Author: Kenna Kendrick
Bride of the Beastly Laird – Bonus Prologue
1307, Scotland, Isle of Skye
Castle MacLeod
Dahlia MacLeod galloped her mare up the winding road, reveling in the feel of the sun on her face and her white-blonde hair, caught by the wind, streaming behind her as she rode. Glorying in the spring morning, as she neared the castle, she waved to the guard on duty and brought her little mare to a standstill, waiting while the portcullis was raised.
She walked her horse through the gate, crossing the cobbled courtyard to the drinking trough. There, after giving her horse a pat on her neck, she slid out of the saddle and handed her reins to the waiting groom.
Startled by the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice issuing from the nearby stables she swiveled, craning her neck to catch sight of whoever was speaking.
Then she realized the man was talking to his horse.
“Good lad.” She heard him say. “I thank ye fer the safe journey.”
She was staring, mouth slightly ajar, as the owner of the deep, whisky-voice strode out of the stables. He was tall and broad with a mane of fair hair that fell almost to his shoulders. As he passed, nodding to her as he went, she glimpsed hazel eyes, a straight nose, cheeks like blades and full, wide lips.
Watching him stride up the steps of the keep she was strangely flustered. Her heart was suddenly beating faster, and she couldn’t help wishing she’d tidied her hair and had worn anything but her old, faded, blue-linen kirtle.
There was something familiar about the man. She could almost swear she’d met him somewhere. Yet she knew that was impossible, she’d never seen him before. His was not a face she’d readily forget.
Determined to put the man out of her mind, she was halfway up the stairs to her bedchamber when she was intercepted by one of the chambermaids.
Puffing slightly, the lass handed her a folded parchment. “Forgive me, melady. I’ve brought ye a message from yer brother, Laird Haldor.”
“Thank ye.” The maid hurried off and Dahlia shoved the note into her pocked to read in the privacy of her room.
It was not until she’d bathed and a donned a freshly laundered blouse and kirtle, brushed her hair and braided it, that she remembered her brother’s message.
Unfolding the crumpled parchment, she read his brief note. He was entertaining his Clan Council members and a special guest for a dinner to which no ladies were invited. He asked her to do him the honor of entertaining them with music, playing her clàrsach for their pleasure.
She smiled to herself. On rare occasions, when there was important business at hand, Haldor requested she play her Scottish harp for his guests.
Was the stranger she’d glimpsed outside the stables the ‘special guest’ her brother was dining with tonight? If so, he was someone to be wooed with music and fine food. Mayhap she would find out who he was, after all.
Damn. There was that annoying little jolt to her heartbeat again.
By the evening she was in a lather of curiosity. She’d taken special care with her appearance, donning a favorite red silk kirtle tied with a gold cord, and brushed her hair so that it tumbled in silvery waves, almost to her waist. After adding a pair of hooped gold earbobs, she put on her red silk slippers and made her way to the great hall.
The place was bustling with kitchen-maids setting up for the meal, but her brother and his guests had not yet arrived. With the help of the manservant who’d carried her clarsach from the solar, she set it up on its little wooden stand.
She was playing a dreamy, soft tune, lost in its gentle, sliding rhythms, when the men finally appeared and took their seats.
Her stomach lurched. There he was, the man from the stables, as handsome as she recalled, seated at her brother’s right hand next to her other brothers, Ivar and Arne. Whoever he might be, this meant he was important.
And there again was that strange frisson of heat rippling through her at the sight of him.
And it kept happening, every time she looked up and caught his gaze resting on her she could scarcely breath.
As the evening wore on, she picked up fragments of the men’s conversation.
From what she could gather there was a great deal of talk about peace. Compensation. For what? Stolen cattle? King Robert’s name was mentioned several times.
A young maid brought her a platter containing cheese, buttered bannocks and a rosewater soda. Realizing she was both hungry and thirsty she was grateful for the brief break.
“Who is the man seated beside me braither Haldor?” she asked quietly. “I cannae make out his tartan from here”
The maid glanced over to the high table. “’Tis the Mackinnon. I’ve heard he’s the new laird.”
Dahlia froze. A Mackinnon! The Mackinnons were their sworn enemies. The long-standing feud between the two clans could never be settled and it had only been a matter of months since their last terrible confrontation. Haldor had slaughtered Laird James Mackinnon, the man who had kidnapped to force her into marriage and who was the murderer of her beloved brother, Thor.
The one man who escaped her brother’s sword was Bairre Mackinnon. After the skirmish, he had disappeared and it was rumored he’d taken refuge in France. With the death of his brother James, it was this hateful man, Bairre, who was the rightful laird.
So, who was the man seated beside Haldor?
She glanced over at him again, and he caught her eye, his mouth widening in a smile. Her heart skipped a beat. It was as if something sparkled in the air between them, capturing her attention, drawing her gaze irresistibly to him.
Arran Mackinnon was finding it difficult to keep track of the conversation. His attention was constantly diverted to the graceful lass strumming her clàrsach on the other side of the hall. The music of the harp drifted in the air, punctuating what was being said with a gentle harmony that eased the gruff words being uttered by the MacLeods.
Not threats exactly, but dire warnings of what might befall any of the Mackinnon clansmen who continued the raiding that had been going on since James was laird. This was exactly what Arran was attempting to convince Haldor, his brothers, and the Mackinnon Clan Council, he would put an end to.
He was sincere in his wish for the clans to live peaceably in their adjoining lands. And it was the devil’s own job trying to convince the MacLeods that he was nothing like James and Bairre, with whom they’d been feuding for as long as he could remember.
