Page 1 of Forge of the Highlander’s Destiny

“ B loody Hell, this lass is a fighter,” one of the guards muttered near Arya Donaldson’s ear.

She smirked. That was something at least. She kicked back against him, and he grunted, making her smile even wider.

She wanted to hit the other guard too, but he held her arm even tighter, and her movement was far too restricted.

She swung around with her shoulder and managed to hit him in the middle of the chest, giving her that grunt she wanted.

The one thing she didn’t do was say anything or scream.

She wouldn’t dare give her father, the Laird of Muir, the satisfaction that one of his nearly daily punishments was getting to her.

The two assigned guards dragged her down the familiar steps to her castle’s dungeon, and she thrashed and kicked the whole way.

It made her arms sore, and her heart ache, but she didn’t care.

It was the only way to fight back against the tyranny that was her father’s control over her life.

She was so tired of it, and she was so ready for it to be over.

At this point, that wasn’t an option, but each time she was taken, dragged down that familiar path to her own personal cell in the creaking, leaking castle dungeon, she hoped that it would be the last time.

That somehow, fate would assist her, or inspiration would strike her with a way of escape, and it could be the last time.

Finally, the guards pushed her inside of the wrought-iron cell and shut it behind her with a clang.

She moved back against the wet stone wall and sank down to the stone floor.

She was breathing hard. The floor was covered in hay and gravel, and she plopped down on it as if she was always just waiting to return.

A soiled blanket sat in a heap nearby, and she took it up. It was freezing after all.

“Damn!” she muttered under her breath, trying not to think about the cold.

She shook her head and crossed her arms. Just like always, she could feel the tears coming, but she absolutely refused to let them fall.

Somehow her father would find out, and he would laugh knowing that his rebellious, unworthy daughter was crying because of his chosen punishments. That would only increase them tenfold.

She leaned her head back against the wall and watched as the torch on the wall next to her cell flickered from a breeze that came through the small window.

She sighed. Her father’s punishments only lasted a couple of days, and then she would be back upstairs.

Having no mother, Arya was Lady of Muir, and she was desperately needed in matters of running the castle.

A slight shuffle made her turn her head, and she leaned forward when she saw a man sitting there.

A man. A young man. A young man who was a stranger. Arya was instantly intrigued, and she moved closer. She could see that he had curly brown hair, and he was leaning forward as if he was sleeping. She frowned.

“Faither has never put me here when there was someone else,” she whispered.

She crawled toward the opposite wall of the cell, grateful for the company.

But it was curiosity as well that prodded her on.

The stranger wore a kilt not of her clan’s colors, and when she got closer, she saw him lean his head back and look at her, and she gasped.

She hadn’t been anywhere, nor did she have much experience with men outside her own village and clan, but here was a prime picture of manhood, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes upon.

As if on instinct, she could feel her face flushing, and she closed her mouth, having only belatedly realized that it’d been hanging open. “Och, I thought ye were sleepin’, Sir,” she said stupidly, her fingers clasping around the iron squares of her cell.

He made some sort of exhalation of breath, and she thought it might have been a laugh except for the scowl on his face. “Nae sleepin’, Lass, just thinkin’ on me fate.”

He barely looked at her, turning back to face forward.

She moved ever so slightly, and she saw his face more in the slight light.

It made her open her eyes wider, wanting to see him better.

He had a dark beard along a sharp jaw, and it was unkempt, likely only because he had been captured.

It only added to his good looks and mystery.

There were dark circles under intriguing eyes too, and even though he was scowling, his face was strong and manly and good looking.

Arya could feel a strange, new pitter-patter of her heart.

A handsome stranger was in her castle’s dungeon, and she wanted to know why.

Adventure was pricking at her, and it thrilled her to the core.

It was far better than thinking about her father anyway.

Why was he here? What had made her father want to capture him? How did he come to be so very handsome?

She smiled, ignoring the stupid questions swirling about in her head. “What is yer name?” she asked, as politely as possible. “We are prisoners together, after all. Ye can tell me yer name.”

