Download or read book Reformed Rogues plus Arrowsmith Book Bundle written by Elina Emerald and published by Elina Emerald. This book was released on 2022-07-18 with total page 532 pages. Available in PDF, EPUB and Kindle. Book excerpt: This Book Bundle contains the complete 'Reformed Rogues' series plus 'Arrowsmith' - Book 1 of 'The MacGregors' series. Book 1: Betrothed to the Beast - Highland Chieftain Beiste MacGregor is a ruthlessly ambitious warrior with the viciousness of a beast. He has little interest in women beyond the bedchamber. On the order of the Red King, he reluctantly travels with his men to the lowlands to formalize a betrothal to a woman from clan Dunbar. He is not prepared for the troublesome but striking clan healer he meets on the way, who not only infuriates him but stirs something deep within his soul. Amelia Dunbar is a clan healer and the illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Dunbar. When she is not serving as a companion to her half-sister, she is tirelessly attending to the sick in her clan. Amelia has plans to find her mother's people in the Highlands and is about to embark on her journey when she is waylaid by the arrival of fearsome warriors. One warrior, they call 'the Beast', rouses her ire and sets her heart racing at the same time. Book 2: Handfasted to the Bear - Brodie 'The Bear' Fletcher is a ladies' man through and through. A legendary warrior on the battlefield, his conquests in the bedchamber are equally renowned. He is his own man. He belongs to no one. But a trauma from his past has him questioning his life trajectory. As Head Guardsman of the War Band to Chieftain Beiste MacGregor (Book 1), Brodie is often in the company of an infuriating mixed-race bowyer named Orla who challenges him at every turn. With the threat of Viking raiders from the North, Brodie finds himself at the mercy of the very woman who threatens to steal his heart. Orla 'the Orphan' has loved Brodie Fletcher for as long as she can remember, but he never once noticed her. Abandoned on the doorstep of 'Morag the Oracle' she was raised with the MacGregor clan. A master huntress and trusted advisor to the chieftain's wife, Orla is a constant thorn in Brodie's side, with her razor-sharp wit and waspish tongue. Everything changes when Jarls from the North stake their claim. They will all discover firsthand what happens when you poke the Bear. Book 3: Pledged to the Wolf - Dalziel 'the Wolf' Robertson is an enigma with many secrets. Part English and part Scots, he is silent, calculating, and deadly. The traits one needs to be the Red King's assassin (Book 2). Estranged from his mother's side, he abhors all things English, and with the exception of his inner circle of brothers and the occasional mistress, he is content to live a reclusive life. That is until he finds himself pledged to an English wallflower with a notorious reputation for being extremely dull. For some reason, she intrigues him and threatens his resolve. Among the gentry, Clarissa Harcourt is considered to be a quiet, proper, boring wallflower. Finding herself in impoverished circumstances, she agrees to wed an unknown Scottish Highlander for a year and a day. It will be a marriage of convenience, enabling her to maintain her ruse because Clarissa has secrets of her own. Secrets that will place her life and heart at risk. Bonus Book - Arrowsmith: The MacGregors Book 1 - This is a spin-off novella and the love story between Ewan Arrowsmith and Beth. It's a second chance at a love story that will melt your heart. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam.

Download or read book Pledged to the Wolf Historical Romance written by Elina Emerald and published by Elina Emerald. This book was released on 2021-01-20 with total page 234 pages. Available in PDF, EPUB and Kindle. Book excerpt: Dalziel 'the Wolf' Robertson is an enigma with many secrets. Part English and part Scots, he is silent, calculating, and deadly. The traits one needs to be the Red King's assassin (BOOK 2). Estranged from his mother's side, he loathes all things English, and with the exception of his inner circle of brothers and the occasional mistress, he is content to live a reclusive life. That is until he finds himself pledged to an English wallflower with a notorious reputation for being extremely dull. For some reason, she intrigues him and threatens his resolve. Clarissa Harcourt is considered a quiet, proper, boring wallflower among the gentry. Finding herself in impoverished circumstances, she agrees to wed an unknown Scottish Highlander for a year and a day. It will be a marriage of convenience, enabling her to maintain her ruse because Clarissa has secrets of her own. Secrets that will place her life and heart at risk. If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, royal intrigue, wallflowers and broody possessive males, then you'll enjoy this book. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam. *** Prologue 1043 River Tay, Scotland Dalziel Sidheag Robertson, otherwise known as ‘The Wolf,’ had witnessed much death in his thirty-two years on earth. Most of it was administered by his own hand. As the Red King’s assassin, he wielded his daggers with precision. A silent, deadly force. None of his targets saw or heard him coming until it was too late. His identity had remained a closely guarded secret, as his legend grew in notoriety. Being marked by the Wolf was akin to being marked by the devil himself. Such was the fear he evoked. But someone other than his brothers and closest contacts now knew his secret. Dalziel stared down at the bloated corpse lying beside the River Tay. He held a cloth over his nose to prevent the stench from seeping into his pores. This was the third Angles contact who was murdered before Dalziel could speak to him. The murderer left another perfumed note written in French. It was pinned to the man’s clothing. The message the same as the previous ones. “Je me sens seul. Louve”- I’m lonely. She-wolf Dalziel clenched his jaw in anger. He vowed whoever ‘She-wolf’ was, he would do everything in his power to eliminate the threat. *** Chapter 1 – The Search for a Wife Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh, Northumbria This whole wife hunting business was giving Dalziel a headache. But he had no choice. He was in Northumbria now. A place