Despite the overriding importance of this meeting, he found himself distracted. Whenever he looked up at Dahlia and their eyes met it was as if he was struck by a lightning bolt. She was a true beauty with her Viking-white hair, her bonny face, and the long graceful fingers strumming her harp.
He cast his mind back to their first meeting. Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him. He’d been masked and hidden from her gaze back then. Yet… there was something in the way she looked at him that made him think she was trying to bring their previous contact to mind.
The meal came to an end, with nothing decided, no promises made, but some of the ice broken between them. Haldor and the others were friendly enough, but he was no fool. Clan hospitality meant they would show him nothing but a warm welcome, no matter how much they might distrust him.
But it was a start. As he’d taken on the lairdship unofficially, even though it was only until Bairre Mackinnon either reappeared or was declared dead, and he was making every effort to settle the disputes that were keeping his clan from leading peaceful, prosperous lives. The foremost of those disputes was the feud with the MacLeods. After years of raiding across clan territories it was time to put a stop to the enmity and bring peace to both clans.
He looked up again, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the bonny lass strumming her clàrsach. He took in the delicate arch of her neck, the tendrils of shining hair on her cheeks, the rise of her creamy breasts at her neckline He met her glorious blue eyes, feeling the heat in his belly and a twitch in his groin as his wayward cock registered his enchantment.
She rose from her chair, smoothing out the rose-colored folds of her skirt, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. He caught his breath as she turned toward him and walked across the room to the table where he sat, the silken skirt swaying enticingly with her every step.
As she approached, Laird Haldor got to his feet. She curtseyed low before him and he clasped her hand in his.
“I am here tae bid ye good night, braither.”
The sound of her soft voice with its hint of huskiness almost brought Arran undone. At that moment he’d have given anything to take her hand and press it to his lips.
Haldor turned to him. “May I introduce me sister, the Lady Dahlia.” He proffered her hand to Arran. “This is Laird Arran MacKinnon, a distant cousin of James and Bairre. He’s taken the lairdship in Bairre’s absence.”
Standing, Arran bowed from the waist, never taking his gaze from Dahlia’s.
Grasping her hand, he gently pressed it to his lips. At once his senses were assailed by her delicate rose fragrance and the softness and warmth of her skin. Even though the breath caught in his throat, he managed a few halting words of greeting.
“I am pleased tae meet ye, Lady Dahlia.”
She smiled up at him.
“Have we nae met before this night, me laird?” She half-raised a delicate eyebrow in puzzlement.
Without hesitating, he rolled the lie off his tongue.
“I dinnae believe we have met, melady. Ye’re surely mistaken.”
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Bride of the Beastly Laird – Extended Epilogue
Castle Mackinnon
One month later
Snow had fallen for a day and a night. Now it was not only the mountain tops that were covered in white frosting. As far as Dahlia could see from the battlements, all the land around Castle Mackinnon was covered in snow. She pulled her hooded cloak around her, covering her head, and looked across the magical, mystical landscape.
It was the perfect day for a wedding. The snow was no longer falling and the wind had given up its onslaught. The land lay quiet under its thick white blanket. The only thing moving on the ground below was a squirrel, disturbing the perfect whiteness with his tiny footprints as it darted between the pine trees lining the road.
Soon the peace would be shattered as the servants busied themselves with their preparations and by mid-morning the last of the guests would have arrived, their horses churning the mud and snow on the road.
But, for now she could lose herself in the dreamy vista and contemplate this longed-for day.
Swiveling at the sound of footsteps behind her the breath hitched in her throat at the sight of Arran’s tall figure striding toward her. She smiled. Would she ever get used to the little flurry of desire every time she caught sight of this handsome man?
He clasped her in his arms and she lay her head on his broad chest, tuning her senses to his breath and the steady beat of his heart.
“Me darling, I hope ye’ll nay catch cold up here in this raw weather.”
“Nay. Dinnae fash. ‘Tis gentle and peaceful and I’ve a warm fur cloak tae wrap meself in.” She smiled up at him. Despite the cold, his hazel eyes twinkled, mirroring her excitement.
The quiet was broken by sudden voices from below. A team of servants, armed with shovels, began clearing snow from the courtyard and laying straw to dry the cobbles, ready for the guests who would be arriving before long.
She sighed, giving Arran a cheeky grin. “’Tis time I took tae me chamber, me laird. I have preparations tae make. After all, today I’ll finally be wed tae the Laird of the Mackinnons.” Standing on tiptoe she brushed his cheek with her lips in a quick kiss before darting down the stairs.
Sofia and Catalina were waiting in her chamber with Beattie, while several maids came and went with pitchers of hot water filling a large copper tub in front of the fire.
Catalina chuckled when Dahlia hurried in. “We were thinking that ye’d decided ye didnae wish tae marry and ye’d saddled yer wee mare and ridden away.”
Dahlia tossed her cloak onto the hanger beside the garde robe. “Nay.” She grinned. “I already escaped marriage with two Mackinnon lairds I didnae fancy. Number three is the one I’ve wanted all along.”
Once the tub was filled, she stepped daintily into the water and sank up to her chin in the warm, rose-scented suds. Beattie soaped her back with a special cake of rose-soap and when she was done Sofia washed her hair into a giant lather. It was Catalina’s task to pour warm water from a jug to rinse the long tresses.
