the ground at his feet. His wrist was raw, but he held steady, waiting for her to release his other hand.
“What is your name?” she asked, as she unfastened the second iron band.
“Finian,” he answered. “I’m the MacLachor chief. Or…I was, before this.” There were hardly any MacLachors left now. Perhaps a dozen or fewer, after they’d attempted to attack Harkirk’s fortress. So many of his men had died…and he should have been among them.
Lady Harkirk folded her hands in her skirts and retreated. “If you follow me, I’ll show you a way outside the fortress. That’s all I can do for you. You’ll have to make your own escape.”
“Why would you offer me help?” Finian asked. He struggled to make his feet move, wincing at the pain as he took one step, then another. “Surely Harkirk would be furious.”
“I’ve been his prisoner for four years now. I don’t need anyone else to endure what I have.” She swallowed hard. “If I could free the others, I would. But he keeps them locked away, nearer to his soldiers. I don’t know why he put you here.”
“Because they caught me trying to escape last night. He intends to make an example of me.” The MacKinloch chief had cut him free, but physical weakness had prevented Finian from getting very far. Even now, the fierce cold made it hard to move. His limbs felt as though they were wooden, and he couldn’t stop himself from trembling as he rested his hand against the wall.
Lady Harkirk removed her cloak and set it around his shoulders. Finian stared at her, unable to understand her kindness. They were strangers, for God’s sake. He was going to kill the man she’d pledged her life to.
But she was looking at him with uncertainty, as though she saw something good within him. As if he were someone worth saving.
She was wrong. There was nothing left of his blackened soul.
“I can’t accept this,” he said, holding out her cloak.
“You need it more than I do.” And with that, she fled. Before she could reach the exit, he caught up to her, blocking her way.
“Why me?” he demanded. “I’m the last person who deserves this.”
She didn’t speak, keeping her gaze to the floor. Her skin was pale, her hands trembling. Finian’s hand curled against the wall. She had to know that he was unworthy of her mercy. “It’s my fault. This battle…the loss of my men’s lives.” He pressed the cloak at her, as though it were on fire. “If the MacKinloch’s daughter dies, it will be on my soul.”
Alys started to speak, but held her tongue. In her eyes, he saw the quiet condemnation. Had she not already freed him, he guessed she would have left him in chains.
“Then make amends for what you did.” She touched his chest, moving away. “Or go, if that’s your wish.”
She spoke as if she expected him to walk away from his crime.
Make amends. He doubted if there was anything he could do. His body was so cold, his limbs felt as though they were sinking in mud. If he dared to rise up against Harkirk for the sake of the young girl, he wouldn’t survive.
He raised his eyes to Lady Harkirk. “I deserve to die.”
She held out the cloak again. “That’s not for me to decide.”
Finian kept her gaze for a long moment. She’d offered him the cloak off her back. A heaviness encircled his heart, for she was right. He could make amends. He could sacrifice himself up for the sins he’d committed and try to save the MacKinloch child.
He took the cloak and wrapped it around his frigid skin. The garment held the warmth of her body and the faint scent of herbs, almost as if she were holding him in an embrace.
By God, it had been so long since his wife, Gillian, had died. He hadn’t touched a woman in years. The harsh loneliness gripped him, and he pulled the cloak tightly against his broken, bloodied body.
“If you’re truly sorry for what you did, you could help them,” Lady Harkirk said quietly. Without waiting for his reply, she led him up the staircase and showed him the chamber where her husband’s weapons were stored. Finian stared at the array of shields and blades, wondering if there was any hope at all of saving the girl. She was hardly more than a baby, not even two years of age.
Lady Harkirk turned to him, her face tight. “Will you atone for what you did? Or will you turn your back on those who are suffering?”
Hours later, Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk, fled through the back of the fortress, shivering in the cold. It wasn’t just the frigid air; it was the immense fear spreading through her. An opportunity to to escape her husband had come, and she had to go now, while he was distracted with the invaders. Behind her, dozens of Scots poured into the fortress, battle cries tearing from their throats. The clang of iron swords reverberated amidst the choking sounds of death. Smoke thickened the air, and Alys prayed she could leave without being caught. There was no time for supplies or even a horse—she could only take the clothes she was wearing.
You won’t succeed, her mind warned. Why even bother trying? All Robert had to do was command his men to search for her, and her escape would end.
She retreated from the fortress, and when she reached the forest, she walked a few paces more. Over the past four years, her husband had taken countless prisoners. He’d tortured and murdered so many of the Scots. She’d hardly been able to save more than a handful—mostly children.
Alys sat down upon a large stone. Her body ached with cold, while her heart was swollen with guilt. Finian MacLachor was going to die, no matter that she’d released him. She closed her eyes, knowing that she hadn’t done enough. Not for him. Not for any of her husband’s victims.
When she’d seen him, whipped and half-freezing, the need to show mercy had overcome her. He’d appeared resigned to his death, as if he were trying to punish himself for his misdeeds. And behind his gray eyes, she’d seen the need for redemption.
What she hadn’t expected was the stirring of interest within herself. Beneath the pain of loss and punishment, she saw a man who hated himself for his sins. Finian cared nothing for his own life, and wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself for those he loved.
A tendril of remorse slid over her. She might as well have sent him to his death, telling him to make amends for what he’d done. After being exposed to the freezing weather, the man wouldn’t survive long.
Alys buried her face in her hands, wondering what to do. You can’t leave now, came the voice of reason. If you abandon them, you are just as responsible for their deaths.
A rustling noise caught her attention, and she spied Laren MacKinloch, mother of the young child Robert had taken captive. The fury on the woman’s face and her single-minded stride made Alys aware that Laren would venture straight into the battle, regardless of her own safety.
“Don’t,” she warned. Laren turned back, and Alys tried to make her see reason. “I know you want to go inside the fortress. But the moment you do, my husband will use your life against your husband. He’d be glad to kill both of you.”
“I won’t let anyone threaten my daughter,” she said. Terror and fury were etched in the woman’s face, and Alys understood her pain though