he detested, on a mission for King Macbeth, and he needed to shackle himself to an English wife with exacting specifications so as not to arouse suspicion. Like everything else in his life, it all came down to precision. Or you were dead. Dalziel turned to his chamberlain and clerk, Rupert, and asked, “How goes the search?” Rupert replied, “I have found some women who could meet your requirements.” Mrs. Armstrong, Dalziel’s Scottish housekeeper, walked in with a tea tray and began setting refreshments out for the men. “What requirements would those be, me lord?” she asked. Dalziel replied, “I want a quiet woman above reproach, excellent reputation. Plain and unobtrusive. Twould be preferable if she had a brain in her head and I want her to behave and dress respectably. “You forgot to mention ‘walks on water and performs miracles’ as well.” Mrs. Armstrong smirked as she continued serving tea. Dalziel gave her a stern look, which she ignored as she placed a scone on his plate. Rupert said, “I’ve narrowed the list of contenders to five such women.” “With criteria like that, I’m surprised ye found any,” Mrs. Armstrong muttered under her breath. Dalziel scowled at his impertinent housekeeper and bit into his scone, then tried not to groan because it was delicious. She had topped it with his favorite potted cream and jam preserve. He realized that was the only reason he put up with her, and the blasted woman knew it because she gave him a smug smile. “First name on the list?” Dalziel asked Rupert after he inhaled his scone and gestured for Mrs. Armstrong to serve him another. “Delia Crawford, nineteen—” “Too young. Next,” Dalziel interrupted. Rupert moved down the list. “Abigail Foster, two and twenty…” “Go on.” “Daughter of a Baron, currently widowed.” “Widowed? So young?” Dalziel inquired. “Her beau fought in the Welsh Battle at Rhyd Y Groes and never returned.” Dalziel filed that information away and asked, “Character traits?” “Quiet, pleasant, although there is a hint of scandal.” “What kind of scandal?” Dalziel raised his brow. “Tis rumored she had an affair with—” “Next,” Dalziel said. Rupert continued. “Mary Trench, three and twenty, daughter of a peer, biddable, quiet, no scandal.” “Finances?” “Independently wealthy, attractive, many suitors vying for her han—” “Next. I dinnae want to be calling out love-sick beaus.” Dalziel dismissed yet another contender. “Harmony Durham, four and twenty, daughter of a merchant, excellent reputation, quiet—” “And thick as two planks of wood.” Mrs. Armstrong snorted, then realized she had spoken aloud. She quickly made her way out the door. Dalziel rubbed his forehead. “Continue,” he said. “There is no more, my lord. This is the fifth list where you have rejected every prospective bride, but I can keep searching.” Dalziel sighed. “Aye, please do. There has to be someone in this blasted shire who satisfies my conditions.” Sometime later, after Rupert left, Dalziel was sitting in his study when Mrs. Armstrong hovered in the doorway. “Might I suggest something me lord?” “Would it make any difference if I said no?” Dalziel asked. “None whatsoever,” she replied as she strode across the room and took a seat. “Do make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said sarcastically. “Thank ye, I shall. Now then.” She sat forward as if imparting some secret wisdom. "I think ye have been going aboot this wife hunting the wrong way. Ye need to go out into society and meet women to judge for yourself.” “Mrs. Armstrong, I dinnae have time to prance about searching for a wife. Tis why I pay Rupert to do it for me. Macbeth wants me back in Scotland. My chieftain needs me back in Scotland and I cannot let them down.” “Who chooses your horses, me lord?” Mrs. Armstrong changed tack. “I do.” “Why is that? Why not pay someone else to find them for ye?” “Because horses are a tremendous investment. I ken what I want, and I am an expert on horseflesh.” “Surely a wife is an even greater investment, and unless ye want to put her in the stables with the horse, she will live in this house alongside ye. Would ye not want to make sure ye choose the right one?” “She may live here, but I dinnae intend to spend any time with her. I have enough trouble in Alba to contend with.” “So, ye would trust a stranger ye ken nothing aboot, to live here, among all your secretive things?” She waved her hand about his study. “While you hie off to the Highlands?” Dalziel thought about it. It would be remiss of him not to at least scrutinize his future wife before deciding. Maybe it was something he needed to do himself. “Aye, point taken, Mrs. Armstrong. I’ll speak to Rupert to arrange a dinner where I can meet these ladies.” Mrs. Armstrong grinned. “Tis settled then.” “What is?” “There’s an assembly held by the ealdormen in town tonight. I prepared your bath and clothes in your chamber. The stable boy has already brought your horse around and Mr. Rupert will meet ye there.” She took her leave. Dalziel watched her disappear down the hallway before he chuckled and shook his head. Mrs. Armstrong should be an assassin. *** Driftwood Cottage, Bamburgh, Northumbria Clarissa Harcourt dug her hands in the dirt and pulled out more potatoes. “Yes!” she shouted in defiance. “We shall eat a veritable feast tonight, Ruth.” She grinned at her cook. “Where are yer shoon?” Ruth asked. “You know I dislike wearing shoes. I prefer to feel the grass under my toes and the wind in my hair,” Clarissa replied, doing a quick pirouette in the dirt. “And the ague in your bones if ye’re not careful,” Martin, Ruth’s husband, said while pulling out more potatoes. “Tis not a done thing to be roaming about the countryside like a wee sprite.” Ruth admonished. “Now Ruth, you flatter me, but I am not a sprite. My hips are too wide.” Clarissa responded with a wink. The couple laughed. They were in their fifties and had been with Clarissa’s family for years. They were the last remaining servants who stayed on after Clarissa and her brother Cedric had inherited a mountain of debt from their late father. “Ruth, mayhap you can make us a tasty potato pie?” “I can do that, Mistress,” Ruth replied cheerfully, “and we can add some cabbage to it.” Clarissa glanced at the lifeless cabbage Ruth was holding up and tried not to grimace. She turned to Martin and asked, “How did you get on at the docks?” “There