She waited a few seconds, but her words just hung in the air. “Why? Will I nae be dead very soon?” His words were sad but also resigned, and she watched as his stubble-covered jaw ticked with emotion.

Arya was unperturbed. She was used to difficult men, and this man was nothing compared to the man who ruled above stairs. She had hours, maybe even days, to converse with him, so she was in no rush. Finally, the dungeon didn’t seem like such a bad place.

She pulled her hands from the metal and leaned against it instead.

“I am Arya Donaldson, daughter to the Laird, if ye can believe it.” She chuckled.

It was better to laugh about such things because crying and weakness was not an option.

Strength. Always show the world strength.

Her father had at least taught her that.

Arya waited, knowing that no one would be able to not ask why on earth the daughter of a Laird was currently residing in a disgusting, ill-kept cell in the very castle of her father.

She beamed when she heard him finally ask, “What are ye daein’ here then?

In the dungeon of a monster father such as ye have? ”

Arya sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “Daenae ask me because I daenae ken. Nae truly. ” She shrugged. “I guess we both dislike each other.”

She let her gaze wander about the large room. It felt hollow and empty, and normally she was sitting in the dark for days on her own. The fact that there was another prisoner there with her gave her some courage or hope. She wasn’t sure which.

“I see. That is a sad thing,” he said with a nod. The man kept quiet after that, and he didn’t look her way any longer. She stole glances at him every so often, but then she eventually tired of it and moved away from the iron to lean back against the stone wall again.

Arya tried to let her mind wander instead, for the imagination was adequate to keep her sane while she sat in discomfort.

But it wasn’t enough. The fact that there was a person next to her urged her on, and her curiosity to get to know the man took over.

But if he would not answer, then she would talk.

“It is the first time I have been in the dungeon with someone else. I like it. Then we can discuss things as we see fit, and we will nae be disturbed. Nay one should care for me reputation now, alone with a man,” she laughed nervously when she saw him scowl at her again. But at least he was looking at her.

“Aye, I daenae think anyone will care about yer reputation, Lass. Besides,” he added, crossing his arms over his very large chest, making the muscles in his arms flex, “there is a wall of iron latticework between us.”

“Aye,” she said scrunching up her nose in distaste, tapping the wall next to her. “What a pity, too.”

Her companion lifted a surprised brow, and she set to laughing again. At least he gave some reaction.

Cohen Kirk wasn’t sure that he cared about anything anymore.

He had been betrayed by his own men, and he was simply sitting in a hay-covered and freezing dungeon, awaiting his execution.

But Laird of Muir was enjoying leaving him to sit and think about death for a little while because he had heard nothing about when that execution would be.

It made everything feel numb and dark and hopeless.

Then a woman had been thrust into the cell next to him, and the only thing he wanted to do was to scowl at her.

She was loud, annoying, and disturbing the peace he had tried to gather.

Fear was not an option, and he had to come to accept his new fate, even though it made him tremble with anger at the injustice of it.

When she leaned closer to him from her cell, her fingers poking through the square cell holes, he couldn’t help but smile.

Inwardly, of course. Her smile and her cheery attitude were at such odds with the place and his own future that it almost felt like he was in a dream or perhaps a really strange nightmare.

When she came into the light, however, he noticed something else.

Even though she was slightly bedraggled, she was bonnie.

Very bonnie. He couldn’t fully see her, for some of her was in shadow, but he could tell that her mouth was full, and her skin a lovely cream, contrasting the dark curls of her hair.

He could also spy her curves, ones that would make a man not on the brink of death heat in desire.

And when she smiled and told him that her father had thrown her into his own dungeon, he was even more intrigued. However, he didn’t have long to think about that because she started to talk to him about nonsense and suggest that the wall between them should be removed.

When he lifted a brow in her direction, she laughed prettily, reminding him strangely of being out on a warm, summer’s day, laying in the grass. She also began to pepper him with questions.