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So it had come as a complete shock when he had ordered her to accompany him. She dreaded the reason. It certainly was not for her benefit, her entertainment, or any value he placed on her as part of his household.

There were only two reasons her uncle would ever bring her along. One would be to announce her betrothal to that old sack of bones in front of everyone. The second was to see if she would receive a better offer.

“Me Lady?” Jonet prompted when she saw her detach herself from the side of her uncle.

“I just need a moment.”

Jonet glanced between her and her uncle. Even the smallest slight could set him off, but Isla could hardly imagine anything worse happening to her.

“Tell him,” she whispered, “that I need to visit the privy.”

Jonet smiled and nodded. “I am sure, me Lady,” she said in a conspiratorial tone, “that he wouldnae want to accompany ye even there.”

Isla returned the smile and, while her uncle was busy talking to a knot of lairds, quietly slipped out of his orbit. She felt as though she might suffocate if she didn’t get a moment alone.

She doubted any of these Highlanders had much taste for beauty, not when there was ale to be had in the Great Hall instead of the luscious gardens out back.

She was right, and glad of it. The gardens stood empty, and yet the shadow of her uncle’s tyranny still fell over her even here. Even among the fragrant apple trees and the scent of healing herbs, fear crept in.

So when she heard a twig snap somewhere behind her, she was certain that her reprieve was over and that the quietness of the garden would be the perfect setting for her uncle to unleash his cruelty on her without witnesses.

She quickened her steps along the gravel path, hoping to find another way back inside where she could lock herself in her room. For one moment, she glanced back over her shoulder to make sure that she was not being followed.

And that was when she walked straight into a wall and stumbled backward. She was startled, because she was quite certain that she hadn’t yet reached the edge of the garden, so there should have been no wall there. And yet something immovable had stopped her in her tracks.

She looked up, and that was when she saw him. It was no wall, but it might as well have been. Standing in front of her was a beast of a man.

Isla was not a small woman, and yet she found herself staring at the middle of his chest, not yet daring to tilt her head back and look at his face. His broad shoulders blocked the sun, dropping her into his shadow. She hadn’t been wrong comparing him to a wall, for his body felt like it was carved from granite.

“Me apologies,” she said, shaken but not abandoning her good manners.

She took a step back, if only to spare her neck the strain of looking up at him, and then made herself look at his face. The moment their eyes met, she knew exactly who he was. There would be no mistaking him, even among a thousand Highlanders.

It was none other than Alisdair MacLeod, Laird of Clan MacLeod and her uncle’s worst enemy. She had glimpsed him once, briefly, at last year’s Gathering, which had been hosted by one of her uncle’s allies. She could still remember the venom in her uncle’s voice when he had complained about having to be in the same room as the “MacLeod beast.” But that brief glimpse was nothing at all compared to seeing him this close.

There were rumors, of course. Scarcely a lady in the Highlands had not whispered at some point about how handsome Laird MacLeod was. Even with her narrow circle, the talk of his striking looks had reached her. But no rumor came close to the reality standing in front of her.

There was nothing soft or elegant in his face, and maybe that was exactly why it was so hard to look away from him. Try as she might, Isla found herself captivated by cheekbones sharp enough to rival his sword in battle, a jaw carved square and strong. And yet, as if to soften all those harsh angles, his lips were soft and full. Tempting.

“Ye should watch where ye’re goin’.” His voice echoed through the gardens.

Isla was not so much startled as she was overcome by a feeling that she could not name when she looked up into his eyes. She instantly thought of a winter loch—clear cold water trapped beneath ice. His gray eyes were still on the surface, but like any loch, they ran deep and restless underneath.

“Laird MacLeod!” she gasped in surprise.

His lips curled into a smirk. “Ye ken who I am, and yet ye seem surprised.”

“Aye, me Laird.” Isla struggled to gather her composure. “I thought I was alone in the gardens. I didnae expect…”

“Ye didnae expect what?” he prompted.

Isla bit her lip, already regretting having started that sentence at all.

“I see,” he said in that deep voice of his, laced with a little irony. “Ye werenae expecting a savage like me to enjoy a walk in the gardens.”

“I didnae say that, me Laird.”

“Ye didnae have to.”