is still no word on the shipments or Cedric. Something does not feel right,” Martin replied. “I agree. We have never gone this long without a word before. If something is not done soon, we will have to move our precious cargo and find some much-needed funds.” Martin said, “I have asked at the mill, and they’ve agreed to take me back on half-pay if I apologize. It willna be much, but it will tie us over until we hear from Cedric.” “Absolutely not, Martin. That mill owner is a cheating sack of coo dung! You should not apologize for calling him out on it.” Clarissa stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “I still have pieces of jewelry I can sell to get us out of this bind.” Clarissa touched the gold chain around her neck. It was all she had left of her mother, but she could not be sentimental when they were about to starve to death. “Mistress ye cannot sell yer ma’s precious necklace, tis all ye have to remember her by,” Ruth exclaimed. “Memories will not feed us, Ruth. We need to eat, and we need to survive. Others depend on us now. Let us pray that the good lord above delivers up a miracle.” No sooner had she spoken than she saw the unwelcome sight of someone approaching. Clarissa abandoned all thoughts of food, looked towards the house, and cringed. Ruth and Martin moved closer to stand behind her. No doubt for support. “Ah, Mr. Snape, what a surprise to see you,” Clarissa said in greeting. Edmund Snape was a wealthy merchant and the tithing-man for their collective. It was his role to ensure each family contributed their share to the common group. He was a lanky coxcomb with a skeletal frame and greasy blond hair. Clarissa knew he was there to collect their debt. There was no way she could pay it. Not after the lean winter and the added expenses. Snape ran his beady eyes the length of Clarissa. She schooled her features even as he lingered too long upon her chest. “I am here to collect your contribution.” He spoke with a hissing voice. To Clarissa, he sounded like a snake. Snape the snake. She repeated in her head before saying, “Mr. Snape, as I have discussed with you before, I must await my brother Cedric. Tis he who oversees our family contribution. Snape was skeptical. “What about the frankpledge? If tis not paid, the whole collective will suffer. I will have to involve the shire-reeve in the matter.” Clarissa hid her emotion. The last thing she needed was a Reeve and law enforcer poking about their business. “Please Mr. Snape, tis unnecessary to involve anyone, I just need more time. My brother—” “We all ken your brother has abandoned you.” Snape hissed. “Tis not true. Cedric will be home soon, and he will set things to rights.” Clarissa was trying to keep her anger in check. She hated Snape. Clarissa could easily crush his windpipe if she wanted to, but that would only attract unwanted attention and discretion was key. Snape leaned in and whispered in her ear, his fetid breath brushing against her neckline. “Ye know my terms. Ye need only warm my bed and I’ll cover the debt.” Martin was raising his fist to punch Snape, but Clarissa stayed his hand and stepped back. “Thank ye for your kind offer, Mr. Snape, but I must decline.” “Ye’ll come around soon. I always get what I want, Clarissa…” “She’s Miss Harcourt to you, you skamelar!” Ruth angrily bit out. He laughed out loud. “You think yourselves better than us, but look at ye now, just poor sods playing in the dirt.” With those words, he stomped on the potatoes with his shoe, crushing them into the ground. Clarissa stared in horror at the remnants of what would have been their supper. Snape’s eyes raked her once over and he said, “Ye have a sennight' or ah’ll be collecting your debt another way. Enjoy your supper, Miss Harcourt,” he sneered, then left. When he was no longer in sight, Ruth asked, “What are we going to do, Mistress?” “We need to find Cedric. I’ll speak to Harmony tonight, mayhap she has heard from him. I know he loves her and if there is anyone, he would contact it would be her,” Clarissa replied. “But she’ll be at the town assembly, tis too risky to talk of matters there.” “Do not fret Ruth, I’ll bathe and wear my best dress so I can blend in.” Clarissa turned to Martin and asked, “Can you accompany me into town?” “Aye Mistress, of course,” he replied. *** Town Hall, Bamburgh From the moment Dalziel entered the assembly, several women and their mothers accosted him. It would appear everyone was expecting him and eager to make his acquaintance. “What the devil did you tell these people, Rupert?” He tried to feign a smile while talking through gritted teeth. “I just let it be known you are a wealthy Thane from the Highlands, and you desperately need a suitable wife.” “You did what?” Dalziel frowned. “How the hell can I meet anyone if I keep getting attacked by women with embroidered handkerchiefs?” He plucked out several surreptitiously tucked into his coat and dropped them on the floor. Rupert just shrugged. It was an hour later when Dalziel could finally extricate himself from a group of marriage-minded mothers and their desperate offspring. He quickly made his way out to the hallway to get some fresh air. That was when he saw her. She had vibrant colored auburn hair tied back in a severe bun, although the curls seem to struggle for freedom. Her eyes were green and glittered like emeralds. She stood against a wall beside a woman with raven black hair and they appeared to be talking in urgent whispers. He thought her unremarkable. Her clothing was modest and her face unpainted. Average height, nicely curved and rather plain, but those eyes captured his attention. They sparkled with intelligence and amusement despite the serious frown on her face. He began circling. Dalziel asked Rupert, “Who is that woman?” “Clarissa Harcourt.” “Husband?” “None.” “Why was she not on the list?” Dalziel asked. “I thought her a bit too long in the tooth.” “How old?” “Eight and twenty,” Rupert replied. Dalziel was glad she was closer to his age. “What of her family?” he asked. “Father was a Marquess, her mother was a foreigner, merchant class.” Rupert turned up his nose at the word foreigner. “She has one brother, although no one has seen him, for some time.” Dalziel kept watching Clarissa and her friend. Both women were becoming agitated about something. “What is she