Page 1 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

CHAPTER ONE

"Och, would ye look at our wee sister," Ruaridh called out, his deep voice booming across the hall as he strode toward Morag, his sister, with that swagger that made visitors either want to befriend him or throttle him.

At twenty-three, he'd grown into his father's broad shoulders and commanding presence, though his green eyes still held the mischief that had gotten them both into trouble as children.

"All done up like a proper lady. I barely recognize ye without mud on yer boots. "

"Hold yer tongue, ye great oaf," Morag shot back, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "Just because I enjoy the horses doesnae mean it's impossible to see me looking like proper."

The great hall of MacDuff Castle buzzed with the kind of nervous energy that came before farewells—servants bustling about with trunks and provisions, the fire crackling higher than usual, and voices carrying that particular pitch of forced cheer that meant someone was trying very hard not to weep.

Morag MacDuff stood in the center of it all, her dark blonde hair catching the firelight as she surveyed the chaos with mild dread. Her traveling dress—the finest blue wool her mother could procure—felt foreign against her skin, nothing like the practical riding clothes she favored.

"Proper, aye," Sorcha's melodic voice drifted from the stone steps leading to the upper chambers, "but standing still? That's the true miracle."

Morag's eldest sister descended the stairs with the grace that had made her the envy of every unmarried lass in the Highlands.

Even after five years of marriage and two bairns, Sorcha moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear.

Her auburn hair—so like their mother's—was perfectly braided, not a strand out of place despite her long journey from the MacLeod lands.

"Sorcha!" Morag flew across the hall, propriety forgotten, and threw her arms around her sister. "I didnae think ye'd make it in time."

"Miss seeing me baby sister off to her grand adventure?" Sorcha squeezed her tight, then pulled back to study Morag's face with knowing hazel eyes. "I wouldnae dare. Besides, someone had to make sure ye remembered how to act like a lady instead of a wild Highland lass."

"I am a wild Highland lass," Morag protested, earning a snort of laughter from Ruaridh.

"Aye, and God help the Iron Laird when he figures that out," their brother said, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. "Poor bastard probably thinks he's getting a sweet, biddable wife."

"Ruaridh MacDuff!" The sharp crack of their mother's voice cut through the hall like a blade.

Niamh MacDuff emerged from behind a cluster of servants, her green eyes flashing with the kind of fire that had made their father fall head over heels all those years ago.

"Ye'll watch yer language in me hall, and ye'll nae be calling Laird Armstrong names before yer sister's even met the man. "

Despite the scolding, Niamh's lips curved in the faintest smile as she approached her youngest daughter.

In her forties, she was still beautiful enough to turn heads, her auburn hair showing only the barest threads of silver, her slender frame moving with the confidence of a woman who'd never met a challenge she couldn't face.

"Besides," she continued, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from Morag's traveling cloak, "if anyone can handle our Morag, it's a man they call the Iron Laird. Takes steel to shape steel, after all."

"I'm nae steel, Ma," Morag said quietly, suddenly feeling very young despite her twenty years.

"Nay, lass." Niamh's voice gentled as she cupped Morag's freckled cheek. "Ye're fire. And fire can melt even the strongest steel, if it burns hot enough."

"Enough talk of melting," came the deep rumble of their father's voice from the great doorway.

Alistair MacDuff filled the entrance like he filled every room—not just with his impressive height and breadth, but with the kind of presence that made people straighten their spines and pay attention.

His dark hair was liberally streaked with silver now, and new lines bracketed his piercing green eyes, but at forty-nine he was still the kind of man who could command a battlefield or a feast with equal ease.

"Are we sending our daughter off to her wedding or are we planning a siege?

" he asked, though his gruff tone couldn't hide the emotion flickering across his weathered features.

"With Morag, is there a difference?" Sorcha murmured, ducking when her youngest sister swatted at her.

Alistair's mouth twitched, but he crossed the hall with measured steps until he stood before Morag.

For a moment, the great laird simply looked at his youngest child—the one who'd followed him around like a shadow as a bairn, who'd begged to learn swordplay alongside her brother, who could put an arrow through a sparrow's eye at fifty paces, who'd never met a horse she couldn’t ride or a challenge she wouldn’t accept.

"Come here, mo chridhe ," he said softly, opening his arms.

Morag flew into them without hesitation, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and pine and home. When she was small, she'd believed her father could protect her from anything. Now, wrapped in his embrace, she still believed it.

"I'm proud of ye, lass," he murmured into her hair. "Ye're daeing what's right fer the clan, and that takes courage."

"I'm terrified," she whispered against his chest.

"Good. Only fools feel nay fear. But ye're a MacDuff, and MacDuffs dinnae run from hard things." He pulled back to meet her gaze, his green eyes serious. "Ye'll make yer own way, Morag. Ye always have."

"Aye, and if this Armstrong fellow gives ye trouble, ye send word," Ruaridh declared, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. "I'll be happy tae ride south and remind him how tae treat a MacDuff lass."

"Ye'll dae nay such thing," Niamh said sharply, though her tone held a note of fierce maternal pride. "Besides, our Morag can handle herself just fine."

"She'd better," Sorcha added with a wicked grin. "From what I hear, the Iron Laird isnae exactly kent fer his gentle nature."

Morag felt her stomach clench. "What have ye heard?"

"Nothing ye need tae worry about," Alistair said firmly, shooting a warning look at his eldest daughter. "Political marriages are first and foremost about alliance, nay... personal compatibility. Ye'll find yer way together."

"Or ye'll both be too stubborn tae bend, and ye'll spend the rest of yer lives circling each other like a pair of Highland cats," Ruaridh said cheerfully.