They dried her with linen towels before the blazing fire where she took up position in her warm robe while Catalina combed her hair. Once it was dry, Beattie’s nimble fingers formed it into a dozen tiny braids which they threaded with green ribbons and wound around her head in an elaborate coiffure. She studied herself in the looking-glass. Who was this elegant, beautiful lady and where on earth was Dahlia MacLeod?
Beattie slipped the wedding-gown over her mistresses head, taking care not to ruin her elaborate hairstyle. She smoothed the skirt making sure there was no hint of a wrinkle in the delicate fabric. It was made from yards of cream-colored silk trimmed with dark green velvet. It had a deep, flattering neckline, and a full skirt that swayed over her petticoats when she twirled in front of the glass. Just looking at the bonny garment made Dahlia’s head swim and brought a smile to her lips. It was by far the grandest dress she’d ever worn.
Sofia had made her a little circlet of green ivy and scarlet holly berries threaded with green velvet ribbons to match the ones in her hair.
“This will bring ye a long life with a loyal and devoted husband by yer side.”
Before leaving her bedchamber, she looped her hand through the charming wreath and carried it on her wrist.
When she entered the chapel, Sofia and Catalina walking before her as her maids of honor, she looked up to see Arran clad in his new kilt, his long hair combed so that it sat tidily on his broad shoulders. His eyes shone as he gazed at her making her way down the aisle toward him.
And there it was again. That familiar frisson of desire rippling through her at the sight of him, making her smile. In that moment, her most fervent wish was that they were already wed and alone, enjoying the pleasure she knew was in store for them tonight.
Father Deiran officiated and, as they spoke their vows, she caught a glimpse of Emilia wiping a tear from her eye. Then came the exchange of rings. As she slipped the ring over Arran’s finger, the old priest lifted his head calling on heaven to bless their union.
Haldor, Sofia, Ivar and Catalina stepped forward to perform the handfasting, lengths of ribbon in their hands.
Commencing with Haldor, each of them wrapped Arran and Dahlia’s joined hands with a ribbon. As they did so they wished them peace, prosperity and longevity. Then the ribbons were tied together, signifying the joining of the pair in marriage.
Father Deiran stepped forward; his head bent in prayer.
“As these ribbons hold ye bound together, may ye always hold fast tae the vows ye’ve made together this day. Ye’ve journeyed far tae come tae this sacred place, enduring many hardships, anger, fear and threats from wickedness. But yer love has never faltered. I now remove the ties.” He slipped the binding ribbons off their wrists and over their hands.
“Before I proclaim ye tae be husband and wife, ye must kiss three times. One for love, one for a long life and one for luck.”
He stood, smiling, as Arran leaned down to press his lips to Dahlia’s hand, then to her cheek and, finally, he kissed her gently on the lips.
“Now, by the power of the Heavenly Faither vested in me, I declare ye tae be truly husband and wife.”
Dahlia had no idea that such happiness existed as she and Arran walked together, hand in hand through the thronging well-wishers, out of the chapel, through the snowy courtyard and into the keep, their guests forming a cheerful, delighted gathering behind them.
The villagers came rushing in, taking their seats on the benches in the great hall ready to partake of the feast and to drink the health of the laird and his bride.
Their new laird’s wedding was a great celebration. Not only because they wished Arran and Dahlia well, but because they, too, were looking forward to a time of peace and prosperity. No longer would Bairre and his men terrorize the village. Men and women alike could now go about their business without fear.
The troubadours and jongleurs moved among the crowd, adding to the jolly atmosphere and heightening the festivities.
Seated beside Arran, in the center of the high table, Dahlia soaked in every little detail. Even the dogs lurking under the table begging for a piece of roast lamb or venison, made her smile. She wanted to remember this day forever.
“Are ye as happy as I am,” she asked.
“Aye. ‘Tis great happiness. Yet—.” Fer an instant sadness flickered in his eyes.
“What is it, me love?”
“I’d always thought Craig would be at me side when I was wed.”
She squeezed his hand, understanding the loss and his grief at Craig’s betrayal.
He gazed down at her, his green-gold eyes shining with love. “But there is naught that will disturb me happiness tonight.”
Tomorrow there would be talks between Arran and her brothers, discussions concerning lands and tithes and her dowry, but tonight Dahlia merely wished to luxuriate in the glorious sense that she was, at last, wed to Arran, and that their happiness was only just beginning
The musicians moved to the center of the hall and a space was cleared for dancing. As they struck up, she followed Arran to the center of the floor for the wedding cèilidh. They took up their position and, as the first notes rang out, they were joined by Dahlia’s brothers. Haldor took Sofia’s hand, Ivar was ready to spin Catalina into his arms and Arne, smiling for once, entered with his laughing toddler son, Thorsten. The wee lad, clad in his first ever kilt, joined hands with his proud father for the first round. Soon the hall was filled with wild laughter and whooping cheers.
By the time the musicians took a break, Dahlia was out of breath and her legs were almost giving way.
Arran escorted her back to their table. “Methinks it is time fer us tae leave our guests. They can enjoy the night without us,” he whispered, squeezing her hand.
She nodded “I wish fer naething more than tae share yer bedchamber with ye this night.”
After farewelling their guests, they quietly took their leave, their departure hardly noticed by the throng participating in the boisterous dancing.
Once they’d arrived at Arran’s quarters, he pushed open the door. She peeped in, curious to see the place where she would be spending her nights and many of her days from now on. It all seemed so strange and new. Arran’s rooms were far more spacious than hers. Having taken over the suite that had belonged to the lairds who came before him, including, of course Bairre, James and his own father, he’d taken great care to remove all traces of the rooms’ previous occupants. There was fresh, bright paint on the patterned walls and he awaited new tapestries to arrive from France.