like?” “Wallflower, boring, horrendous to be around.” “How do you ken that?” “Tis just what most gentlemen say about her, especially ones who have tried to woo her in the past. Lord Chamberlain and Lord Lancet over there.” Rupert nodded towards the two men on the other side of the Hall. “They say she is dull as ditchwater.” “I see. And the woman beside her?” Dalziel asked. “That is Harmony Durham. She was on the list you rejected.” “Ah, the one Mrs. Armstrong believes to be a dunce. How do they ken each other?” “Alas, my lord, I know nothing more about Miss Harcourt other than what I have told you.” “Then I shall have to find out for myself. Introduce me.” Dalziel nudged Rupert with his elbow. “My lord?” Rupert stammered, slightly taken aback. “I’d like to ken her better, see if she is suitable. Introduce me.” “But… but surely there are—?” “There are what, Rupert?” “Prettier… younger, options.” Dalziel felt affronted by Rupert’s words and glared. “Rupert, I suggest you stop degrading my potential future wife before you find yourself unconscious on the floor.” “So sorry, forgive the impertinence. I will organize an introduction at once.” Dalziel watched Rupert make his way across the crowded room, but before Rupert reached the woman in question, she had inched her way to a side entrance and disappeared. *** Clarissa So that was the wild Highlander. Clarissa felt unnerved by the meticulous attention he was paying her, but she ignored it. When she had come to the assembly, her only thought was to get word to Harmony then leave. But everywhere she turned, all anyone could talk about was a mysterious Scottish thane in want of a wife. Then, when he entered the room, Clarissa held her breath in astonishment. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and he vibrated raw, virile energy until it was overwhelming. He towered above the other men and wore expensive English attire. The way he filled his clothes, especially his trews with strong lean thighs, made other men seem like spineless nothing. He had long blonde hair parted and braided on both sides with leather ties through the braids and leather bands on his wrists. His hands were large and rugged, not soft and effeminate like other men, and his skin had been kissed by the sun. He made her heart race. When he scanned the room, she leaned back into the shadows along the wall and observed him from the safety of her vantage point. He reminded her of a predator. He did not walk he stalked, and his keen assessing eyes missed nothing. Clarissa felt a slight pang of jealously when he was approached by so many beautiful women. She glanced down at her shabby dress and shook her head. Clarissa was no young miss in bloom, and her outfit, once the height of fashion, was now outdated by several seasons. She was far too plain and poor to interest such a man. Melancholia settled over her once more. She needed to stop these fanciful thoughts. There were much more important matters to attend to. People’s lives were at stake, and she had to get this done and leave. Clarissa focused on her brother’s sweetheart, Harmony. She always had to break matters down for Harmony because, as passionate as Harmony was for the Cause, she was not very bright. “Harmony, have you heard any word from Cedric? Anything at all? Even about the shipments?” “No, nothing, not even a letter. I am most upset that he has shown no regard for my fragile feelings.” Harmony pouted. “Then we must change our plans. I will be at the docks tomorrow night and if anyone asks about Cedric, please tell them you have seen him at your townhouse, and he is well.” “But I have not seen him, Clarissa. I thought that was what we just established.” Harmony stared at her like she was daft. Clarissa was growing frustrated. She often wondered what Cedric saw in Harmony because, after two minutes in her company, Clarissa wanted to bludgeon her to death. “I know that, and you know that, but the shire-reeve does not know that. He has been keeping watch over our movements,” Clarissa explained. “Oh, so you need me to lie for you and pretend that I have seen Cedric?” “Yes, just this once, and I’ll never ask it again. I would not even ask it now if I did not have the tithing-man breathing down my neck. Until I find Cedric, people need to believe he has not abandoned the Cause.” “And this will help the Cause?” “Yes, it will, Harmony. Please, just do this one thing.” Harmony twirled her hair with her finger, then nodded. “All right, Clarissa. I shall be proud to lie on your behalf.” She giggled. Clarissa sighed. These were desperate times. “Thank you, Harmony, but please try not to tell people you’re lying.” “Oh, of course not, tis our secret.” Harmony tapped her nose and winked twice. When Clarissa glanced around the hall, she noticed the Highlander had moved and was now speaking to someone else. They were both glancing in her direction. She stared at a distant point in the ceiling so as not to make eye contact. “Can I dance now?” Harmony asked. “Aye, of course. Thank you again,” Clarissa replied. Harmony smiled. “Tis my pleasure.” They parted ways. Clarissa slipped through the side entrance. It was time to leave. But first, she was going to peruse the supper table. No point in having all that food go to waste. *** The Supper Table Dalziel stalked his prey from the shadows. It had taken him a while to guess Clarissa’s destination, but now she was alone at the supper table, while everyone was busy dancing in the hall. He watched her covet the fare, lick her lips before she pulled out a piece of cloth, and wrapped an assortment of food in it. She then placed her haul into her reticule. It was all done in a very ladylike fashion. Anyone staring from afar would not even notice. Once her bag was full, she grabbed a tart, took a bite out of it, closed her eyes, and moaned. Dalziel went rock hard instantly. He had never been so turned on watching a woman eat before. She ate the rest of the tart, wiped her lips discreetly, then moved away from the table. Before he could gather his scattered thoughts, she turned and slipped out another door leading towards the stables. *** Clarissa walked at a brisk pace down the dimly lit path. Her reticule was full, and the tart had taken the edge off her hunger. Her mind was already ticking on the many things she needed to accomplish. She spied Martin milling about inside the stables with the other men. She just needed to get to him, and they could leave. Clarissa stopped in her tracks and stiffened. