Free Captured Heart by Heather McCollum

consciousness. Perhaps it would be better to surrender.
    “Meg,” a faint whisper of a voice called to her, urgent, full of fury and something more, desperation perhaps. “Meg!”
    Caden. She sighed inside the tiny wisp of conscious thought still aflame. Caden had returned. With the sound of his voice, she gave into the blackness.
    …
    Rachel Munro sat before the fire in the great hall stitching a shirt for her husband. The flames crackled and she warmed with contentment. She barely remembered her life in England, growing up as a merchant’s daughter with her sister, Isabelle, and brother, Harold. She’d married Alec Munro, the new chief of the Munros, soon after Alec’s father died. The old Munro had been business partners with Rachel’s father, and she had convinced her father to bring her along on one of his trips to the fabled Highlands. She’d never left since, except once when her sister had given birth down in England.
    Rachel loved the Highlands, the rugged beauty, the solid, simple life. She’d fit in easily with these passionate people. And of all the passionate people that she fit with, Alec Munro was definitely the one who kept her on her toes, even today after all these years.
    She watched him play a game of chess with his old friend, Phillip, at the long table across the hall.
    Alec slammed his hand down on the oak planks, making the wooden pieces jump and Phillip curse. Her husband was full of bluster, pride, and passion. A true Highlander. She loved him fiercely. Thank the good Lord she hadn’t returned to England like her father had wanted, like he’d made Isabelle do. She doubted that Alec would have let her go, but if she had, she’d probably ended up wed to an English dandy or worse, a monster like the man her sister wed.
    Rowland Boswell was elegant with a courtier’s handsome façade, but he was also demanding, cruel, and suspicious. If only their father had known what an atrocious match he’d forced on Isabelle. That his choice in suitors would ultimately lead to his gentle daughter’s death. And if Rachel couldn’t get Isabelle’s daughter out of England, the same could very well befall the child.
    Rachel frowned and stared down at her finger where a tiny bead of blood swelled up from a pinprick. Even thinking of the dreadful man was dangerous. She closed her eyes and formed a pea-sized blue glowing orb between her other thumb and forefinger. She passed the lighted sphere over the minute hole and sealed the skin.
    “Devil of a man,” she cursed, and snuffed the light.
    “Talking to yourself, wife?” Alec asked, and peered down over her head.
    Rachel tilted back. “Just pondering how I can get you to brave English soil to rescue my niece.”
    Alec huffed and pulled on his wiry beard. He scraped the second chair along the stone floor to face the fire and flopped into it. “We’ve been through this, Rachel.”
    They had, many times. Around and around, Rachel knew all the arguments against it.
    “I’ve been forbidden to set foot on English soil, Rachel. That weasel of a man got a bloody royal decree.”
    She poked the needle through the linen. “Bloody royal decree. I know.”
    “I don’t fear for my life,” he defended.
    She didn’t look up, but reached out and patted his arm. “Of course I don’t want you to die, husband, but no Englishman could best you.”
    “I’d forfeit my lands. You and Searc would be landless, homeless.” He stared into the crackling fire. “Is one girl worth the lives of the whole clan?”
    Rachel watched her minute stitches. “You risk our clan every time you refuse a truce with the Macbains.” Her words were feather soft, floating on a whisper, because they didn’t need to be any louder.
    Alec’s fist slammed onto the wooden arm of the chair. She had held her needle still with her words so as not to jab herself again. She rarely jumped anymore, but it was good to be prudent, nonetheless.
    “Why do I bother to come sit with you, woman,