PROLOGUE
“Och, 'tis cold,” Eloise said dipping her toe in the water. Her feet bare on the grass.
At eighteen years old, Eloise Whitmore stood at the river's edge, her skirts gathered, as her cousin Beatrice knelt before her, dipping careful hands into the water.
“Hold still, lass, or I’ll have ye soaked to the knee,” Beatrice teased, her eyes alight with mischief.
Eloise managed a faint smile, though her thoughts churned beneath the surface of the merriment.
When shall I make me escape?
“Ye’d best be gentle, Bea, for I’ve nae wish to greet me weddin' day tomorrow with frozen toes,” she replied.
Around them, her cousins sang and splashed, the old feet washing ritual carried on with cheer that felt almost forced to her ears. She had insisted upon this, her mother’s custom. So that she could be outside without question in the dark of the night.
“Ye’re quiet tonight,” Beatrice murmured, glancing up as she dried Eloise’s feet with a linen cloth.
Eloise looked toward the hills, “Would ye laugh so freely if ye were to wed a man ye’ve never met?”
Beatrice’s hands stilled, “Drummond, Aye I’ve heard the tales, Eloise, and none are kind.”
Eloise swallowed hard, forcing steadiness as she replied, “Me parents hear only the silver he offers, nae the whispers that follow him. Me father's gambling debts are far too great.”
A shout of laughter rang behind them, Beatrice turned to them, “What is it?”
“Her dress is caught in a rock,” another shouted back.
“Help her, Beatrice,” Eloise said.
Beatrice joined the women to help. As the others turned back to their songs and splashing games, Eloise rose quietly and grabbed her shoes. She glanced at the women, and then slid a ring off her finger. She looked at it for a moment, then tossedit into the water. She turned toward the darkening path beyond the trees.
Her heart pounded with each step, fear gripping her chest even as hope urged her onward. “God keep me.”
CHAPTER ONE
“Keep goin’, ye foolish lass,” she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling yet stubborn.
The Highlands stretched wild and unforgiving before Eloise, the heather brushing against her skirts as she ran with no thought but forward.
Daenae stop now.
Night clung to the land at first, the moon her only guide, until the slow gray of dawn began to creep across the hills. Her breath came sharp and fast, her lungs burning as her feet stumbled more than once over hidden stones.
“I’d rather face the wolves than him,” she whispered, her voice raw, her mind flashing with all she had heard of Laird Drummond. The thought steeled her more than rest ever could, and she straightened despite the ache in her limbs.
As the sun rose pale over the distant peaks, she slowed at last, her strength faltering as the long hours took their toll.
“Let the Highlands take me if they must,” she murmured. “But I’ll nae be bound to that man.” And so she walked on, slower now, but no less determined.
By midmorning, the sound of creaking wheels reached her ears, faint at first, then clearer. A lone wagon appeared pulled by one horse with a farmer seated at the front.
“Ho there! Wait a moment, if ye please!” Eloise said.
The farmer drew the horse to a stop, eyeing her with wary curiosity as she approached.
“And who might ye be, wanderin’ alone out here?” he asked, his tone cautious but not unkind.
Eloise caught her breath and said, “I'm nay one. Only a lass in need of a bit of kindness.”
