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ROSE FOUGHT THEM with everything she had, terror giving her wild strength—but she couldn’t tear free of the iron grip of the villagers as they towed her down the path toward the water.

Her attackers had taken a route through the apple orchard to avoid dragging her past the fields. This path was little used, and as such, there was nobody to see them.

Rose twisted and writhed against them, even as Keith tied ropes around her wrists and ankles, pulling the knots so tight it hurt.

Her screams ripped through the air—fear had turned her feral—but her attackers paid her no mind.

Chants of “Kill the witch” echoed across the sound when they carried her, hog-tied as she was, down to the water. They then picked her up, gripping her squirming body, and waded out across the slippery stones.

The cool wind caressed Rose’s wet cheeks. She was sobbing now, her throat raw from screaming. Despair twisted hard in her belly. They were going to drown her, and no one was going to stop them.

Kerr!

If only he were here—but he didn’t know she’d set off early for Dun Ugadale on her own this morning. He wouldn’t come to her rescue. No one would.

They let go of Rose then, casting her into the water. She hit the surface with a slap, going under.

Icy water engulfed her. She sank, struggling desperately against her restraints, and then floated again, pulled to the surface by her billowing skirts.

She continued to writhe, as her lungs burned, and a high-pitched whine started in her ears. The end was close now. Yet she still fought the water, still tried to get her head up so she could take a gasp of air.

Suddenly, hands grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her upward.

Rose came up coughing and gasping for breath. Relief washed over her. She couldn’t believe it—by some miracle, someone had saved her.

But an instant later, Maisie’s excited voice sliced through her relief. “She floated! I knew she would!”

“I didn’t float!” Rose croaked, bile surging up her throat. “I was drowning.” If she hadn’t sunk like a stone, it was because air had caught in the full skirt of her kirtle.

But no one was listening to her.

“The Evil One’s handmaid must burn,” a woman shouted from the back of the group.

“Aye, Janet,” Maisie replied. “Let us take her into the village, build a pyre, and see it done.”

Eara carried a tray of soaked and drained barley outside on a tray. She was taking it to the lean-to next to her bothy, where she would lay the grain out to germinate. She walked quickly, keen to finish this last task before she set out for the broch.

The morning was still young, but she’d woken up with a sense of urgency.

After seeing Father Gregor preaching in the village square the day before, Eara was determined to tell Lady Mackay and Rose what she’d overheard.

The priest’s stirring had to be dealt with.

Eara had just deposited the barley on a table in the lean-to when excited chatter on the street outside drew her attention. Intrigued, she hurried around the front of her cottage and peered over the high wattle fence.

A crowd of villagers had just passed by.

Eara’s pulse quickened when she realized they were jeering and shoving someone in their midst.

An instant later, the crowd parted, and she saw whom they were manhandling.

Eara’s breathing caught. Rose!

Drenched, her face wild with panic, her friend’s hands were bound in front of her. One of the women shoved Rose hard between the shoulder blades then, and she staggered, falling onto her knees.

Two burly men, one the local tanner, and the other Duncan MacDonald’s youngest son—grabbed Rose by the arms and hauled her roughly to her feet. They then herded her forward to shouts of “Burn the witch!”

“Merciful Lord,” Eara gasped, watching them go.

Had she heard right?

The people of this village had lost their minds.

Heart pounding, Eara backed up, nearly tripping over a stack of peat bricks she’d just had delivered.

Someone had to stop them.

She left her garden through the narrow gate at the back, sprinting down a lane between rows of squat bothies. She wasn’t sure where the villagers planned to burn Rose, but she knew she alone couldn’t stop them.

She needed help.

Eara picked up her skirts, her legs flying now as she headed toward the broch.

“Captain!”

A woman’s cry made Kerr glance up from where he was tightening Prionnsa’s girth. It had been a busy morning, with an altercation between two of his men to deal with, and Kerr was eager to get away. He wanted to ride out to the Red Deer Hills and fetch Rose.

Iver had agreed to wed them in the hall, under the eyes of all, as soon as they arrived. Impatience thrummed through Kerr as he saddled his gelding. He couldn’t wait to see Rose again.

But thoughts of her fled now as Eara Mackay, the brewer’s widow, rushed at him. Her face was red, her grey eyes wild—and she was running so fast her foot caught on a cobblestone and she sprawled.

