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E vander Sloan stood before the burning building, the wind blowing a wave of damning heat across his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he continued watching his castle burn. There was nothing he could do, and that fact alone bothered him greatly.

“M’Laird?” the voice of Rory, his man-at-arms, called, at first faint. Or at least it sounded distant to him.

“M’Laird?” Rory called again, this time his voice a little louder, but it was still drowned out by the noise of the hungry fire licking at the towers of the castle.

“M’Laird!”

Evander’s eyes widened in surprise as he was snapped back to the present. Rory was right beside him, yanking at his arm.

“We have to get the women and children to safety. They cannae stay here and keep watching the fire.”

Evander swallowed. He took another sweeping look around him. He had managed, with the help of some of his men, to get the people out of the castle before the fire grew vengeful and turned into this intense inferno.

There wasn’t much he could do. His castle was gone, and he was going to have to accept that. The next thing was to start building it back up, and for now, he was going to?—

“Tommy!” a feminine voice screamed from behind him, cutting straight through his thoughts.

He froze, and recognition hit him almost immediately.

“Is that—” he began.

“Shona, M’Laird. Yer sister-in-law,” Rory confirmed, his voice curt.

“Tommy!” The voice was louder now, and Evander turned around.

Shona was running toward him, determination written all over her tear-streaked face.

“Tommy!” she screamed again.

Her focus was not on Evander or even his man-at-arms. She was staring at the burning castle.

“Hold her back,” Evander ordered.

Just as Shona was about to run past them, Rory reached for her and pulled her to him.

“Nay nay. He’s in there! Tommy’s in there!”

Evander swallowed. Tommy was Shona’s six-year-old son.

“What?”

“Please. He’s in the castle!” she cried desperately.

Evander swallowed, his eyes briefly darting between the shocked mother and the blazing fire.

“He was sleeping, and I went out to get some cheese for him. He’s still in there, please!” Shona screamed, trying to break free from Rory’s firm grip.

“Should I ask some men to—” Rory began.

“Nay. I dinnae want to send any of me men in there.” Evander drew his sword and adjusted his shirt.

“M’Laird—” Rory sputtered, a hint of warning in his voice.

“If the boy is still in there, I’ll find him.”

“M’Laird, the fire?—”

“I’m nae blind, Rory.”

Before his man-at-arms could try to stop him or even say another word, Evander took a deep breath and hurried into the castle, swiping at the debris and ashes that stood in his way.

The fire grazed his skin, the wave of heat searing almost every part of his body. Shona’s room was on the first floor, but the fire had already reached the stairs and was licking at the wood ravenously.

Trying his best not to inhale the smoke, he ran up the stairs, his feet pounding against the burning floor, and toward the little boy’s room.

He covered his nose with his arm as he approached the door, resisting the urge to pause and watch how fire climbed up his walls.

He reached for the knob and grabbed it, yanking his hand away almost immediately as the heat scalded his palm. He took a step away from the door and, as hard as he could, slammed his heel against the knob. His boot crashed into the wood and sent the door flying.

Sure enough, Tommy was in the room, his eyes filled with tears as he huddled under a table.

“Tommy,” Evander called.

No response.

“Tommy.”

Still no response.

Without wasting any more time, he bent down and grabbed the boy from underneath the table.

Tommy’s burning clothes singed his skin as he ran out of the room, but he couldn’t put him down. A groan escaped his mouth as he flew down the stairs, the little boy hanging over his shoulder, smoke drifting from his clothes.

He ran toward the courtyard, the fire hot on his heels. Tommy’s burning clothes continued searing his skin and the space between his shoulder and arms. He kicked the door open and stepped into the courtyard, the cool afternoon wind sending relief down his spine.

He gently laid the boy on the cold grass, watching and waiting for him to respond.

“Tommy!” Shona shrieked, finally breaking free from Rory’s grasp.

As Evander brushed the ash and dust from his body, Shona reached for her son and grabbed as much as she could while avoiding his injuries. Evander watched closely and waited for him to respond.

