Torture has driven Neacal MacDonald to the brink of madness.
As the new chief of the MacDonald clan, Neacal will do whatever it takes to honor his late father and to help his clan thrive. But whispers of his madness abound and many in his clan turn traitor, wanting MacDonald of Sleat to lead them instead. Conflict ignites between the bitter rivals when Sleat garners the help of the man who tortured Neacal in the past.

Can one woman's song pull him back and begin to heal his soul?
Everything has been ripped from Anna Douglas except her angelic voice and the will to survive. When she meets Neacal, she recognizes something familiar in him—stark loneliness and pain. His past could be even more tragic and tarnished than hers. No one must learn her true identity or about the brutish man declaring she is his wife, for he will stop at nothing to reclaim her. Though Neacal vowed to never trust a woman again, he cannot resist the secrets in Anna's eyes or her spellbinding song, which threatens to break down the icy walls surrounding his tormented heart.

Excerpt
When she arrived at the top of the steps in his corridor, Neacal stood waiting, tall and dark, leaning against the stone wall. His great wolfhound sat by his leg, wagging his tail in greeting.
Neacal's long, midnight hair was combed smooth and still damp. His blue eyes glinted with a bit of morose wickedness. Good heavens, he was breathtakingly handsome in the light of early morn. Surely he must have been a devastating rogue before his capture, one who stole the hearts of all the lasses from many miles around. He had a profound seductive air about him, though now 'twas overshadowed by a cloud of dark intensity. This made him even more appealing to her.
"A good morn to you, Anna," Neacal murmured in a husky, intimate voice, for her ears only, making her imagine things she should not. Things like… waking up beside him.
"Good morn, Neacal." She curtsied.
His expression lightened and she thought he might smile—hoped he would. Instead, he turned and proceeded down a short narrow corridor, an offshoot of the main one, then opened a small, almost hidden door. "Stay, Dunn," he told his dog, before squeezing his broad shoulders through the doorway. Once inside, he held out his hand to her.
She took it, the heat of his roughened palm making her tingle, and stepped inside the confined dark space. "Heavens. Is this a closet?"
"Shh," he hissed softly against her ear, his warm breath teasing her skin and giving her delightful shivers. Goodness! He really shouldn't do that, for it inspired all sorts of unladylike urges. Finding herself suddenly short of breath, she inhaled his luscious, clean male scent combined with that of a spicy soap. Her thoughts took flight and she no longer cared why they were in this small room. She only wanted to press her nose against his throat and breathe him in.
He drew her toward a square opening where light and the murmur of several conversations filtered up. What was this? Where were they?
Holding her breath, she eased forward and found herself staring down at the tables of the great hall, filled with many people eating their first meal of the day.
Of course, this was a laird's lug, or laird's ear. She had heard of these little eavesdropping chambers but had never been into one. Neither of the castles she'd lived in had them. How unnerving to imagine someone spying on her below, without her knowledge, but 'twas also true that lairds had to be extra careful about conspiracies and clan politics.
Neacal stood just behind her, not quite touching, but the presence and heat of him were palpable. His delicious scent surrounded her, sending her woman's instincts into overload.
"Do you see them?" he whispered, his warm breath fanning the hair by her ear again.
She shivered as a more intense heat and awareness washed over her. It took all of her strength not to turn and melt into him.