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CHAPTER ONE

The chill of the morning wrapped around Agnes like a second skin, biting through the thick wool of her shawl, no matter how tightly she drew it around her shoulders.

The wind carried the scent of wet heather and iron, brushing across her cheek like a whisper she didn’t quite trust. Something knotted low in her belly, heavy and unwelcome.

The carriage waited in the courtyard, its dark green frame gleaming beneath the bleak, overcast sky.

The wheels were already muddied from the rains the night before, and the horses snorted and shifted restlessly, as if sensing they were part of something ill-timed and unpleasant.

Everything in the yard felt suspended, paused just before some unseen breaking point.

She smoothed the front of her riding gown with shaking fingers, carefully chosen to suit the impression she was meant to give: noble, solemn, untouchable. But it felt too heavy, too stiff. Like a costume.

Constance stood beside her, quiet as the wind. “You look unreal,” she said gently, her voice low. “Like you’re carrying everything in your heart and trying not to let it show on your face.”

Agnes turned slowly toward her, her throat already tight. Constance wore her hair in a braid, her pale green eyes gleaming with something like sorrow. Her sister. The one she’d only just found again after years of silence, secrets, and blood spilled in the name of things they hadn’t chosen.

“I dinnae ken how tae leave ye,” Agnes murmured, voice brittle. “It feels wrong. Too soon after all this time.”

Constance didn’t hesitate. She reached for her hand, her grip cold but steady. “You’re not leaving me,” she said. “You’re leading us.”

Agnes clasped her sister's hands tightly, memorizing the feel of fingers so like her own yet shaped by different worlds. Their goodbye cut deeper than she'd expected.

This alliance must be made, it is me duty towards me faither and me clan.

Since Constance's return, the Kerrs stood on dangerous ground. Their father had been reckless in his defense of Constance, confronting the English too boldly. Now they were all paying a price and Agnes would pay even more, knowing Constance would remain home safely.

She studied her sister's face. It was as if she was looking in a mirror.

How cruel that they'd found each other only to be torn apart again.

Agnes stared at the carriage, blinking too quickly.

If she kept her eyes fixed on the painted crest on the door, maybe she could stop the tears threatening to gather at the corners of her vision.

But her fear pressed harder.

She was afraid. Not of the man she was meant to marry—Laird Caithness, of which she knew little except for his ruthless control over one of the most powerful Highland armies. It was more the way her future had become something distant and unfamiliar, shaped entirely by necessity.

She didn’t know what kind of man he was, what kind of life he’d offer, what expectations he held for her, being handed to him in the name of alliance.

She didn’t know if that sacrifice would be enough to keep their people safe—or if she was simply being bartered like cattle in a transaction dressed up as duty.

“I should feel proud,” she said, voice barely audible. “Faither trusts me tae dae this. But it feels like I’m bein’ cut off from everythin’ I ever was.”

Constance’s hand tightened around hers. “Sometimes the hardest path is what tempers the iron. I am just sorry this is happening because of me and the complications I caused by coming here to find you?—"

Agnes shook her head vigorously and exclaimed “Dinnae blame yerself! This is about politics and power and I always knew this would be me duty on day.”

Her gaze then drifted toward the steps of the keep where her father stood, arms folded, his jaw tense with the effort of not showing too much. Ewan Kerr rarely gave away his feelings easily, but she knew him well enough to recognize the strain in his shoulders, the grief buried beneath his pride.

She stepped away from Constance and went to him. The mist thickened, wrapping around the courtyard like a shroud, and she could hear the restless murmuring of the guards as they loaded the last of her trunks onto the carriage.

“I’ll make ye proud,” she said. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Ewan looked at her for a long moment. The steel in his expression softened, just barely.

“Ye already have,” he said. “What ye’re daein’—it’s what any true Kerr would dae.

Ye’re protectin’ yer clan. I’m sorry daughter, that it came tae this.

” Then his voice dropped lower, the edge of threat unmistakable.

“But if that man, if Caithness mistreats ye in any way... I’ll bring hell tae his doorstep. ”

A flicker of warmth stirred beneath her ribs, despite the circumstances. “I dinnae plan tae let him,” she said. And she meant it.

They clasped forearms, the old warrior’s grip grounding her for a fleeting moment. But then he stepped back, silent, his eyes locked on hers as if he could will her to remember everything about who she was even once she crossed into another man's domain.