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as the looming sight of Edmund Snape stepped out in front of her to block her pathway. “Well now, what do we have here? You’re looking vera fine tonight, Miss Harcourt,” he rasped. “Thank you, Mr. Snape. I was just on my way home, but you best hurry or you’ll miss the festivities inside.” Clarissa sidestepped to the right to get around him, but he moved as well and blocked her path. She sidestepped to the left, and he moved in unison. “Please move out of my way, sir,” she demanded. “Now why would I do that when a pretty woman stands before me, begging to be taken in hand?” Clarissa snorted while staring at Snape’s effeminate, skeletal fingers. She realized her mistake when his hand shot out and gripped her wrist, pulling her towards him. His fingers dug into her skin and it hurt. Clarissa cursed the confines of her garment. If it were not the only decent gown she had left, she would think nothing of tearing it so she could kick him in the groin. She tried to wriggle free, but he was too strong. The other alternative open to her was to drop her reticule and throat punch him, but she preferred to eat tonight and refused to risk her supper for any man. “Unhand me,” she said in anger. But it was no use. Snape was pulling her towards him. His other hand latched onto the back of her neck. Clarissa grimaced, knowing he was going to kiss her. “Let go of me!” She was struggling to break free and resisted the pull. He dipped his head and was moving his narrow lips towards hers. Clarissa scrunched her eyes shut. Her only alternative was to headbutt him and possibly break his nose. She was preparing to do just that when she heard a menacing voice in a Scottish brogue demand, “Let her go or you will die where you stand.” Snape immediately released her. Clarissa stumbled backward and came up against a solid chest. She opened her eyes and found herself ensconced within the Highlander’s arm. His front to her back, one arm banded around her waist, holding her tight against his body while his other arm was outstretched. He wielded a long dagger. The sharp tip of the blade rested on Snape’s neck. If Snape moved even an inch, the blade could kill him. “Touch her again and I will kill you,” Dalziel said. Snape paled and began sweating profusely and trembling. “Me lord, tis a misunderstanding is all,” Snape replied. Dalziel kept his eyes on Snape and asked, “What would you like me to do with this one?” Clarissa was still reeling from the heady sensation of being held so intimately by the Highlander before it registered that he was asking her a question. She tilted her head and stared up at his firm jawline. “Would stabbing him in the groin be asking too much?” she asked. Dalziel immediately glanced down and had to catch his breath as his eyes clashed with emerald-colored ones. He realized he was wrong in his earlier estimations. She was not plain at all; she was exquisite, and her eyes danced with amusement. His face split into a wide grin, and he burst out laughing. The movement caused the tip of his blade to nick Snape’s neck and draw blood. “Me lord!” Snape screeched. “You’re cutting me.” Dalziel turned back to Snape and replied, “Och, so I am.” He sheathed his dagger. “Leave now before I cut you some more.” Snape turned and ran. Dalziel continued to hold Clarissa as they both watched Snape stumble towards his horse, trip and fall over, then get up and keep running. Clarissa breathed in Dalziel’s masculine scent. She wanted to burrow deeper into his arms, but it was a public place, and she soon came to her senses. “Thank you. I am most grateful for your help.” Dalziel leaned in closer. He wanted to keep her and bury his face in her neck. But he reluctantly released her when he felt her pull away. Clarissa turned to face him. She appeared nervous and vulnerable. Dalziel felt the need to protect her. He wanted to feed her and make sure she never had to fill her reticule with food. That she never wanted for anything. He mentally shook himself. What the hell was happening to him? He could not afford to get close to anyone. He was dangerous. Dalziel stepped away and put distance between them. His smile disappeared, replaced by a stony stare. He noticed her amusement faded as if a veil descended. Her face became serious as she stepped further away, taking his cue. Dalziel wanted to pull her back into his arms, but again he berated himself for such soft emotions. He was an assassin. His enemies were deadly. No, he needed to stop this now. Rationalize and separate, he kept repeating to himself. “Who was that man?” he asked. “He is the tithing-man, Edmund Snape, and a neighbor. Twas a misunderstanding is all.” Dalziel was skeptical. He would gather details later. Silence filled the space between them as they gazed at one another. Rupert shattered the quiet. “Miss Harcourt, I see you have met Lord Stanhope. I have been searching for you both everywhere.” “Tis Dalziel Robertson, Stanhope is a mere title,” Dalziel said. “Pleased to meet you, my lord. I am Miss Clarissa Harcourt.” She reached out her hand in greeting. Dalziel instantly took it and bowed over it. “Twould seem your introductions are no longer necessary, Rupert,” Dalziel grumbled. Rupert blushed at his tardiness and the reprimand. A young woman requesting a dance had waylaid him and he forgot his task altogether. “Do you need an escort home, lass?” Dalziel asked Clarissa. “No, tis all right. My steward is waiting just in the stables. I should go. He will worry.” Dalziel nodded and watched her leave. A strange feeling came over him. He did not like it. He could not fathom why she had such an effect on him. Then he decided. He would not marry her. She made him feel too much, and what he needed was a marriage where he felt nothing. Dalziel had vowed that he would not repeat the mistakes of his father. Nothing good ever came from loving an English woman. He should know. His mother was one, and it almost destroyed their lives. Clarissa Harcourt was dangerous. Dalziel sent one of his men to ensure Clarissa made it home safely. It was the least he could do. Then he returned to the hall and tried to clear his mind of the tempting vixen. That