Dried rose petals had been strewn across the rush floor and over the Persian carpets and a fire blazed merrily in the hearth. On a small table was a flagon of wine and two goblets inviting them in.
But before she could step into the room, he hoisted her in his arms.
“’Tis me greatest joy tae take me bride in me arms across the threshold of yer new dwelling place.”
She wound her arms around his neck as he slipped through the doorway. “And mine tae be taken.”
“Ah lass, I didnae believe we would ever arrive at this place. It was more than I could have ever hoped fer. That we were wed this day is me greatest joy.”
He kicked the door closed behind them and, as he lowered her to the floor, holding her as if he’d never let her go, he took her mouth in a long-awaited kiss.
She sighed, melting into him, her body turning to liquid at his touch.
When it became necessary for them both to gulp in a breath, she looked up at him through long dark lashes. “Ye dinnae ken how long I’ve waited fer such a kiss.”
“The first of many such exquisite dalliances,” he said, chuckling. He led her across to the fire, looking her up and down. “Ye were by far the finest lady in the hall this night, wife. And the bonniest.” He took up position in the large over-stuffed armchair and pulled her onto his knee.
“’Tis a bonnie gown if a tad uncomfortable. Would ye nae prefer tae have me take it off ye?”
She laughed as his fingers busied themselves with the laces that fastened the front of her dress. It fell away and he wasted no time in pushing down the gown and sliding her stays so that they pushed up her naked breasts making it easy for him to apply his fingers, his mouth and his tongue.
Moaning as he cupped her round breasts and took a hard nipple between his forefinger and thumb, she sank lower in the chair, leaning back against him.
He nuzzled her neck, breathing in the fragrance of roses and musk tormenting his senses. While one hand was busy with her rosy nub the other hand ruffled her skirt up over her knees, stroking the smooth softness of her thighs as he went.
She moaned again, shifting her position, parting her thighs so his clever fingers could gain access.
He slipped his middle and forefingers between her damp folds, stroking the slick flesh, causing a deep guttural sound to escape her throat. “Aye. That’s what I’ve been aching fer.”
As he caressed her swollen quim she squealed, writhing and gasping under his hand.
Almost overwhelmed by their passion he groaned. “Mistress Mackinnon, dinnae ye ken what I’ve been aching fer?”
She gave a soft laugh and trailed a hand over his thigh, pushing up the hem of his kilt so that she could easily take his granite manhood in her hand.
He threw his head against the high-backed chair, and closed his eyes. “Och!” he exclaimed. “I am suffering something fierce, needing tae slip inside ye.”
She shifted again, and he lifted her thighs so that her legs opened wider. He pressed each of her knees across an arm of their chair, stretching her, so that what he wished for was wide-open to his gaze. Then he raised her so that his manhood was poised at her entrance.
“D’ye wish me tae be inside ye, wife?”
Her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. “’Tis all I wish fer, husband.”
With one thrust his hardness slid inside her. With a moan she raised her buttocks to better let him enter. Then he thrust again and they soared into their very own slice of paradise, somewhere between heaven and hell, where everything fell away except their own glorious ride.
The End.
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Read the bookBride of the Beastly Laird (Preview)
Chapter One
Isle of Skye, Scotland, October 1308
A Highland inn in No-man’s Land between MacLeod and Mackinnon territory
Dammit. T’would be simpler by far tae slice the throat of the beast I’m betrothed tae and end his life, rather than donning this foolish disguise tae escape the hateful man’s clutches.
Chewing on her lower lip, Dahlia MacLeod twisted her sweet features into a grimace. Flattening her bountiful breasts with the cloth drawn tight across her chest took more effort and caused more pain than she’d been anticipating.
She sucked in a shallow breath, wincing at the pressure of the tightly bound fabric, and donned the patched wool jacket she’d purchased from the village lad. She pulled on the baggy, faded-grey trews the lad had provided, tied on his soft leather boots and, finally, drew up her mass of near-white blonde hair and tucked it severely beneath the cloth cap.
Surveying her flattened outline, she was satisfied that her profile as a young lad would suffice. To complete the disguise, she wound a rough plaid woolen scarf around her neck so that the lower half of her face was concealed. If she could only get out of this confounded tavern unnoticed and make her way to the horse she’d arranged with the stable boy to saddle and make ready, she could be half-way back to Castle MacLeod and the warmth of her family before her absence was even discovered.
And the mercenary she’d hired with the last of her coin would be on his way to deal death to her fiancé Bairre Mackinnon.
Once she was safely ensconced at Castle MacLeod, she had no doubt she could deal with King Robert’s command that she should wed the brute, Laird Bairre Mackinnon. The one partly responsible for the murder of her brother.
Does the king nae understand I hate the man?
A shiver of revulsion ran through her at the very thought of herself wed to such a man.
Yet, knowing all this, her brother, the Laird Haldor, had no choice but to acquiesce to the king’s wishes.
With the cap lowered over her brow, she tiptoed from the small room and crept down the stairs, hoping to leave the tavern without being seen by her so-called guards.
Guard’s me lady’s arse. They’re naught but kidnappers, taking me against me will tae marry a man whose death I wish fer most fervently.
She hovered by the staircase, inhaling the warmth of the peat fire and the smells of stew, ale and hot bodies. To her relief, the tavern was crowded to overflowing with patrons, rowdy with laughter and the raised voices of men from the nearby farms enjoying their tankards at day’s end before returning home.