She turned again, and Constance was there—giving her a soft, almost sympathetic smile, despite the pain, evident in her eyes.

“Keep a blade with you,” Constance said, her voice rough with unshed emotion. “Always.”

Agnes gave a half-smile, though it faltered. “I will. And I’ll come back tae visit. One way or another.”

Constance pulled her into a tight embrace. Her arms were fierce around her, full of all the love they hadn’t had years to grow into. Agnes clung back just as fiercely, her cheek pressed to her sister’s shoulder.

She didn’t want to let go. But she had to.

The horses huffed. One pawed the dirt. A guard cleared his throat behind them, the signal subtle but clear.

It was time.

Agnes turned toward the carriage, drawing a breath that hurt her lungs. Her boots scuffed against the packed dirt. The damp wind pushed against her back, as though trying to usher her forward.

And then someone shouted.

“Lass—get back!”

The voice rang sharp through the courtyard. Agnes froze, her heart stuttering. She turned quickly, her shawl slipping down her shoulders.

Brodie Ainslei, one of the men who was responsible for her safety during this trip, stumbled out from the stables, one hand clutching his chest. His face had gone white—paler than snow, like all the blood had been stolen from beneath his skin.

“Brodie?” her father barked.

But the guard didn’t answer. His eyes—normally so alert—were wide and unseeing, his breath ragged. He swayed, took a step, then another, his movements unsteady, limbs jerking like a puppet cut loose from its strings.

And then he fell.

Straight to the ground, his body crumpling in the mud. Everything stopped. Sound, movement, thought. For one stretched moment, Agnes couldn’t breathe, but then everything snapped back into motion.

“Help him!” Agnes shouted.

Two guards rushed forward. Agnes’s body moved before her mind could catch up. She dropped to her knees beside Brodie, her skirts darkening with mud, her hands flying to his wrist.

Cold.

“Brodie—can ye hear me?” she asked, her voice barely holding together. “It’s Agnes. Look at me.”

His lips parted, trembling. A rasp of air escaped, barely audible.

“Dinnae... go...”

“What?” Her fingers curled tighter around his arm. “What did ye say?”

But his eyes rolled back and his body went slack.

Everything around her moved in fragments—blurred shapes, gasps, boots thudding against mud and stone. But Agnes knelt frozen in the middle of it, her hand still curled around Brodie’s wrist, cold and slack beneath her fingertips.

He was breathing—barely. Shallow, uneven gasps. But his lips had gone an alarming shade of blue, and something inside Agnes cracked at the sight.

Voices rang around her like muffled bells.

"Get the healer!"

"Gods, he just collapsed—I saw him, he just fell."

"Move! Make room!"

Tav Graham, her father’s most lethal soldier, knelt beside her with a sharp grunt, his hand sliding beneath Brodie’s shoulders. He was tall, his skin a tapestry of ink save for his face, and his eyes… God, those eyes. The coldest, clearest blue she’d ever seen, like winter sky cut with steel.

“Lady Agnes, let go,” he said gruffly, though not unkindly. “We’ll carry him.”

She hesitated, her fingers tightening for a moment. But then she nodded and let go.

Mud clung to her skirts as she stumbled to her feet, numb. Her legs didn’t want to work properly, like they’d been carved from stone. She watched as Tav and another guard lifted Brodie’s limp form between them, and something flickered across Tav’s face… a shadow of concern too raw to hide.

The healer met them at the door to the cottage, her silver hair bound in a scarf, sleeves already rolled. “Bring him in,” she barked. “Lay him by the hearth. We need heat and water, and someone fetch me the willow bark and yarrow. Go!”

Agnes followed without thinking. The wind cut across her face, but she barely felt it. Her mind moved in tight, frantic circles. What had happened? What had Brodie meant when he said, Dinnae go ? What had he seen?

The healer’s cottage smelled of dried herbs and old smoke. Tav laid Brodie on the cot while the healer moved with ruthless efficiency, checking his breath, peeling back an eyelid.

The sharp scent of herbs clung to Agnes’s hands as she leaned over Brodie’s cot, watching the tremor in his jaw settle into stillness.

The healer, Mistress Gowan, pressed a cool cloth to the warrior’s brow with swift, practiced movements.

Her mouth was a thin, pale line. Agnes mirrored her rhythm at his wrists, checking for the flutter of pulse beneath his damp skin, her fingers trembling.