Chapter One

The wind off the loch cut through the stone walls of Glenbrae Keep as if the place had never known glass or mortar enough to stop it. Elspeth MacRae stood in the middle of the bridal chamber and tried not to shiver. The fire had been built high, yet the cold still found every gap in the ancient masonry and every place the heavy tartan drapes failed to cover.

She had been married less than an hour.

The ceremony had been brief, spoken in the small chapel attached to the keep before a dozen of his men and her father’s factor. No flowers. No music beyond the low drone of a piper who had looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else. The laird had said his vows in a voice like gravel dragged over rock. She had answered in a steadier tone than she felt. When the priest had pronounced them bound, Callum MacKenzie had not kissed her. He had simply looked at her for a long moment—dark eyes unreadable beneath the scar that cut through his left brow—then turned and walked out into the rain.

Now she waited.

The door opened without a knock.

He filled the frame. Tall, broader through the shoulders than the doorway seemed built for, his dark hair still damp from the weather. He had shed the formal plaid and jacket he’d worn for the vows. What remained was a plain linen shirt open at the throat and the dark, worn kilt of his everyday dress. The sword belt was gone. His boots left wet prints on the stone as he closed the door behind him and set the bar.

Elspeth’s pulse kicked hard against her ribs. She had seen him at a distance for years—across market squares, once at a gathering of clan chiefs when she was still half a girl—but never this close, never alone, never as her husband.

“You’ll be cold,” he said. The words were plain. He crossed to the hearth and added another log, the movement economical. Firelight caught the scar at his temple and the older ones that marked the backs of his hands. “The chamber’s always been a bastard for holding heat.”

“I’m not cold.”

A lie. Her fingers were numb where they gripped the edge of the high-backed chair. She had changed from the wedding dress into a shift of fine lawn and a heavier robe of dark green wool. Both were meant to be modest. Both felt suddenly transparent under his gaze when he turned.

Callum studied her the way a man studied ground he meant to cross under fire—measuring distance, risk, what would give and what would not. “Your father drove a hard bargain,” he said at last. “The grazing rights, the timber on the south slope. He wanted the match more than you did.”

“I wanted the match less than he did,” she answered. “That is not the same as refusing it.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smile. “Aye. I heard you say the words clear enough.”

He moved closer. The room was not large. Two more steps and the heat of him reached her even before his hand did. He lifted one of her hands from the chair, turned it palm up, and studied the faint red mark where she had gripped too hard. His thumb traced the line of it, slow.

“You’ll bruise yourself fretting,” he said, voice lower. “There’s no need. I’ll not force you.”

Elspeth’s breath caught. The honesty of it, offered so flatly, did something worse to her composure than any demand would have. She had prepared herself for duty. For a quick, rough claiming in the dark. Not for this—his callused thumb stroking the center of her palm as if he had all night and intended to use it.

“You are my husband,” she said. “The marriage is not finished until—”

“Until I have you.” His eyes met hers. Dark. Steady. “I know the custom. I know what the kirk and the clan expect by morning. I also know you’ve spent the last fortnight thinking of every way this could go ...