With luck she could make it through the smoky tavern without drawing any attention to herself.
She scanned the crowd, her gaze coming to rest on the stalwart figure and long, fair lion’s mane belonging to her chief escort Arran Mackinnon. At the sight of him, a cold stone dropped into her belly. She’d been certain he would have been in his bed by now and that the coast would be clear for her to make her escape.
Yet there he was, seated at a table that was much too close to the doorway for her liking. Mackinnon was his with his friend Craig Donald and two companions she didn’t recognize. She agonised. Should she make a dash for it, hoping that the men were too deep in conversation to notice her? Or, should she retrace her steps back to her room and wait for a better opportunity?
She’d paid the lad, the horse would be waiting. It was now or never. If she didn’t make her break for freedom before they travelled deeper into Mackinnon country, she might not get another chance. And once they arrived at their destination, Mackinnon Castle, it would be impossible to escape.
That was something she knew with certainty. This was not the first time she was being forced into marriage with one of her clan’s enemies. Her soul was still burdened with the memory of her abduction four years ago by James Mackinnon, Bairre’s older brother.
James had not succeeded in his plot to force their marriage, but her escape from his clutches had resulted in the death of her beloved brother, Thor. Now James was dead at Haldor’s hand and the king, foolishly determined to bring peace between the warring clans, had commanded that this marriage between herself and Bairre Mackinnon should take place in one month’s time.
Thinking on this, she shook her head. Nay. Nothing would force her tae marry one of the hated Mackinnons. Not even the king’s orders. Haldor had promised he’d petition the king on her behalf but, as yet, there’d been no relief. Tonight, she was taking matters into her own hands, and if she were killed in her bid for freedom, it was better to die than to share a bed with the Mackinnon.
As she watched from the shadows, she saw Aaron Mackinnon’s three companions rise and bid him goodnight before they slipped through a side doorway and disappeared, leaving Arran at the table, alone with his tankard.
She watched him coolly. It was not only his wild hair that gave him the look of a carved lion, but his size. He was broad across the shoulders, perhaps even a match for her own brothers, his arms were strong and cross-hatched with battle scars. But despite his look of a fierce warrior, he was not coarse like the others, there was something kind in his face. He lacked the grim-set mouth and the harsh brows of the other Mackinnons. There was even a hint of gentleness about him at times as he tended to his horse or looked into the sky contemplating.
But no matter. Standing there, contemplating Arran Mackinnon would not help her to escape. If she made haste and kept her head down, she could make it out without him noticing her.
Taking a deep breath, she tugged the cap lower and took her first steps away from the cover provided by the staircase, heading for the tavern door. She was too busy navigating her way between tables to see the serving girl emerge from the kitchen with a tray loaded with pewter tankards filled with ale.
She collided head-first with the lass, who let out a loud, head-turning shriek. The tankards went flying and the girl descended backwards, her skirt and pinafore in disarray, and Dahlia quite soaked with the spilt drinks, on top of the squirming, squealing servant.
“Get off me,” the girl yelled, pushing with both hands at Dahlia’s chest, loosening the fabric she had taken such pains to wrap around her breasts.
Dahlia scrabbled frantically to gain the traction she needed to rise to her feet while the serving-girl lashed out with both fists, keeping her off balance.
The hubbub of voices had ceased, all eyes turned to the girl’s plight, a sudden hush fell over the tavern, and all that could be heard were her screeches.
“Oooh. Someone help me! I’m being crushed. Get him off. Take him away.”
Before Dahlia could scramble upright her arm was rudely wrenched behind her back, she was dragged to her feet and, despite her efforts to break free, she found herself being roughly propelled toward the tavern door.
To her horror she saw that the serving-wench’s rescuer and the man holding her captive in a fierce, unbreakable grip, was none other than the very man she was hell-bent on escaping. Arran Mackinnon.
Giving her no chance to protest, he bundled her across the room and flung open the heavy oak door. She struggled mightily but she was no match for his strength. He kept hold of her arm in an iron grip half-dragging her outside to the cobbled tavern yard.
Wrenching herself free, her hair tumbling over her eyes she uttered a fierce oath. “God’s blood, keep yer filthy hands tae yersel.”
Then, before he could seize her again quick as a bolt of lightning she turned and ran across the courtyard toward the stables with Arran hot on her heels.
“I command ye tae stop right there,” he bellowed as she disappeared inside, heading fast toward the stall where the saddled horse was waiting with the stable hand.
She had a foot in the stirrup and was doing her best to leap up onto the horse’s back when Arran seized her from behind and dragged her down. As she fell, he grabbed her around the waist, his hand brushing her breasts, which had now come loose from the fabric tie.
He held her tight against his heaving chest and she could feel his pounding heartbeat, his breath coming fast against her cheek. He smelled of leather and ale and peat smoke. A not altogether unpleasant man-scent that filled her nostrils and reminded her in a reassuring way of her brothers. They were all skilled fighters, but there’d been times when she’d bested them in mock fights in training. What she didn’t have in brawn she made up for in wiles and there’d been many a time she’d been able to outwit them, when they were younger, and bring them to their knees.
“Let me go,” she twisted suddenly, trying to loosen his grip, struggling to catch her breath, her fair hair flying wildly about her.
“Ye take me fer a fool,” he growled holding her fast, his arm around her as solid as a tree branch and every bit as immovable. With his free hand he ripped aside the scarf she’d wound around her face revealing her features. He nodded with recognition.
