Ross-Shire, Scotland, April 1307

Braelynn Galbraith ran as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. This time they might well be. “Please God, if ya get me outta this one last scrape, I promise I will never pass another message to the rebels again.”

Since Brae had taken up the cause she had been chased many times, yet she had always managed to avoid capture. By now she should have learned her lesson. This would be her final escapade one way or the other. The territory was becoming much too dangerous for such folly.

The steady beat of hooves pounded in her ears as the unknown pursuers bore down on her. Brae ran for the cliffs. The strategy had worked in the past.

Brae rounded the dune with her plaid bunched into her fists to keep her legs free. With an additional burst of speed born of pure fear, she veered for the bluff. By the time she reached the crags, more horsemen had appeared on the rock face. She skidded to a halt, caught between the two. She had to make a decision, and fast.

Following her first instinct, she scurried over the rocks and ducked under the overhang, then slid through an arch that water and wind had eroded over time.

Brae launched herself into the shadowy mouth of the first tunnel she came to.

Molding herself against the cavern wall, she listened intently for the horsemen above while gulping much-needed air into her burning lungs. Though her chest heaved, she tried not to make a sound.

Trembling in the darkness and unable to keep the memories at bay, Brae found her thoughts returning, as they often did, to the one other time she had nearly been detained. On that occasion, she had hidden in a narrow crevice. Not by design and quite by accident, she had fallen into it while fleeing from her would-be captors.

Fortunately, the crag had been deep enough to swallow her whole. At the time, she had been certain she’d broken every bone in her body. Before she could take inventory of any injury, she’d heard the clip clop of a horse’s hooves dancing very close to the gap. Luckily, she had not been wedged so far down that she couldn’t see the surface.

Holding her breath, she had hazarded a glance upward, only to meet the most ferocious set of black eyes she had ever encountered in her eighteen years. His predatory stare had chilled her.

The stranger had been dressed severely, all in black. Everything about him was dark—his eyes, his hair and clothing, even the billowing overlong cloak that snapped like thunder in the wind. The fine whiskers covering his cheeks only added to his sinister air. For a split second, she had believed she was enduring her last moments. But to her utter shock, he had gestured to his men and reported the all-clear. As she’d stared up at him in shock and gratitude, he had directed his mount slowly away from her hiding place.

Much later, to her horror, she had discovered he was none other than the man they called the devil. His misdeeds were legendary in the highlands. If the stories were true, he was a thief, a murderer, and a rapist. His innumerable offenses appeared to have no rhyme nor reason. One scheme seemed to benefit the English, the next gave advantage to the Scots. No one knew for certain where his loyalties lay.

Since then, Brae had been plagued by his actions. Many a morning when between wakefulness and dreaming she roused to find his black eyes swimming before her. The devil stalked her dreams, taunting her. Why had he allowed her to escape and not dispatched her forthwith, as she knew he was capable? Whose side was he on? She spent hours thinking of possibilities. Was he—like so many of her countrymen, forced to make choices—pretending to conform to English rule while remaining true to Scotland in their hearts? Or had he merely considered her inconsequential. His mistake.

Brae knew the messages she passed between the rebels not only diverted senseless slaughter and aided the efforts to establish Scottish independence, but also thwarted the English in their pursuit of domination. However, she was equally aware the missives she had traded had also caused harm and even death. And that was something she had to live with. She longed for the day when peace could be taken for granted.

Snapping from her reverie, Brae realized there were no sounds from above save the wind and the waves crashing.

Fairly confident she had lost her pursuers, Brae lifted the hem of her plaid and picked her way through the empty passageways.

“Ahhh,” she sighed in relief and even allowed a smile. She lowered her guard for just a moment and in the next instance found herself pinned against the slimy rocks. An unknown assailant slapped his filthy hand over her mouth.

Brae squirmed, while screaming into his smelly palm.

The man spoke in rapid French.

“I dinna understand ya,” she mumbled against his hand. She knew a bit of the language but could not speak fluently.

“I will not hurt you, Mademoiselle,” he repeated in broken English. “That is, if you can get me out of this hellish maze.”

Brae continued to struggle until he pressed his knee between her legs, then leaned his big body against her. Afraid of what else he intended, she stilled. Her heart pounded even more now than during the chase.

“I may even reward you,” he added, slowly removing his hand from her mouth, yet he kept her in his hold.

“Let me go,” Brae demanded, thrashing about.

“Help me return to my men. I was separated from them and became lost in these passages.”

“Why should I?” Brae’s voice shook.

“Could you not use the reward and save yourself some bodily harm?” he threatened, shifting his leg still lodged in her skirts.