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Wisps of mist rose from the ground and swirled around Alana’s ankles. She thrust out a foot to watch the white haze dance about her before glancing over her shoulder at the keep in the distance. Tucked against the mountain and cut off by a shallow river, the tall stone castle seemed almost insignificant. She blew out a long breath and watched as it too misted.
Though pleased to be free from the keep, and her father’s watchful eye, a sense of foreboding struck her. Alana frowned while she tried to recall why she had come out onto the moors. In truth, she barely remembered getting dressed yet here she was, in her pale blue plaid, hair braided, drawing in the early morning air. Only the foggy remnants of a dream remained, something that beckoned for her to come here.
And how was it there were no men to stop her from leaving?
A strange occurrence indeed, for her father never left the castle walls unattended. It had been deathly quiet. A morbid thought occurred to her and she wondered why she did not check that all was well. Had they been attacked overnight? Were her kinsmen dead? Nay, surely not, for there would be triumphant victors crowding the halls of Dunleith Keep by now and she would either be killed or captured.
The whole morning had been strange. Her first clear memory was standing in the moors and staring off into the distance as if awaiting something. A prickle danced over her skin and she spun wildly, feeling as though fingers had tickled down her spine. Ach, either someone played games with her or her mind was addled. She huffed. Too much time spent cloistered away.
Specks of orange sunlight filtered across the mountains, dancing between the cracks and valleys and Alana tilted her head. The urge to keep going, to see what lay over the other side warred within her. She so missed being outside, missed her freedom.
Da would have a fit.
With a sigh, she turned back to the castle, the stone tower seeming more grey and oppressive than ever before. Hitching up her skirts, she strolled leisurely back, taking her time to admire each wild flower as she went. She ought to walk quickly. Should her father discover her absence, he would no doubt lecture her on the dangers of her actions and would certainly remind her their enemies were everywhere. Ach, she saw no—
She spun wildly when the heavy thud of hooves sounded. A brown horse bore down upon her, barely a few paces away. Alana squeaked in surprise when the rider snatched her plaid and hauled her into the saddle in front of him, not even slowing the mount as he positioned her firmly in his arms. She scarcely comprehended how it had happened. One moment there had been no one and then suddenly… A ghost mayhap?
She tried to wriggle in his hold but a strong arm pinned her to his chest. “Release me, ye fool.”
“I think not, my lady.”
Alana scowled as the deep timbre of his voice singed through her, setting her senses on fire. There was something wildly disturbing yet familiar about it. Her heart hammered heavily and fear penetrated her surprise at being caught unawares. If he were an outlaw or an enemy clansmen she was as good as dead.
“Ye cannae kidnap me on my own lands!” she protested. “My da will have yer head, just ye see.” Alana tried to keep her voice strong but even she heard the wobble in it.
“Be still,” her captor commanded when she fought against his hold, the growing distance between her and the castle stealing her determination. “Ach, I told ye—”
The press against her chest loosened marginally and the world rushed past as she dropped to the ground. Dirt scraped across her face and hands, as she tumbled along and a sharp pain slammed up her wrist when it jarred in an attempt to brace herself. The back of her head crashed into the ground. Her vision clouded and she skidded to a stop.
Sweet Lord, was she dead? She ached everywhere. Alana blinked but the world remained out of focus. A shadow came across her and a jolt of panic flew through her. She attempted to turn onto her side but she could not. Her body refused to move.
“Alana?”
She blinked again, drawing in harsh, raspy breaths.
“Ye daft lass, ye could’ve killed yerself.”
Who was this man and why was he lecturing her? What did he expect would happen when he tried to kidnap her? That she’d sit there like a mild and meek woman and play captive? And how did he know her name?
Vision clearing, she squinted up at the Highland warrior towering over her. Broad shouldered and thick through the chest, he peered at her down a long, hawk-like nose. Set in a strong jaw surrounded by too much dark stubble were firm lips, currently pulled into a twisted smile. Thick, black hair—too much of that too—curled at his neck, slightly shorter at the front.
Alana’s jaw dropped. “Morgann MacRae.”
He knelt, plaid stretching with the movement of his muscles, and touched a callused finger to her forehead. Heat pulsed through her skin and she flinched, the ache in her head pounding in response and making her wince.
“So ye do remember me.”
“What are ye trying to do? Kill me?”
“Nay, ‘twas not my intention. But yer the one who threw herself from a perfectly good horse.”
She groaned as she attempted to sit and he flattened a hand to the back of her head, cradling it in his huge palm.
“I wouldnae jumped had ye no’ snatched me. What are ye playing at, ye great fool? I’ve no time for games, Morgann.”
“Ach, ‘tis no