In the lamp-light his eyes glittered green-gold as he met her gaze. “Nay lad is soft in the chest like ye, me Lady Dahlia MacLeod.” He gave a sharp laugh. “And nay lad has hair that streams like a silver waterfall down his back.”
Shaking her head, she cursed herself for not taking the scissors and snipping off every skerrick of her fair hair before she’d attempted her escape.
There was a sudden flash as the stable-boy who’d been observing their tussle from the shadows raced past them. No doubt afraid of being implicated in whatever mischief Dahlia might still be planning.
Watching her one avenue of escape disappearing out the stable door, she groaned loudly. Arran, disregarding her pounding fists against his chest tightened his hold on her. In a burst of sudden fury, she twisted to face him, letting fly a solid kick, her boot connecting with Arran’s shin with a satisfying thump. He grunted, but his grip on her didn’t waver.
“Hold still, ye wee vixen. There’s nae one tae come tae yer aid and yer horse is back in his stable now. Ye’ll nae be riding this night.”
There was a terrible truth to his words that hit Dahlia a despairing blow, almost robbing the breath from her lungs. But perhaps there was still hope. If only she could somehow release herself from his clutches, she could still take the horse from his stable and ride fast out of here. She was near enough to MacLeod territory to find a friendly crofter or someone loyal to her brother who could offer shelter where she could safely hide from Arran and the Mackinnon men.
Next morning all her hopes would be dashed once they entered Mackinnon lands. There’d be no help for her there. All the farmers and villagers would be too afeared of Bairre Mackinnon’s wrath to provide her with even so much as a sip of water to quench her thirst. Let alone risk their necks by offering her a place to hide. The man was known far and wide as a merciless brute, dealing out summary justice at his whim to any one of his folks who dared to disagree with him or cross him in some way.
Unlike her brother Haldor, who commanded loyalty because of his fairness and kindness as well as his skill as a great warrior, Laird Bairre ruled through fear and the terror he instilled at the prospect of a terrible fate in his dungeon or on the gallows awaiting those who earned his ill will. Whether they deserved it or nae.
She shuddered at the horrifying prospect of becoming Bairre Mackinnon’s bride. Now, with the failure of her first escape plan, the time had come for her to put her feminine wiles to the test.
Allowing her shoulders to slump she willed the remainder of her body to grow limp, hoping Arran would loosen his grip if he felt her resistance weaken.
“Please.” She gentled her voice, injecting it with a slight quiver as if she was on the brink of tears. “I’m yer helpless captive now. A maid is nay match fer a warrior’s strength. Can ye nae allow me to stand free? ‘Tis unseemly fer ye to be clinging tae me the way ye are.” She spoke the words so softly he was forced to lower his head to hear what she was saying. “Would yer laird approve of ye handling his bride in such a manner?”
She held her breath. Every nerve ending tensing for the moment when she was certain he would loosen his hold and she could muster all her power to burst free of him and make a dash for safety.
Chapter Two
Arran smiled to himself. If the lass believed this swift transformation from raging vixen to submissive maiden would fool him into believing she’d given up her battle to escape and was now resigned to her fate, she was sadly mistaken. It was an old trick and one he’d become familiar with as a wee lad learning his warrior skills. An enemy could feign weakness and at the very instant you lowered your guard, he’d have his sword at your throat.
Still, it would be interesting to see what this feisty lass intended.
Moments ticked by and he deliberately slackened his hold on her waist, immediately feeling the tension ripple through her body as she prepared to make her move. He further released his grip. Then, exactly at the moment he’d anticipated, she flew from his arms like a ball from a cannon and raced toward the stable where her horse waited.
He hesitated, observing her fleeing figure, half amused and half admiring. She was determined, he’d give her that.
He reached her as she fumbled with the latch on the stable gate. Seizing her around the waist from behind, he snatched her up again. She kicked out wildly, scratching with her fingernails at his arms where he held her fast. All the while she was shrieking and screeching loud enough to challenge the banshees across the sea in Erin’s Isle, using language that no lady should ever allow to issue from her mouth.
“Put me down, ye God-fersaken bastard. Ye poxy villain. Ye low-life, worthless scum.”
“Hush, melady. If ye bring some poor lad running tae help ye, using language like that, he’s bound to believe me when I tell him ye’re a whore luring unsuspecting customers tae bed her in the stable hay.”
She opened her mouth as if to utter a further shriek, but only a loud and indignant squeak emerged before he hoisted her over his shoulder with one easy movement, as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley. Her fists drummed his back but he paid no more heed to her frantic blows than he would to the bite of a bed bug.
“I caution ye, lass. Keep yer voice down afore ye lose the respect of every farmer and decent man in the tavern.”
She growled a moan but, to his relief, she ceased her shrieks and her pummelling as he carried her across the courtyard and pushed the tavern door open.
“Good, wee lassie. Ye’re showing some common sense at last.”
There was that growl again. “Och ye test me sorely, Arran Mackinnon,” she muttered, a sound that seemed to issue through gritted her teeth.
Arran wasted no time weaving his way through the tables and heading up the stairs. The denizens of the tavern hardly bothered to throw a glance his way. Obviously, they were used to the sight of a wench slung over a man’s shoulder being lugged upstairs to bed. He chuckled to himself. His threat had worked and there wasn’t so much as a peep out of Dahlia until they entered the room.