He didn’t.

A wave of despair slowly crept over him. Shona’s screams grew louder, but her voice was practically swallowed by the roar of the fire in the background.

As he opened his mouth to speak, Evander caught a man running away from the castle and toward the fence.

“Ye!” he called, his voice loud and sharp.

The man, who must have heard him, stopped and turned around. The moment their eyes met, a chill slithered down Evander’s spine. They exchanged looks for almost two full seconds before the man turned on his heel and resumed running toward the fence.

“Stay here, Rory,” Evander ordered.

Before Rory could form a response, he took off again, his eyes steady and focused only on the man right ahead of him.

“M’Laird?!” he could hear Rory call from behind him, but he didn’t wait to listen or turn around.

His feet pounded across the forest floor as he ran in hot pursuit of the man, who remained within view, even if a little farther ahead. With his sword still in his hand, he swung at the gnarled branches and thick cobwebs in his way, not turning back or hesitating—not even once.

“Oi! Stop!” he bellowed.

The man refused to stop.

Evander quickened his pace as he noticed the man was beginning to slow down, growing tired. This was his chance to finally catch up.

In no time at all, he closed the distance between them, and right as the man was about to turn onto a dirt track, he caught on to him and kicked him right in the back.

The man stumbled and crashed into the wet soil, a loud cough escaping from his lips.

Evander moved closer, his eyes narrowed. He studied the tartan of the man’s kilt—it was from one of the smaller clans in the south.

Red-hot anger surged through him.

The man twisted around, his face now streaked with dirt. Blood trickled down from his nose to his chin. He scrambled away from Evander, struggling to find his footing and get off the ground.

“Who are ye?” Evander asked, pointing his sword at him and taking a step toward him.

The man looked a bit older than Evander himself. His reddish-brown hair glistened in the fragmented rays of the sun that filtered through the leaves above.

“I said,” Evander growled, taking another step and pressing the tip of his blade against the man’s chest, “who are ye?”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came forth. What escaped his mouth instead sounded like a croak. A half-groan, Evander could not decipher, no matter how much he tried.

“I willnae repeat meself,” Evander warned, moving closer.

The man tried to speak again, but his words were not clear—not to Evander and certainly not to himself.

Evander bent down, his face now mere inches away from the man’s. He waited for him to speak again, ready to listen attentively. Except, the next time the man opened his mouth, he did not speak.

With a venomous look on his face, and with the most strength he could muster, the man spat straight into Evander’s face.

“Curse ye, Laird Kincaid,” he wheezed, still struggling to pull air into his lungs.

Evander straightened up and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. He took one last look at the man, who was still trying to scramble off the ground.

“Very well.”

His blade gleamed in the air for the briefest of seconds, and before the man knew what was coming, Evander had driven it straight into his chest.

The man reached for the hilt of the sword, a look of mild shock on his face. He started to cough again, but this time, blood flew from his mouth. He stared at the blade one more time, and with one last breath, he crumpled to the ground.

Evander pulled out his sword and wiped it on the leaves, then tucked it back in its sheath.

Taking one more look at the man, wondering if his dead body would reveal any information he was unable to get from him when he was alive, he turned around and headed back to his burning castle, his eyes briefly flicking to the flames that rose into the clear blue sky.

When he returned to the courtyard, the fire was still roaring, and while some of his people had left, some were still around, huddled on the ground, mourning the loss of their belongings and their home.

Shona had remained by the edge of the grass, her son, who Evander was now certain was no longer alive, cradled in her arms.

“M’Laird,” Rory called, hurrying toward him, almost like he was suddenly made aware of his master’s presence.

Evander looked up at him, his eyes gleaming.

But instead of pain and disappointment, there was anger now.

Anger that he couldn’t save Tommy. That he couldn’t extract anything from the man he had pursued into the woods and killed.

Anger that his castle was burning to the ground, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Well, almost nothing.

