Page 46

Two weeks later…

The wind was colder here. Sharper. It had always been this way, the sea and the geography of the land making it stronger, more vicious than on the mainland. It whistled through the jagged cliffs of the Isle of Skye and carried the scent of moss and brine. Valora sat tall in the saddle, the gray mare beneath her shifting as they crested the rise. The sea stretched to the north, endless and steel-blue; and below it, her home.

Or what used to be her home, at least. Though she hadn’t been gone for long, too much had already changed. Laird Keith was dead. She was a married woman now.

She had more freedom than ever.

The MacNeacail estate was a grim sprawl of stone and shadow perched at the edge of the world. The keep itself was narrow and upright, a spear of stone against the sky. Low buildings dotted the land around it—barracks, stores, the chapel. It had once seemed vast. Now, to her eyes, it looked smaller and older, cracked around the edges.

Beside her, Torrin reined in his horse, studying the view with measured silence. His presence, as always, grounded her.

“Smaller than I pictured,” he said quietly.

Valora gave a short breath of laughter. “That’s because ye havenae met the man inside it yet.”

Torrin turned his head to look at her. “He sent nay word when we asked to visit.”

“He never daes.” She looked down at the keep, imagining her father there, in his study. He had always seemed so fierce to her, so fearsome. Now, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would find the same man or if he would be entirely different in her eyes. “But he’ll open the gates. He’s too proud tae send us away.”

Soon, Valora was proven right. As they rode across the stone bridge, the gates opened not with warmth, but with duty. Two guards in MacNeacail colors stood stiffly, not meeting her eye. They recognized her, of course, and whispered her name with a mix of surprise and something like unease. They recognized Torrin, too. His banner flew behind them, and that alone made the gatekeepers twitch.

Inside, a small group waited in the courtyard. Servants, a steward, and her father.

He stood tall despite the years. His eyes, sharp and flinty, took her in with no trace of paternal warmth. He looked just the same to her, Valora decided. Even now, seeing him inspired the same dread within her, the same visceral response.

But this time, she had Torrin by her side.

“Hello Faither,” Valora said with a small nod toward her father. “I am here tae see Althea. Where is she?” she continued without waiting for his response to her greeting. She didn’t bother following custom, as there was no doubt in her mind it would mean nothing to him. She could be civil for as long as she was there, and she could be patient for Althea’s sake. But she would not succumb to her father’s oppressive power ever again.

“How rude o’ ye tae enter me home like this an’ make demands,” her father said, but Valora didn’t want to hear any of it.

It was Torrin who stepped in, though, before she could say anything else. “Laird MacNeacail, I’m sure ye ken we have plenty tae discuss,” he said. “Our visit is as much a social one as a political one.”

That gave her father pause.

It had to. Torrin’s alliances were growing fast. Word had already spread across the isles and lowlands—Laird Gunn had defeated Laird Keith in a bloody battle. Not only that, but he was now wedded to the daughter of the man whose clan had the most seapower; something none of them could ignore. Clans were writing, sending envoys, asking for alliances, trade, borders redrawn. There was power in unity. And even Laird MacNeacail was wise enough not to ignore the weight of rising banners.

After a moment, he inclined his head stiffly. “Come in. Let us discuss what we must discuss.”

Valora didn’t glance back as they followed him through the familiar halls—cold corridors, high narrow windows, echoes of her childhood in every draft and shadow.

And then, a voice.

“Valora?”

She turned, and there she saw her—Althea, alive and well, her cheeks flushed with color.

Her sister stood at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in a green wool shawl, her hair loose and slightly tangled from wind. Her face was thinner than Valora remembered, her posture a bit smaller, but her eyes—those clear, clever eyes—were still bright.

Valora ran to her. The embrace was instant, fierce. Althea clung to her like a trembling leaf and Valora closed her eyes, willing the ache in her throat to stay silent. She wasn’t going to cry in front of her father, no matter how much she wanted to.

“Ye’re safe,” she whispered. “Ye’re safe, right? Tell me naethin’ has happened tae ye.”

Without her there, there had been no one to take care of Althea. There had been no one to draw their father’s ire away from her, and Valora had been so concerned while away that something terrible could have happened to her.

“I heard ye’re wedded now,” Althea said, her voice small and questioning. “Is it true?”

They pulled back. Valora nodded, and Althea’s face changed as she looked behind her and spotted Torrin.

“Is that him?” she asked, voice pitched low.

She turned, smiling despite the tension still thrumming under her skin. “Torrin, this is me sister.”

Torrin approached them and bowed. “It’s an honor, Miss MacNeacail. I’ve heard… well, everythin’ about ye.”

Althea gave Torrin a scrutinizing look from head to toe. “Have ye?” she asked. “Well, I havenae heard anythin’ about ye yet.”

“Althea, dinnae fash,” said Valora gently. “Torrin is a good man. I promise ye.”

She knew that her sister’s rudeness was only a result of her desire to keep her safe, just as Valora had done for her. Still, she wished there was a way to reassure her that Torrin would never hurt her, even if that was something Althea would have to discover for herself as time would pass.

“I promise ye, I would never hurt yer sister,” said Torrin, echoing Valora’s thoughts. “I would die fer her. I would dae anythin’ tae keep her safe.”

Valora’s cheeks heated at Torrin’s words, at the unbridled affection behind them. She bit back a small smile, but couldn’t help the way her heart thundered in her chest.

Althea looked him over slowly. “Good,” she said with a nod. “She deserves naethin’ less.”

Their father cleared his throat behind them, arms folded, displeased with the moment he wasn’t part of. Valora gritted her teeth and steeled herself for what was to come, but Torrin whispered to her to stay with Althea.

He would be the one talking to her father. He would be the one dealing with him while she took care of her sister.

They dined in the hall that night, conversation strained. Valora’s father asked after Torrin’s holdings, the alliances forming across the north, the tensions with Clan Fraser, the shipments passing through the Gunn lands.

He never asked if Valora had been harmed nor did he mention Laird Keith. And that told her everything she needed to know; her father remained unchanged, bitter and cruel in the way only weak men could be.

But Althea was alive and healthy; unbroken. And for now, that was enough.

Later, Valora sat with Torrin near the fire in the guest chamber they’d been given. She rested her head on his shoulder, his arm warm around her waist.

“She’s all right,” Valora whispered.

Torrin nodded, kissing her temple. “She is.”

“I want tae bring her with us when we leave. Nae today. But soon.”

“There will always be a place fer her in our home,” Torrin promised without a single hint of hesitation. “If ye want I will speak with yer faither and take her with us when we leave.”

“Ye would?”

“I would dae anything fer ye, me love.”

“I love ye so much, Torrin.”

Valora closed her eyes with a gentle sigh, nuzzling in closer. There was still more to be done, so much more to rebuild and heal. But the hardest part—the fear, the loss, the silence—was over.

Now came the life they would build together, and Valora couldn’t wait for the future that awaited them.