PREORDER - Captive Hearts: Reluctant Brides Book 6
*Note: This is a PREORDER - Release date is 30 November 2026.
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She is the only light in his darkness, and he will burn down the world to keep her.
Torin Ruthven was captured by the English at the Battle of Halidon Hill and given up for dead. When he finally escaped his captors, he was a ghost of a man — until a woman found him, hid him, and quietly refused to let him die.
Then she disappeared before he could learn her name.
Nessa Stewart has far too many responsibilities. The last thing she needs is to find a dying man who cannot speak, dressed in English army clothes, lost in the woods. She secretly cares for him, before reluctantly handing the stranger over to the care of a local monastery.
When a strange twist of fate throws them back together three years later, Torin has one thought and one thought only.
He didn't crawl back from hell just to lose her again.
Tropes: strangers to lovers, second chance romance, he fell first, obsessive/possessive hero, over-the-top alpha male.
No cheating. No cliffhangers. HEA.
***
PREVIEW: Captive Hearts: Reluctant Brides Book 6 ©2026 Elina Emerald
Three Years Earlier
Torin Ruthven woke with pain radiating through his entire body. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time, but slowly the haze was lifting. Then he heard the familiar sound that kept him tethered to the mortal world. A Scottish lass, softly speaking to him. For the most part she carried on a one-sided conversation, since he still could not speak; the pain in his throat was excruciating. But without her gentle, steadfast presence, he knew he surely would have died. She kept the darkness away.
As lucidity returned, he could feel a cool cloth against his heated skin, and that gentle voice speaking to him as if he were whole, as if he were human and not the monster he'd become to survive the brutal captivity of the English. She carried the scent of heather and the fresh Highland breeze. She quenched his soul, and he craved more.
Her voice reminded him that he was no longer in that tiny, dark dungeon cell. Instead of the stench of rotting flesh and the screams of despair, he smelled heather, the Highlands, freedom. Torin opened his eyes. Though he'd lost sight in one, the other was still sharp and alert. He gazed at her quietly as the sunlight of a new morning poured through the tiny cottage. She was so focused on tending his wounds that she had yet to realize he was awake, and that gave him ample time to look his fill.
Torin thought her the bonniest woman he'd ever laid eyes upon, but what he treasured most was how she cared for him. Not with disgust or pity, but with genuine concern. He'd even caught her shedding a tear when she bandaged the wound where his finger used to be. She'd muttered curses under her breath, outraged on his behalf. Whenever he felt death was moments away, somehow she pulled him back each time.
He still remembered the first time he'd awoken to the sound of her voice. It was urgent and forceful. "Dinnae ye die on me, Anglia! I did nae work this hard only for ye to die now. Ye owe me a life debt now, so ye best be ready to pay, or I'll follow ye to the grave and demand my share and never give ye a moment's peace!" The memory of it made him want to smile, but that only proved painful as it tore against the deep slash across his cheek.
His captors had tried to slice his throat open. He'd fought three men off and barely survived, and then they'd roughly sewn him up. The skin there still burned, but he felt her place something soft and cool against it.
"I ken this hurts, Anglia, but tis to help smooth the rough skin so ye dinnae itch and re-open the wound."
The lass thought he was English. Hence her pet name for him, Anglia. He'd had no choice but to dress as an English soldier when he escaped. He had no way to tell her otherwise, and so the lie held. He lifted his gaze back to her beautiful face and simply listened.
"Ye ken I cannot be caught harboring an English soldier. My seanmhair would be rolling in her grave if she saw me now. Tis a sacrilege to be treating the enemy, she'd say. Aye, she would. But dinnae judge her too harshly. She was a good Christian woman even if she did nae believe in the forgiveness part because she could bear a fierce grudge. I still loved her though, for despite all her grumbling she'd never let anyone go hungry. I caught her once feeding a stray dog even after she shouted at us not to. But what can ye do when the elderly are set in their ways?"
***
Nessa Stewart was met with silence. Her poor patient was now a captive audience, quite literally. She could not understand why, but something about him made her tongue loosen. She could not stop talking, even though she rarely talked this much to anyone. Not even her brother Cormac, her most favorite person in the world, though he was mostly away working for the king.
She cringed a little, thinking how, if Cormac ever found out she'd harbored the enemy, he'd likely throw her in the king's dungeon himself.
Nessa groaned and looked up to find her patient awake, his steady gaze upon her. She blushed for a moment then quickly busied herself. It had been two weeks since she'd begun secretly nursing him back to health. When she found him in the woods he was delirious, battle-scarred, and wracked with fever. One finger had been sliced clean off and the wound wrapped badly. There was terrible bruising around his right eye too, and from the clouded vision she could tell he had lost the sight in it.