He lowered her onto the bed in the corner of the tiny room, where she lay, arms akimbo, glaring up at him. Her dress and lady’s riding outfit lay across the chair in the corner where she’d discarded them earlier, along with the leather satchel containing more of her clothing. In the corner was a large copper tub filled with hot water, cooling now. He’d ordered it earlier so she could bathe after their two-day ride and prepare for the journey tomorrow, when she would be presented to Laird Mackinnon.
He could restrain his ire no longer. “Ye’re a foolish, spoilt lass,” he bawled at her, “who cares naught fer the ones who’ve been tasked tae guard ye, whose lives depend on bringing ye safely tae Castle Mackinnon.” He was intent on impressing on her the futility and selfishness of any escape plan she might yet contemplate. He would have gone on, but he was held back by the sense that she could not be trusted to know the inner workings of his heart and the knowledge of the hold Bairre Mackinnon had over him and his overriding fear for the wellbeing of his precious mother, Emilia.
Dahlia huffed, levering herself into a sitting position. “Ye may shout at me all ye wish, Arran Mackinnon. I dinnae care a fig fer ye and yer kind, who’ll dae the bidding of a monster like yer laird.” She scowled at him and he felt his heart miss a beat. “And, nay matter what ye say, I’ll scream me heart out if I so wish.”
Masking his concern for her, he glowered, shaking his head. “Stop yer caterwauling. There is nay one here tae come tae yer yells. Ye’re nae in yer brother’s castle now with all the servants at yer beck and call.”
Instead of having the desired effect of silencing Dahlia’s tirade, his words seemed to spur her on to greater heights of rage.
“Ye’re a pestilent, vindictive knave,” she jeered loudly, tossing her head back, fixing him with an unwavering glare. “Ye’re unscrupulous, dishonorable, false, worthless…” Looking around the room as if searching for something bad enough to name him, she turned her pretty lips into a sneer, spitting out her next words with a vehemence that set him reeling. “Ye’re nothing better than a… a… jack-in-the box, doing the bidding of an evil, contemptible, loathsome…” She gasped in a breath, “…fiend.”
Although her words stung, his annoyance dissolved as he took in the sight of her, chest heaving, her glorious breasts half exposed over the fabric she’d used to disguise them, her hair dishevelled as if she’d only just risen from his bed after a bout of lovemaking. And the boy’s britches she had on only accentuated her womanly waist and hips rather than disguising them.
He bit down the urge to laugh. She really was a most delightful creature. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, her hair falling in ringlets over her shoulders most fetchingly, and her eyes, of the deepest periwinkle-blue, were alight with a wildfire that set his pulse racing and ignited his desire. If only they could shine for him, not with fury as they were now, but with passionate desire.
But she was never meant to be his. Her fate was to be taken by the Laird to be his plaything, to do with her as he wished.
The darkness in his soul grew even blacker at the thought of the Mackinnon laying his hands on that pearly white skin, crushing her delicate lips under his cruel mouth and ravishing her soft body.
This is madness. I cannae allow mesel’ the indulgence of such thoughts. Me task is clear. I must deliver the lass tae Castle Mackinnon. Nay matter how much it pains me to dae sae.
“Enough,” he muttered in a voice that made it clear he’d brook no further complaints or resistance. “Ye’ve said yer piece and I’ll listen tae nay further griping, nor will I tolerate any further attempts on yer part tae leave me care.”
She pshawed loudly, frowning up at him from the edge of the bed where she perched cross-legged. “Yer care? At least ye could be honest and admit ye’ve nae care fer me. If ye cared even a jot ye’d nae be taking me tae a wedding that is a match with the devil himself.”
“So, ye’ve nay wish tae marry me… master?” His heart lifted a little. Mayhap she hated the man as much as he did.
She shrugged. “Ye’d be a fool tae think aught else when I’ve been at such pains these past hours tae leave ye and return tae me family. I’ll dae all in me power tae avoid marriage with Bairre Mackinnon.” She turned her gaze to a blank space on the wall somewhere beyond his shoulder. “Even if it should lead me tae a deathly fate.”
“Nay lass.” He reached over to envelop her small, elegant hand in his. “Ye mustnae think such thoughts. The king has commanded that ye should wed and bring peace tae the war between our clans. Can ye nae consider it yer duty?”
Gazing up through her long dark lashes she seemed to be assessing him. A ripple of something unsettling rattled through his veins. It was as if she could see into his soul and understand the darkness haunting him. He wanted nothing more than to trust this woman and to earn her trust in return. Yet to trust her could lead to his own deathly fate.
Tonight was not the time for such dangerous thoughts. Insofar as they were both concerned, he was to take her to Mackinnon Castle, where she would take part in the preparations for her wedding to the laird. There was no space for any other thinking. He must subdue his desire and treat her coolly, hide his empathy for her plight, focus only on what he’d been tasked to do to ensure she arrived at the castle.
Above all, he had to carry out his duty to ensure the safety of his captive mother, whose very life hung in the balance. She was ironically at the mercy of a man without mercy, Bairre Mackinnon.
“The king doesnae ken what he’s asking of me family. I am the third he has commanded tae wed. Me braithers are happy with their wee wifeys but I will find nothing but heart-sorrow and sadness in the castle of the Mackinnon.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Whatever yer fate melady, I think ye’d be better tae face it sweet- smelling instead of with the rank stench of ale that’s soaking ye now. Why, me nose is fair twitching at the scent of ye.”
Her lips gave a tiny quirk that could have been the beginning of a smile.
“Och. Ye’re right, I reek like the ripe inside of an unwashed tankard.” She glanced up, arching a dark brow. “Mayhap if I greet yer laird as I am he’ll nae be sae eager tae wed me.”
