Page 1 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER ONE

1346, MacDuff Castle

"Och, would ye look at our wee sister," Ruaridh called out, his deep voice booming across the hall as he strode toward Morag, his sister, with that swagger that made visitors either want to befriend him or throttle him. At twenty-three, he'd grown into his father's broad shoulders and commanding presence, though his green eyes still held the mischief that had gotten them both into trouble as children. "All done up like a proper lady. I barely recognize ye without mud on yer boots."

"Hold yer tongue, ye great oaf," Morag shot back, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "Just because I enjoy the horses doesnae mean it's impossible to see me looking like proper."

The great hall of MacDuff Castle buzzed with the kind of nervous energy that came before farewells—servants bustling about with trunks and provisions, the fire crackling higher than usual, and voices carrying that particular pitch of forced cheer that meant someone was trying very hard not to weep.

Morag MacDuff stood in the center of it all, her dark blonde hair catching the firelight as she surveyed the chaos with mild dread. Her traveling dress—the finest blue wool her mother could procure—felt foreign against her skin, nothing like the practical riding clothes she favored.

"Proper, aye," Sorcha's melodic voice drifted from the stone steps leading to the upper chambers, "but standing still? That's the true miracle."

Morag's eldest sister descended the stairs with the grace that had made her the envy of every unmarried lass in the Highlands. Even after five years of marriage and two bairns, Sorcha moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear. Her auburn hair—so like their mother's—was perfectly braided, not a strand out of place despite her long journey from the MacLeod lands.

"Sorcha!" Morag flew across the hall, propriety forgotten, and threw her arms around her sister. "I didnae think ye'd make it in time."

"Miss seeing me baby sister off to her grand adventure?" Sorcha squeezed her tight, then pulled back to study Morag's face with knowing hazel eyes. "I wouldnae dare. Besides, someone had to make sure ye remembered how to act like a lady instead of a wild Highland lass."

"I am a wild Highland lass," Morag protested, earning a snort of laughter from Ruaridh.

"Aye, and God help the Iron Laird when he figures that out," their brother said, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. "Poor bastard probably thinks he's getting a sweet, biddable wife."

"Ruaridh MacDuff!" The sharp crack of their mother's voice cut through the hall like a blade. Niamh MacDuff emerged from behind a cluster of servants, her green eyes flashing with the kind of fire that had made their father fall head over heels all those years ago. "Ye'll watch yer language in me hall, and ye'll nae be calling Laird Armstrong names before yer sister's even met the man."

Despite the scolding, Niamh's lips curved in the faintest smile as she approached her youngest daughter. In her forties, she was still beautiful enough to turn heads, her auburn hair showing only the barest threads of silver, her slender frame moving with the confidence of a woman who'd never met a challenge she couldn't face.

"Besides," she continued, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from Morag's traveling cloak, "if anyone can handle our Morag, it's a man they call the Iron Laird. Takes steel to shape steel, after all."

"I'm nae steel, Ma," Morag said quietly, suddenly feeling very young despite her twenty years.

"Nay, lass." Niamh's voice gentled as she cupped Morag's freckled cheek. "Ye're fire. And fire can melt even the strongest steel, if it burns hot enough."

"Enough talk of melting," came the deep rumble of their father's voice from the great doorway. Alistair MacDuff filled the entrance like he filled every room—not just with his impressive height and breadth, but with the kind of presence that made people straighten their spines and pay attention. His dark hair was liberally streaked with silver now, and new lines bracketed his piercing green eyes, but at forty-nine he was still the kind of man who could command a battlefield or a feast with equal ease. "Are we sending our daughter off to her wedding or are we planning a siege?" he asked, though his gruff tone couldn't hide the emotion flickering across his weathered features.

"With Morag, is there a difference?" Sorcha murmured, ducking when her youngest sister swatted at her.

Alistair's mouth twitched, but he crossed the hall with measured steps until he stood before Morag. For a moment, the great laird simply looked at his youngest child—the one who'd followed him around like a shadow as a bairn, who'd begged to learn swordplay alongside her brother, who could put an arrow through a sparrow's eye at fifty paces, who'd never met a horse she couldn’t ride or a challenge she wouldn’t accept.

"Come here, mo chridhe," he said softly, opening his arms.

Morag flew into them without hesitation, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and pine and home. When she was small, she'd believed her father could protect her from anything. Now, wrapped in his embrace, she still believed it.

"I'm proud of ye, lass," he murmured into her hair. "Ye're daeing what's right fer the clan, and that takes courage."

"I'm terrified," she whispered against his chest.

"Good. Only fools feel nay fear. But ye're a MacDuff, and MacDuffs dinnae run from hard things." He pulled back to meet her gaze, his green eyes serious. "Ye'll make yer own way, Morag. Ye always have."

"Aye, and if this Armstrong fellow gives ye trouble, ye send word," Ruaridh declared, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. "I'll be happy tae ride south and remind him how tae treat a MacDuff lass."

"Ye'll dae nay such thing," Niamh said sharply, though her tone held a note of fierce maternal pride. "Besides, our Morag can handle herself just fine."

"She'd better," Sorcha added with a wicked grin. "From what I hear, the Iron Laird isnae exactly kent fer his gentle nature."

Morag felt her stomach clench. "What have ye heard?"

"Nothing ye need tae worry about," Alistair said firmly, shooting a warning look at his eldest daughter. "Political marriages are first and foremost about alliance, nay... personal compatibility. Ye'll find yer way together."