night Clarissa, Martin, and Ruth filled their bellies with fancy fare Clarissa had smuggled in her bag. When she slept, she dreamed of a naked Scotsman ravishing her on the dance floor. Meanwhile, a few miles away, Dalziel tossed and turned in his bed, dreaming of a luscious auburn-haired nymph with green eyes having her way with him as he slept. *** Chapter 2 – Precious Cargo Dalziel’s Study, Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh “You do not want to marry Miss Harcourt?” Rupert asked. “Aye, she is not suitable,” Dalziel replied. “But you seemed taken with her last night.” “That was last night. Today is today.” “Do you wish for me to make a new list?” “No, I have found someone else.” “Who?” Rupert asked, surprised. “Harmony Durham. She seems a simple sort who will fit the role nicely.” Dalziel felt the weight of Rupert’s judgment. But he did not need to explain himself to anyone. Mrs. Armstrong barged her way into Dalziel’s study. “So, how did it go at the assembly, me lord?” “I met a woman who I will call upon tomorrow with an offer.” “Are you sure you won’t reconsider Miss Harcourt?” Rupert asked. “You met Clarissa?” Mrs. Armstrong perked up and clutched her pearl necklace. Rupert gave Mrs. Armstrong a knowing glance and said, “Not only did he meet her, but they were having a very private talk outside in the dark, just the two of them.” “Och, really? That is wonderful. What did she say? What was she wearing?” Dalziel snapped, “Mrs. Armstrong, I have a pair of balls in case you failed to notice and will not be drawn into some ladies' gossip hour.” Mrs. Armstrong seemed to deflate. “No need to be crude, me lord. I just like the lass. Tis a pity about her reduced circumstances.” Dalziel wanted to ask her what she meant, but Mr. Bell, his steward, interrupted them to announce a visitor. “My lord, Mr. Arrowsmith is here to see you. He came via the alley way.” “Thank you. Send him in.” A few moments later, the imposing figure of Highlander Ewan Arrowsmith filled Dalziel’s doorway. Ewan was the same height as Dalziel, with a solid build. He wore his plaid with pride and was armed with a vast array of weaponry. Arrowsmith was a spy for Macbeth and one of Dalziel’s trusted contacts in Northumbria. He was also an exceptional bowyer and often disguised his activities, working in various guilds across the country. For him to seek Dalziel in daylight meant whatever message he had was important. Rupert and Mrs. Armstrong excused themselves from the room as Arrowsmith entered and sat down. Dalziel poured them both a dram of whiskey and shut the door. “What news have you?” “There has been another murder and another note,” Arrowsmith said with a Scottish lilt to his baritone voice. “Damn it to hell,” Dalziel cursed and began pacing the room. “When?” “Last night. One of my men met a servant of Earl Siward. We found him at the docks this morning with his throat slit and the French message pinned to his shirt.” “What led him to seek this servant?” Dalziel asked. “Rumor is Siward is siding with Malcolm of Cranmore and making moves to force a war with Macbeth. An ambush of sorts.” “Any news of this servant now?” “Vanished.” “Male or female?” “Female.” “Something is off about all of this. Someone kens our every move before we even make it,” Dalziel said. “Which leads me to believe…” “The enemy is one of our own.” Arrowsmith finished his sentence for him. “Aye,” Dalziel replied. “We should make inquiries at the docks tonight. Someone must have seen or heard something.” Arrowsmith nodded in agreement. Dalziel changed the subject and asked, “What do you ken of a tithing-man, Edmund Snape?” “Cunning, unscrupulous coward,” Arrowsmith replied, then downed the shot of whiskey. “Why do you ask?” “I caught him trying to attack a young lady last night.” “The bastard! Which lady?” “Clarissa Harcourt. Do you ken her?” “I’ve seen her about town. She is a quiet one. Keeps to herself but I’ve always thought her vera bonnie with nice curves.” Dalziel growled. “You’ve been staring at her curves, have you? You think she’s bonnie, do you?” He glared at Arrowsmith. “Depends.” “On what?” “On whether you’re going to hit me if I say aye.” Arrowsmith gestured towards Dalziel’s clenched fists, which were primed for a fight. Dalziel immediately relaxed. He was not sure what had come over him, but hearing Arrowsmith, the braw bastard, talk about Clarissa’s curves made him see red. “Mayhap we should discuss the docks and stay clear of discussing your woman for now.” “She’s not my woman,” Dalziel snapped. Arrowsmith raised his hands palm up in a show of surrender. “All right, calm down. I was only jesting.” He studied Dalziel with curiosity. He had never seen the man show any kind of emotion before, especially over a lass. *** Dockside, Bamburgh, Northumbria It was 2 am, and Clarissa and her men were in place. With no sign of her brother Cedric, she moved their precious cargo under the cover of darkness. They crouched beside large barrels outside the dockside brothel and waited for the coast to clear. She wore her usual attire of trews, tunic, and boots. Her normally unruly hair bound tight and pinned to a cap. All of them had their faces smudged with dirt and soot to blend in. Jean-Luc, her cousin, disappeared inside the brothel, then came out a few minutes later with three women and two small children. Clarissa calmed their fears as Pierre, Jean-Luc’s brother, rushed them to the waiting boat. “Where are the others?” she asked Jean-Luc. “They will not leave for fear o’ Goldie,” he replied. Goldie was a vicious Irishman. He owned the docks, and he was not a man to cross. “What do you mean, they will not leave?” Clarissa asked with urgency. “Tis all or nothing.” “Mistress, something is not right, tis too quiet, we need to go now,” Martin said. He had his eyes fixed on the brothel. Clarissa was just about to agree when Toby, their lookout, came running around the side of the building yelling, “Go! Go!” A distance away, she spotted five large men giving chase. Pierre jumped into the boat and grabbed the set of oars fastened to the oarlocks. Toby ran past them. He loosened the ropes, then jumped in and took up the second pair of oars. “Get in,” he yelled. “Bugger,” Martin cursed. “Mistress, they’re too close. Go with others. Me and Jean-Luc will hold them off to give you a head start.” “Go