“I have let this go on for way too long.”

Rory narrowed his eyes. “Let what?”

“This little feud with the southern clan.”

Rory inhaled sharply. “The man ye chased into the woods—he caused the fire, did he nae?”

Evander didn’t respond. He had nothing to say. Instead, he took one last look around the courtyard, at the men and women sprawled across the grass, watching the castle burn to ash.

He’d had enough. And for once, he was going to put a complete stop to it.

He turned to Rory, a determined look on his face. He was done with the niceties, and his man-at-arms lowered his head.

Evander swallowed. “We’re going to war.”

Keira sat in the same spot in the Great Hall since her husband had died on their wedding night months ago.

The same councilmen who had surrounded her that day surrounded her now.

Except this time, the veil of unfamiliarity had been lifted.

She knew every one of them by name. It was what she had to do since she became the Lady of Blythe Castle.

Another thing that was different was the way they now looked at her. Months ago, they had regarded her with pity and sympathy. Now, they had urgency in their eyes. And impatience.

“We cannae keep waiting for longer, M’Lady. Time is nae on our side,” George, one of the councilmen, urged.

“I understand that,” Keira allowed, rubbing her forehead furtively.

“I dinnae think ye understand,” George continued. “I received reports just this morning that ten of our men were murdered at the border. Laird Kincaid is a dangerous man, and the longer we wait, the bigger the chance we give him to swoop in and kill us all.”

“He’s nae wrong, M’Lady,” Lucas, another councilman, piped up, his voice soft yet firm. “This would make it thirty men who have died at the hands of Laird Kincaid this week. We cannae afford to lose more men.”

Keira exhaled. “Who is this Laird Kincaid, anyway? What did we ever do to him?”

“Ye didnae need to do anything, M’Lady,” David, another councilman, spoke up. He sounded more nervous than the other two. “We dinnae have a laird—that’s what we did.”

Keira swallowed.

Not this again.

“Laird Kincaid is probably of the opinion that since this castle has nay laird, conquering it will be easy for him,” David continued.

“It’s been months since we asked ye to remarry, M’Lady. And since ye have refused to listen to us, we have decided to take matters into our own hands,” George revealed.

Keira swallowed. “What are ye talking about?”

“We have decided to appease the Laird,” George stated.

“Perhaps if we offer him the castle, he will spare the rest of our men,” Lucas clarified.

“Nay, nay. Ye have to listen to me. I just need more time. A few weeks at most, and I’ll remarry. I promise ye.”

“We dinnae have a few weeks. We’ll all be dead by then,” Lucas argued.

“If we do offer him the castle,” George added, “he’ll want to take a wife. And it willnae be a widow, I am certain. So, of course, ye have to return to yer clan.”

A tense silence fell over the room.

Keira’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. The silence thickened, and then, unable to take it anymore, she pushed her chair back and walked away from the table.

“M’Lady—”

“A week. That’s all I’m asking for,” she insisted, not bothering to turn around. “Ye’re nae cruel enough to send a lady packing immediately, are ye?”

She held her breath and waited for a response.

When none came, she stopped by the door and turned to them. “Let us send word to Laird Kincaid and ask for a truce. Invite him to the castle, and I am certain we can come to a compromise.”

“A compromise might nae be enough, M’Lady.”

“We cannae ken that if we dinnae try, can we?”

She turned back around and resumed walking, but she held her breath, waiting for a response. When none came, she stepped out of the Great Hall, letting out a deep sigh.

She couldn’t go back to her clan. That was the last thing she wanted to do. She had been ordered to never step foot there again, and she planned to honor that promise.

Stella, her maid, accosted her by the door, falling into step beside her immediately.

“How did it go with the councilmen, M’Lady?”

“I am certain they’re all very angry with me right now. But this is the way. I cannae surrender that easily, Stella.”

Stella nodded. “I agree, M’Lady.”

“I willnae let a brute take away me home,” Keira asserted, walking down the hall with renewed determination.