“On the contrary, lass. The Laird Mackinnon is bound tae fancy ye even more if ye carry the scent of a brewery. He fair minds his ale, does Bairre.”
He watched her face fall and her shoulders slump and his heart ached for her. He was under no illusion that Bairre would treat her well. He was a violent brute who thought nothing of delivering a cruel beating to anyone who displeased him, whether they be a lad or a lass.
“I’ll pay a visit tae the kitchen and find us something fer our supper. I’ve had naught tae line me belly since midday and I daresay ye’re hungry too.” Looking Dahlia up and down he ignored the forlorn shake of her head. “There’s still warmth in the water in that tub. When I leave the room, strip off those stinking, wet clothes, untie that pointless strip of cloth from around yer… er… chest, dip yer body in the water and cleanse yerself.”
With that, he swivelled toward the door. “I’ll expect ye tae be sweet-smelling and sweet-tempered when I return.”
He stepped through the door, pulling it closed on the sound of her loud “harrumph,” turned the key in the lock, pocketed it, and headed down the stairs without waiting to hear what curses she might be laying at his head.
After ordering leek soup and a venison pie from the kitchen he made his way back to the table he’d previously been seated at. Most of the tavern’s customers had departed, leaving few to occupy the now quiet place. He sat with a tankard before the fire, reviewing the events of the day, praying quietly to himself that by the time he returned to Dahlia’s room she would have seen reason. He was confident she could not escape from the securely locked room. Its small, high window was far too tight a squeeze for even the slenderest lad to fit through.
It was not difficult to understand her resolve and her loathing for Bairre. The man he called ‘cousin’ was loved by very few. He smiled grimly to himself. Mayhap the man’s mother had been the only one to bestow any affection on her son. And, as she’d passed away when Bairre and his late brother James were little more than babes, perhaps not even she had been able to offer him a mother’s love.
He finished the ale and trod wearily up the stairs. Unlocking the door of Dahlia’s room with a sense of foreboding that she might make another attempt to evade him as he entered the room.
She was standing by the fire, her cheeks glowing pink, her still-damp, long, silvery hair tumbling down her back. His fingers itched to reach out and smooth a wayward lock from her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. She was clad in a cream silk night gown and a dark-blue fur-lined velvet robe which she tightened around herself as he stepped further into the room. The air was filled with the fragrance of roses and cinnamon.
He gasped, his senses reeling as he struggled to hide the powerful effect her beauty was having on him. He steeled himself against the twitch and ache in his groin as he gazed at her.
“I am pleased ye’re seeing sense, melady.”
She snorted, her eyes flashing. “I’m seeing sense enough tae ken ye’ve foiled me attempt tae get away this night. But dinnae think I’ll nae try again as soon as there’s a chance.”
He chuckled softly. “Why, lass, I’d never be so foolish as tae believe ye’ve been tamed by one foiled attempt.”
“That is wise of ye.” She held her head proudly, and even though he sensed he was in for more trouble before he’d delivered her safely to Castle Mackinnon, he could only admire her feistiness and determination.
He allowed his gaze to wander over her, observing the details of her delicate form, feeling like some besotted troubadour composing verses to honour his lady’s beauty.
Those thoughts put him in imminent danger of wandering into forbidden territory, so it came as a relief when a sharp rap on the door drew his attention and he hastened over to open it. A small kitchen maid entered the room bearing a tray with the meal he’d ordered, alongside two tankards of ale, and placed it on a small table beside the fire.
Drawing up a chair for Dahlia, he waited while she arranged herself before taking the seat opposite.
They ate in silence, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire. Once the meal was finished, he feigned a yawn, placing a hand at his mouth, and got to his feet.
“’Tis time ye took tae yer bed, Lady Dahlia. Ye’ll be needing yer rest as we’ve a long day’s ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
She didn’t reply and he could almost see the wheels of thought turning in that charming head of hers.
“Are ye thinking there’ll be a moment fer ye tae gallop off and leave me, Craig Donald and our two guards behind?” He grinned as her cheeks blushed pink, not meeting his gaze. Of course, he’d been reading her thoughts correctly. Tomorrow he’d make sure he never allowed her out of his sight. There’d be no opportunities for her to slip away.
“And ye’ll be making fer yer room tae sleep now?”
He shook his head. “I’ll nae be leaving ye alone this night, I’ll be keeping a close watch over ye while ye’re sleeping.”
At that she squared her shoulders and fixed him with a blue-eyed gaze that came close to robbing his breath. “I think it isnae so, Arran Mackinnon. Ye ken Bairre Mackinnon would never tolerate ye sleeping in the same room as mesel’.” She gave a sharp laugh. “If I told him ye’d slept beside me, he’d make short work of ye with his long sword.”
“And d’ye wish me tae sleep beside ye, Lady Dahlia?”
He enjoyed watching the bright colour flush her face. It was clear the thought had crossed her mind.
With a sigh, he shook his head. “Mayhap that’s a dream we both might share.” He noted that, as their eyes met, she schooled her features to give no hint of what thoughts might be passing through her head.
“But, never fear. I’ll nae remain in this room but spend the night outside, lying across yer doorway. If ye think tae somehow unlock the door and sneak away, I’ll be awake in an instant and ye’ll nae get past me.”
He could only dream on what she would say if she realized he was the young man who had made an ill-fated attempt at rescuing her from James Mackinnon’s clutches all those years ago.
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