Ris,” Jean-Luc demanded. “No, I am not leaving you two.” There was no way she was returning to the cove to explain to Ruth that she had abandoned her husband at the pier. “Mademoiselle, we need to go now!” Pierre shouted, already maneuvering his oars in the water. Clarissa could see the women and children trembling in fear, and she made a split-second decision. Precious cargo. She bent down, pushed the boat away from the dock, and shouted at Pierre to stick to the plan. She heard him cursing at her in French, but he complied. She then faced the attackers, took a fighting stance, and brought her fists up. “I’ll take the short one on the left.” “Guess I’ll take the rest then,” Jean-Luc grumbled. “What am I, chopped liver?” Martin sounded insulted. Clarissa braced as the five men circled them. Martin did not wait he launched straight in, swinging and took down two. They were currently grappling on the ground. The other three attacked at once. Jean-Luc got one in a chokehold while fending off another. The last man headed straight for Clarissa. He swung, and Clarissa ducked and jabbed him in the groin. She watched him wince in pain before she felt the pain explode across her cheekbone as his fist connected with her face. Clarissa cursed, knowing it would leave a bruise. She dodged the next swing he aimed at her, then she ran straight at him and pushed him hard towards the edge of the dock. He teetered before falling backward into the murky waters. She scanned the sea; the boat was a good distance away and disappearing into the dark mist. At least that was one less thing to worry about, she thought. Clarissa ran to help Martin and Jean-Luc, who were contending with the other four. But each time she tried to get a few punches in, Martin and Jean-Luc blocked her path. Bloody hell. She hated it when they tried to protect her. She did what she could between gaps and managed a few kicks and punches. She also monitored the man in the water who was trying to climb into a boat and failing miserably. His only choice would be to swim to shore and that would keep him out of their way. *** Brawling It was a quiet night at the docks as Dalziel and Arrowsmith slunk in the shadows, doing the rounds, asking questions, and handing over coins for information. They were just stepping out of an inn when they heard shouting coming from the pier. “What is it?” Dalziel asked Arrowsmith. “Appears to be a scuffle, four against three, and the odds dinnae favor the three. One of them is a mere lad.” “Aye, tis a most unfair fight. The other two are trying to protect him.” Arrowsmith and Dalziel did not wait. They ran towards the fighting. “What the devil is going on here?” Dalziel yelled. “Mind yer own fancy pants, tis nothing to do with ye,” said a big burly man. “I say different.” Dalziel punched him in the jaw. And all hell broke loose. Clarissa could not believe her eyes when she glimpsed two Highlanders emerge from the darkness. They resembled avenging angels. She recognized them straight away. Dalziel and Arrowsmith, the bowyer from town. She stood mesmerized by their fighting style. The tide soon turned, and her attackers barely escaped with their lives. She was so caught up in awe at Dalziel’s combat abilities, she almost forgot herself. “Bloody hell, Ris, hide!” Jean-Luc scolded her inattention. Clarissa instantly ducked behind Martin when the attackers fled, and Dalziel headed towards her. Dalziel asked, “Are you all right lad? You took a bit of a beating?” Clarissa kept her head down and said in a gruff voice, “Aye, thank ye, me lord. I am hale.” Arrowsmith asked, “You sure? If you need tending lad, we can see to it.” He moved towards her when Martin blocked his path. “Tis grateful we are that ye helped us, me lords. My nephew is vera shy. Takes after me, dearly departed sister, God rest her soul. Gets nervous around strangers.” “Aye, very nervous,” Clarissa grunted in a deep voice. “Why were you set upon?” Dalziel asked. “We’d come for a night at the brothel and for no reason these ruffians attacked us,” Martin replied. “Well, you best leave now. Tis not safe here at night. No doubt they’ll be back with more men if we dally.” Dalziel bid them goodnight and they left. Martin, Clarissa, and Jean-Luc did not hesitate. They fled in the opposite direction, intending to put as much distance between them, Goldie, and the Scotsmen. They had a rendezvous at the cove. *** The Journey Home “Twas it just me, or did that lad look familiar?” Dalziel asked Arrowsmith as they rode home. “Aye, there is something about him. I am sure I’ve seen him before. What did you think of his fighting style?” Arrowsmith asked. “Full of spirit. He even landed a few good hits,” Dalziel replied. “I wonder what they were really doing down at the docks,” Arrowsmith said. “Aye. Twas like they were protecting the lad from us. No doubt it could be a member of the peerage out for a swiving and things went awry.” “I just wonder who they annoyed to earn the wrath of Goldie’s men,” Arrowsmith pondered out loud. “We’ve probably made an enemy of Goldie now as well,” Dalziel replied. “That Irishman has always been my enemy. The fight tonight made no difference,” Arrowsmith said. Dalziel wondered what Arrowsmith meant. He knew there was a bigger story there but would not pry. Arrowsmith guarded his privacy fiercely. As they journeyed home, Dalziel found his mind drifting to Clarissa Harcourt. He had been doing that a lot lately. He wondered what she was doing tonight and what she would think of him brawling on the dockside like a common thug. She would most likely shun him if she knew. Still, he felt exhilarated after a good fight. Usually, he sought the company of a woman after a brawl for a hard coupling. It was probably why Lenora, his ex-mistress, had lasted so long. In his line of work, he often needed release. Lenora was one of the few women who enjoyed a bit of rough play. Dalziel found it interesting he had not seen or thought of Lenora in months, despite her attempts to rekindle a relationship. He wondered if Clarissa could provide him the physical succor he craved after a good fight. Just the thought of her tied to his bed, naked, blindfolded, and under his complete control heated his blood. Damn it. He swore at himself. Why the hell could he not get that bloody woman out of his head? Dalziel was even more determined