|c.2|

The morning sun poured over the Highlands, gilding the rugged terrain in molten gold. The jagged peaks stretched toward the heavens, their austere silhouettes softened by the warm hues of dawn. Rolling fields of wild heather and gorse painted the land in shades of purple and yellow, and the crisp air carried the faint, earthy scent of dew-kissed grass. At the heart of this untamed beauty stood the MacLeod estate, its stone walls weathered by centuries but as steadfast as the mountains themselves.

Yet within those ancient walls, Finlay MacLeod sat by the window of his chambers, his gaze distant and unseeing. His heart was heavy with a longing that no amount of drink or distraction could ease.

Moira.

Her name was a siren’s call in his mind, each syllable stirring memories that set his blood alight. He could still feel the heat of her skin beneath his fingertips, the way her lips curved into a knowing smile as she whispered his name. She was an enigma, her dark allure a fire that consumed him entirely. It wasn’t just lust—though he couldn’t deny the way his body ached for her. It was the way she unraveled him, peeling away the layers of duty and decorum until he stood before her as nothing more than a man.

In Moira’s arms, he was free.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile quiet of his thoughts.

“Laird MacLeod?” Callum’s voice was muffled but firm.

Finlay scowled. “Enter.”

The door creaked open, and Callum stepped inside, his posture stiff with unease. “Yer father requests yer presence in the great hall. He says it’s urgent.”

With a resigned sigh, Finlay rose to his feet, his broad shoulders squaring as he donned the mantle of responsibility once more. “What’s he want now?”

Callum shifted his weight, his discomfort evident. “Best ye find out for yerself.”

Finlay muttered under his breath, brushing past Callum and striding down the stone corridors. The air inside the keep was cool, the scent of smoldering peat lingering from the morning’s fires. Servants bustled about, their footsteps echoing against the flagstones, but Finlay paid them no heed.

When he entered the great hall, the sight that greeted him stopped him cold. His father, Duncan MacLeod, stood by the hearth, his grizzled features set in a mask of authority. Beside him was Laird MacDonnell, a barrel-chested man with a booming laugh that always grated on Finlay’s nerves. But it was the young woman standing beside MacDonnell who truly set his teeth on edge.

Ailsa MacDonnell.

Her golden hair shone in the firelight, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. She wore a gown of emerald green that complimented her fair complexion, the delicate embroidery hinting at her station. Her blue eyes sparkled as they met his, but the tentative smile she offered went unanswered.

“There ye are, lad,” Duncan called, his tone annoyingly jovial. “Come, join us.”

Finlay’s steps were measured as he approached, his expression carefully neutral. “Laird MacDonnell,” he said, inclining his head. “Ailsa.”

“Finlay,” Ailsa replied softly, her cheeks flushing under his steady gaze.

Duncan clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, the gesture more forceful than friendly. “We’ve been discussin’ the treaty, and Laird MacDonnell suggested ye and Ailsa take some time to get to know each other better.”

Finlay’s brow furrowed. “Alone?”

“Aye,” MacDonnell grunted, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “Yer practically married already. Ye’ve no need for a chaperone.”

Finlay’s jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his beard. He glanced at his father, whose pointed look dared him to argue. The two lairds turned away, their conversation shifting to matters of land and trade, leaving Finlay and Ailsa standing awkwardly in the cavernous hall.

“Shall we take a walk?” Ailsa ventured, her voice tentative but tinged with hope.

He nodded, his movements stiff. “Aye.”

They stepped into the crisp morning air, the vast expanse of the MacLeod lands stretching before them. The rolling hills were alive with color, the wildflowers dancing in the breeze. Sheep grazed lazily in the distance, their soft bleats a soothing counterpoint to the tension crackling between Finlay and Ailsa.

“I hear the harvest was good this year,” Ailsa said, breaking the silence.

Finlay grunted in response, his attention fixed on the horizon.

She pressed on, undeterred. “Yer lands are beautiful. I’ve always admired how yer family tends to them.”

His lips twitched in a semblance of a smile. “Aye. The land’s been kind to us.”

They walked in silence for a moment longer before Ailsa turned to him, her expression troubled. “Do ye no’ find me attractive, Finlay?”

Her question caught him off guard, and he stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing. “What?”

“I asked if ye find me unattractive,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time. “Ye’ve been distant—cold, even. I need to ken why.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s no’ that, Ailsa. Ye’re a bonnie lass, truly. But...” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Ye’re no’ the woman for me.”

Her face fell, the hurt in her eyes piercing him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. “I could be,” she said, her voice trembling. “If ye’d just give me a chance—”

“Nay,” he interrupted gently. “Ye shouldn’t have to change for anyone, least of all me. Ye deserve someone who sees ye for who ye are and loves ye for it.”

Her jaw tightened, but she nodded, her resolve unbroken. “Very well. But I’ll no’ give up so easily.”

---

Far to the north, deep within the Sgàil Woods, Lachlan MacEacharn’s castle loomed like a shadow made flesh. The dense forest shrouded the land in perpetual twilight, the canopy of ancient trees blotting out the sun. A winding path of blackened stone led to the castle gates, flanked by twisted oaks that seemed to reach for unwelcome visitors.

The castle itself was a monolith of dark stone, its spires clawing at the sky. Ivy crept up the walls like veins, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.

Inside, the great hall was a cavern of shadows, its vaulted ceilings lost to the dim light of flickering torches. A massive hearth dominated one wall, the flames casting long, dancing shadows.

Moira stood before her father, her golden eyes blazing with defiance. “I will no’ lose him, Father,” she declared, her voice a trembling mix of anger and desperation. “He’s mine. He’s always been mine.”

Lachlan, seated on his iron throne, regarded her with a calm that belied his power. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his piercing eyes held the weight of centuries. “The MacDonnell treaty complicates things, lass,” he said, his voice measured. “Ye ken the rules of magic.”

“I dinna care about their treaty!” she snapped, her fists clenched at her sides. “I’ve waited decades for him. He belongs to me.”

Lachlan sighed, rising to his full height. Despite his weariness, he towered over her, a figure of undeniable authority. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. “I’ll see what I can do, Moira. But magic demands patience. Ye must trust me.”

Her expression softened, though her resolve remained unshaken. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just tell me what needs to be done.”

He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Leave it to me. I’ll find a way to ensure he remains yours.”

Moira turned toward the massive window that overlooked the forest. The moonlight filtered through the branches, casting an ethereal glow over her pale skin. She wouldn’t let Ailsa—or anyone else—take Finlay from her. Their love was written in the stars, bound by fate and blood, and she would fight to protect it.