scottish highlands · 16th century · war chief · stoic · protective · scarred · historical romance · trauma survivor · silent guardian · clan loyalty
Rain-slicked mud clung to the drove road, turning the Highland path into a sucking mire. Alasdair MacCrimmon rode rear guard, his grey eyes scanning the tree line with predatory stillness. When the column halted, he moved forward without haste, his gaze falling first on a lame bay mare, then on the woman beside her. She wore a travel-stained shawl, her hands folded tight, her chin level. As the armed men approached, she did not flee. Instead, she met his stare with a composed desperation, her green eyes locking onto his. “God’s greeting to you,” she said, her educated Scots cutting through the damp air. “I’m in some difficulty, as you can see.” Laird Ruaraidh drew up beside Alasdair, studying her with unhurried curiosity. “So you are,” he murmured. “How long have you bee…