She had bathed and washed him as best she could, but she was not strong enough to move him or change the bedding on her own. For that she'd recruited the assistance of her long-suffering guardsman, Lennox, who spent most of the time pacing outside the cottage and cursing under his breath. He was a reluctant accomplice in this dangerous deception.
Speaking of which, Lennox came back indoors with a pail of clean water from the loch behind the small bothy she'd commandeered into a healer's hut.
He scowled the moment he entered. "Ye ken, if the clan ever finds out about this, there’ll be hell to pay. I should not even be helping ye. Tis only a matter of time before someone follows us here."
"Shh. Tis un-Christian if we dinnae help him."
"His kin slaughtered hundreds of ours, or did ye forget?" Lennox growled.
"We dinnae ken all the details. I cannot let him die. So, either ye help me, or I'll tell da it was all yer fault, and then I'll let everyone ken how ye fell asleep on duty when the stable almost burned down last spring."
Lennox scowled. "That was the only time I've ever fallen asleep, and ye ken it! I was so tired from chasing ye about the countryside when ye decided to save that blasted chicken from cook's dinner!"
"Dinnae speak about Agnes. She is part of the family. I could not vera well have her eaten by her own kin!"
"She's a chicken! Nobody names a bloody chicken and adopts it as part of the family. Ye are nothing but trouble, lass. And ye see all me grey hairs? Tis all down to guarding ye!"
"Still, one word from me, and ye'll be on garderobe duty for a month."
Lennox rolled his eyes as if he could not care less. "All right, I'll keep helping ye, but I will nae like it. And the moment I think ye've gone too far, I'll murder that wretch myself!"
Nessa gasped and covered her patient’s ears. "Dinnae ye dare speak such vile words when the poor man is trying to heal."
"I curse the day I was ever assigned to guard ye. I should've left the clan that day!"
Nessa ignored his grumbling. "Can ye please cut more wood for the fire? The pile is running low."
Lennox just shook his head. "One o' these days, lass, all this is going to come back to bite ye in the bahookie, and I'll be the first to say I told ye so." He stomped out, grumbling and cursing loudly.
Nessa returned to her patient. "Dinnae ye mind him. He is all bluster, but deep down inside he is like a big cuddly rabbit. He'll nae hurt ye, or he'll attract my wrath. Ye dinnae ken this, but many fear me, for I can battle like a warrior."
Nessa stilled when her patient made a sound suspiciously like a snort. It was the first time he'd responded openly.
She raised a brow. "What? Ye think I cannae protect ye? Blink twice for aye and once for nae."
To her shock, he blinked twice.
Nessa hmphed. "Well now, I'll have ye ken I have a vicious streak, and when cornered I can inflict great wounds, even upon men twice yer size!"
Her patient made a snorting, coughing sound.
"Are ye mocking me? Do ye believe I am a fierce warrior or not?" she asked, hands on her hips.
He blinked once for no.
"Well then, ye'll be sorry if ye ever find yerself in the path of my anger. Tis like a gale-force wind. It'll shake yer very foundation. I'll have ye trembling before me, and I'll show ye no mercy." She made a tight fist and waved it in the air.
There went that mouth twitch again, followed by a strange smile. Nessa couldn't believe it. This mute man had the nerve to laugh at her! Clearly, he saw her as no threat, and he would learn soon enough to rue the day he ever underestimated her.
"Be quiet, Anglia," she snapped instead. "Ye talk far too much for my liking."
And that was when she saw it. From his uninjured eye, an expression of warmth and amusement. Then a deep, rumbling sound came from the center of his chest, as if he were trying to refrain from laughing.
Nessa snorted and returned to her ministrations, gently cleaning and bandaging his wounds with the poultice the healer had given her, trying to ignore him. But his steady gaze remained on her face, and despite everything, she found it appealing.
Then he reached for her hand and squeezed three times. She met his gaze and knew he was trying to apologize. She didn't know how, but he was making sure she understood he'd only been jesting.
"Dinnae try to sweet-talk me now. I am still offended. Perhaps I should leave ye here. Then ye'll be sorry."
Nessa felt it then, a strange tension. His hand squeezed once, hard, and his features turned stern. She realized he'd said a firm no.
"All right, dinnae fash. I'll not leave ye. Not unless tis for yer own good."
He stiffened still and pressed her hand once again, a low, growly sound rumbling deep in his chest.
She pulled both his hands into hers and held them gently. She could see he was becoming visibly agitated.
"Calm, calm, Anglia. I'll not leave ye. I am merely jesting. As long as ye need me, I'll be here."
He gave her a slight almost imperceptible nod, and his breathing calmed. The tension left his body. This was the most he had ever communicated with her, and clearly it had tired him. He slowly fell back to sleep, still clutching her hand.
Nessa couldn't help but run her fingers gently across his brow, wishing him a trouble-free slumber.
***