"That's helpful, braither dear," Morag said dryly.

"I live tae serve."

A horn sounded from the courtyard—three long blasts that meant her escort was ready to depart. The sound seemed to suck all the air from the great hall, leaving behind a silence heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears.

"Well then," Niamh said briskly, though her voice was rougher than usual. "I suppose it's time."

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Morag felt her chest tighten, and without thinking, she grabbed Sorcha's arm and pulled her aside, away from their parents' watchful eyes.

"Sorcha," she whispered urgently, "I wish—och, this sounds mad, but I almost wish someone would kidnap me on the road. Anything tae avoid this marriage."

Her sister's hazel eyes widened, then softened with understanding.

"Morag, love, I ken ye're frightened, but it willnae be as terrible as ye think.

And getting kidnapped..." Sorcha's voice took on a wry note, "well, I ken it sounds romantic tae have a happy ending with the laird that kidnapped ye, but it daesnae always turn out as well as it did fer me. "

Morag sighed, remembering her sister's own dramatic courtship.

"Aye, I ken that. But Sorcha, I've never heard a single good thing about Colin Armstrong.

With a name like the Iron Laird, I ken he rules his clan with an iron grip.

What kind of marriage can I expect with such a man? What kind of life?"

Sorcha reached out and squeezed her sister's hands. "Listen tae me, mo peata . Sometimes the strongest men need the gentlest touch tae soften them. Give yer marriage a chance and it may turn out much better than ye expect."

Sorcha pulled Morag into a tight squeeze which was interrupted when their mother appeared at her elbow, moving with that silent grace that had always unnerved her children. Niamh's green eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her voice was steady as stone.

"Morag." She pressed something small and cold into her daughter's palm. "Take this."

Morag looked down to see a small but deadly sharp dagger, its handle carved with intricate Celtic knots. The blade gleamed like silver in the firelight.

"Ma, I?—"

"Keep it close tae yer body," Niamh said firmly, her fingers closing over Morag's. "The land ye're going tae is made of steel, lass. The people, the very air—everything is harder there. Be prepared fer anything that comes yer way."

Morag nodded, her throat tightening. "Ma, what if he daesnae want me? What if this marriage?—"

"Listen tae me, mo chridhe ." Niamh's voice dropped to barely a whisper, meant for Morag's ears alone.

"When I wed yer faither, I thought me life was ending.

I kent nothing of him save his name, and I was so frightened I could barely speak me vows.

" Her green eyes softened with memory. "But sometimes, lass, the marriages we fear most become the love stories we treasure.

Yer faither and I... we found our way tae each other. And ye will too."

"But ye and Da, ye were lucky?—"

"Nay." Niamh shook her head. "We worked fer it. Every day, we chose tae see the good in each other. That's what makes a marriage, Morag—not the grand gestures, but the small choices tae build something together."

"Thank ye," Morag whispered, tucking the dagger into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress. For just a moment, she caught something in her mother's green eyes— a kind of hope born from her own experience.

"Time to go, lass," Alistair called from the doorway, though his voice was gentler than usual.

The final farewells were a blur of fierce embraces and whispered blessings. Ruaridh lifted her off her feet in a bone-crushing hug, muttering threats against anyone who dared harm her.

Sorcha kissed both her cheeks and pressed a small bundle of lavender into her hands. Their parents each held her close one last time, and then suddenly she was walking across the courtyard toward the waiting carriage, her legs feeling strangely unsteady.

The carriage door closed with a final, echoing thud, and Morag MacDuff began her journey toward an uncertain future—and a man whose heart was made of iron.

The carriage wheels found their rhythm on the worn stone road, and for the first day Morag almost managed to forget where she was headed. The Highland countryside rolled past the small window in waves of purple heather and emerald glen, familiar and comforting as a lullaby.

"Look there, m'lady," said Isla, her maid, pointing toward a cluster of red deer grazing near a burn. "They say it's good luck tae see the hart on a wedding journey."

Morag glanced at the girl's plain face—barely seventeen, with mousy brown hair and nervous hands that never seemed to stop fidgeting with her apron. Isla jumped at every shadow, but she had willingly volunteered for this journey, which had earned Morag's grudging respect.

"Aye, well, I'll take all the luck I can get," Morag replied, though her fingers unconsciously found the dagger hidden in her dress. "Though I reckon I'll need more than deer tae help me survive this marriage."

Outside, she could hear the steady hoofbeats of their escort—three MacDuff soldiers her father had insisted upon. The captain was a grizzled veteran who'd served her grandfather. The other two rode with the easy confidence of men who'd never known real defeat.

Yet, Morag thought grimly.

The first night they'd made camp in familiar territory, the soldiers laughing around their fire as they shared stories and ale. The Captain had even allowed her to walk about freely, knowing no harm would come to a MacDuff lass on MacDuff lands.

But as the second day wore on and the landscape began to change—the hills growing sharper, the forests thicker, darker—so did the mood of their party.

"How much farther tae the border?" Morag asked as the afternoon light began to slant golden through the carriage window.

"We should reach Armstrong lands by dusk, m'lady. We'll camp just inside their territory tonight, then make fer the castle come morning," one of the men riding just outside her window answered.

Morag nodded. Through the window, she watched the Captain's posture change as he rode ahead—his shoulders tense, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. What had been easy conversation between the soldiers had died to sharp, clipped exchanges.

"We are on the edge of Fraser territory now. God help us pass this stretch safely. Hamish," she heard him call softly. "Eyes on the tree line."

The youngest soldier, who'd just spoken, now rode with his bow strung and ready across his saddle. The change was subtle but unmistakable. These were men preparing for eventual trouble.

Faither, why did ye send me here?