Kerr moved forward and picked the gasping woman up.

“God’s blood, Eara,” he muttered. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Rose,” Eara choked out. “They’re going to burn her!”

Kerr stilled, cold washing over him. His grip on Eara’s shoulders tightened. “Who?”

“The villagers … I saw them taking her toward the center of the village. Hurry! Ye have to stop them.”

Kerr didn’t need to be warned twice. Letting go, he moved over to his gelding and vaulted up onto Prionnsa’s back. He was just reining his horse around when Brodie emerged from the forge a few yards away.

“What’s wrong?” his brother asked, scowling.

“Rose is in trouble,” Kerr barked “Follow me down to the village.”

And with that, not bothering to explain himself further, Kerr urged his horse into a canter, clattering out of the barmkin under the raised portcullis.

He rode as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, down the causeway and into the village. It wasn’t far to the small square—a narrow patch of dirt at the heart of the village—but as he approached, Kerr could see the villagers had worked fast.

They’d built a pyre of twigs and straw around a pole, where they’d tied Rose.

She was struggling against her bindings, tears streaking her face as she shouted at them.

And a few yards away, Maisie MacDonald carried a flaming torch. The woman strode toward the pyre, a savage expression on her face.

Kerr kicked Prionnsa forward, cleaving a path through the excited crowd.

There appeared to be a scuffle going on—for some men and women were trying to break through the circle around the pyre to help Rose. Fists were flying and angry curses rang through the morning air.

None of the villagers saw Kerr. Not until he was almost upon them—and then they scattered like fowl, diving out of the way of the courser.

Maisie glanced his way then, her mouth gaping when she saw him heading straight for her.

Kerr thought she might have second thoughts about what she was about to do—that she might halt and cast aside her burning torch.

But she didn’t.

Instead, the woman leaped forward, attempting to close the final gap between her and Rose.

She still intended to set fire to the twigs and straw.

Kerr ran her down.

Maisie screamed, trampled under Prionnsa’s churning hooves. The torch flew from her grip, rolling away across the dirt.

Pulling up his horse, Kerr swung down from the saddle, drew his dirk, and crossed to Rose.

Tears still streaked her face, yet relief shone in her eyes.

But as he drew near, he noted that a bruise was coming up on her cheek, and there were scratches on her neck, as if someone had clawed at her.

Rage caught fire in his veins.

How dare they?

Swinging around, he swept his gaze over the men and women who’d joined Maisie. They weren’t so excited now—especially since many of them were lying on the ground, held firm by the villagers who’d come to Rose’s aid.

However, some, like Dugan Mackay and Keith MacDonald, hadn’t been subdued. Both men approached Kerr now, their faces twisted into belligerent expressions.

“Let us have the bitch,” Keith roared. “How dare ye defend Graham MacAlister’s spawn?”

“Ye have let the woman bewitch ye,” the tanner added, his mouth twisting. “Let us put an end to her and save yer soul.”

Kerr viewed them coldly. “Touch her, and I’ll carve out yer hearts.”

“Aye … get down on yer knees, Dugan,” a rough voice ordered from behind. “Before I knock ye to the ground.”

Brodie stepped up then, five of The Guard following close behind. All the men were out of breath from their sprint down from the broch. Fury burned in their gazes. Despite that it was a dull day, their drawn dirk blades glinted menacingly.

Dugan and Keith both hesitated. They then shared nervous looks before reluctantly doing as bid.

A heavy silence fell over the village square.

Relieved that his brother had brought help, Kerr kicked aside the twigs piled up around Rose’s feet and deftly cut away the ropes tying her to the pole.

She fell against him, sobbing.

Heart pounding, Kerr scooped her up into his arms and strode away from the pyre, across the square.

Villagers drew back to let him pass. On the way, he spied Maisie lying spread-eagled on her front, beside where his gelding patiently awaited him. She was motionless, a dark stain spreading into the dirt around her head.

She was dead, and part of him thought he should be sorry. But he wasn’t. Maisie had tried to burn Rose alive, even as he tried to stop her.

As he carried Rose up to Prionnsa, Kerr caught Brodie’s eye. The two brothers’ gazes held for a moment before Brodie asked gruffly, “What do ye want us to do with the others?”

“Bring them up to the broch,” Kerr replied, battling the fury that still pummeled through him. “And fetch that damned priest too … he’s behind all of this.”