But she felt no fear now. Her mother had been gone for fifteen years, and now her father?—

The lance of pain that surged through her chest at the thought of him caused her to double over, a gasp escaping her lips, her hands flying to protect her aching heart. Her father, her beloved father who had been everything to her. She could still see him now, pale and staring at the sky as the last of his lifeblood poured onto the grass with every final beat of his heart. Her own hands, red and sticky, as she'd desperately tried to staunch the flow and keep him alive. Her throat, burning, as she screamed over and over again, begging, pleading, cursing, praying—all to no avail as he died before her without so much as a word.

In the stories, the heroes always had time to grunt out one last final farewell, to impart a dying message, but her father had no such chance. He'd died, cold and wordless there on the grounds, and Adair had clung to him as her farm, her life, her hope had slowly curled into flames around her. When she closed her eyes, she could still smell the smoke, hear the terrified bleating of the sheep, and feel the growing heat that she wished now had simply consumed her.

She still remembered how he had looked over her when he visited her later that night, no emotion behind his too-blue eyes but a mild curiosity as he'd said, "Ye forced me hand, lass. What kind of Laird would I be if I didn't keep me word?"

Adair had lost herself, screaming that he was a monster, launching herself at him intent on tearing him down with her bare hands, not caring she'd probably die on the spot. But God had not even granted her that mercy. Laird McNair had simply continued to watch her, not moving a muscle, as his Serpent had slithered over, a patch of her father's blood still on the enforcer's front, and overpowered her completely with one deft move.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been down here now—perhaps two weeks, perhaps three. She saw Laird McNair every so often as he stood and watched her from the other side of the bars, silently observing but never speaking. He was waiting for her to break, waiting for her to 'willingly' agree to be his bride. As for his Serpent, his terrible right-hand man, she'd never seen him since that day.

The guards mostly ignored her, either embarrassed by their role or disgusted by her, she couldn't tell. Only one had given her any warmth, any comfort, any sign that there may be more to life than pain. But that didn't matter, not really. None of it mattered. There was no happy ending to this story, no way out at all that she could see—except one.

"I'll die afore I wed ye, McNair," she whispered to the cold air, the sound lost in the angry whistle of the wind as it seemed to shake the very foundations of the keep itself. There was nothing sharp within the cell, nothing heavy, nothing at all she could use to end it quickly, though she was determined that if her only choice was to live as McNair's wife, then she'd first die by her own hand.

Very well. If not quickly, then perhaps the storm hag would help. She stepped forward into the space below the window, away from the meager shelter she'd found in the corner, gasping as the icy spray of the rain soaked her in a moment. She sat on the cold floor, even though her body protested, screaming at her to move, to protect herself.

There was nothing left to protect. She'd sit here until the storm or the hunger or the pain of her shattered heart took her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she imagined her mother's last moments in that storm so long ago and wondered if the Storm Hag would at least be kind enough to reunite them.

Then there was the sound of a key in the door and the low, urgent whisper of move . A warm hand in hers, pulling her out of the cell. A chance to live. A flare of hope. They ran through the keep, desperate to escape into the night.

But the angry shouts of men screaming for her blood followed all too closely behind them.