to get married to Miss Durham soon and return to Scotland before his growing obsession with Miss Harcourt caused him to misstep. *** The Cove It was 4am when Clarissa reached the cove. They had covered their tracks well, and now they had to sit tight for a few days and wait on Cedric. Clarissa was pleased to see the women and children settled, although Pierre, the fiery head of her cousins, was furious and rained a string of expletives in French and English at her for putting her life in danger. “If something happens to you, we lose all. You are the one who keeps things together, Ris! You, and no one else.” Pierre’s voice cracked with emotion. “I am sorry, Cousin, truly I am. I will take better care next time.” She hugged him, which seemed to appease him. “What I want to know is how we were discovered?” Toby asked. “Aye, twas like they were waiting for us,” Martin replied. “Goldie’s men were not supposed to be there at all. Someone knew our plans,” Jean-Luc added. Clarissa’s brow furrowed. The men had a point. Someone had snitched, and it nearly cost them dearly. Until she discovered who it was, they were all in danger. *** Durham Town House, Bamburgh The next morning, Dalziel walked up the stairs to the large townhouse of one Harmony Durham. It was in a busy part of town, with people bustling past. He knew it was time to visit his prospective bride and hopefully formalize a pledge so he could return to his duties in Scotland. He was admitted by a stoic butler and shown into a Drawing Room and waited. It was not long before Harmony appeared carrying a small kitten, and he immediately regretted his decision. “Your Lordship, Lily and I welcome you.” “Lily?” “My kitten. Please say hello or she will feel very neglected.” Harmony pouted and raised the kitten’s paw to shake Dalziel’s hand. Dalziel reluctantly shook it, and the kitten bit him. He gritted his teeth and snatched his hand away. “Aw, I think Lily likes you.” Harmony giggled, oblivious to the hostile hissing stand-off that was taking place between Dalziel and Lily. “Please take a seat.” Dalziel sat and wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this situation. He had never, not once, made a misstep in any decision pertaining to the king’s missions. Until now. Everything about his hasty decision made him second guess his ability to think straight. “Have you come about Cedric?” Harmony asked. “Who’s Cedric?” “Oh, nothing. I thought this was the part where I am supposed to explain…” “Explain what?” “No, wait… now I am confused. Oh, I am making a muddle of things,” Harmony said with a vacant expression. “But tell me, what brings you here?” Dalziel’s instincts were screaming at him to change course. He could not go through with it and he knew it had to do with a green-eyed minx and the hissing feline now sinking its claws into his ankle. “I had actually come to discuss the prospect of a marriage arrangement between us.” “You want to marry me?” Harmony asked, surprised. “No, I mean yes, but before, not now,” Dalziel stammered. Another thing he had never done before. Dalziel had never in his life been double-minded and unsure of himself. He had never experienced indecision. It was crippling. He stood abruptly, pried Lily and her teeth from his leg, and placed her on the chair. “My apologies for the intrusion. I must leave.” He strode out of the room. Harmony followed close on his heels. “Wait, did we just get engaged, my lord?” “No, we did not,” he clipped and marched out the front door, and kept walking. He had just crossed the road when he saw Clarissa walking in the park a short distance away. Speak of the devil. Before he thought better of it, his legs were moving in her direction. When he was closer, he called out, “Miss Harcourt?” She spun around; her hand raised in a fist. She instantly dropped it when she saw it was just him. Dalziel apologized. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.” “Tis all right.” Clarissa smiled. “I thought you were… someone else.” Dalziel peered down at her. Then his entire body locked. He clenched his jaw and his face filled with rage. Clarissa took a step back. “What is the matter?” Dalziel’s hand shot out, and he cupped her chin, tilted her face to the side, and in an angry voice said, “Who. Did. This?” Clarissa blushed. She had forgotten about her bruised cheek courtesy of the dockside brawl. “Was it Snape? I’ll kill him,” Dalziel growled. “No, twas no one. Twas an accident,” Clarissa replied. Dalziel tilted her face to the other side. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He released her chin, then physically turned her around to inspect for himself. Clarissa was feeling self-conscious, given the number of people milling about. She tried to slap his hands away as he turned her again, searching for visible signs of bruising. She said, “No, my lord, but I would appreciate it if you stopped. People are staring.” “Dalziel,” he said. “I beg your pardon?” she looked confused. “You will call me Dalziel.” “I will do no such thing, Lord Stanhope. Now will you please stop touching me tis attracting attention!” Dalziel released her, but he did not step away. Instead, he gently brushed his knuckle across her cheek then whispered, “Who did this to you, mo chridhe?” Clarissa refrained from shivering at his gentle caress. Did he just call her ‘my heart?’ His expression was pained on her behalf, and her heart melted a little. Clarissa reached up and clasped his hand. “Really, tis nothing but an accident. I thank you for your concern, but there is no need.” Her voice was a soft whisper and her message heartfelt. They stood in silence for some time. Then Dalziel took a step back, folded his arms across his chest, his feet spaced apart taking a wide stance. “You will give me a name.” Bollocks! He would not drop it. Clarissa scrambled to make up a story, then stopped herself. Why should she make up a story? She owed him no explanation. She fumed that he was making demands of her when she was minding her own matters walking in a park. “No,” she replied. “What do you mean, no?” He raised an eyebrow. “No, is an easy enough word to comprehend. I have told you it was an accident and that should suffice.” “Well, tis insufficient,” Dalziel said. Clarissa gritted her teeth. “With respect, you are not my brother or my husband, and I do not answer to you. Good day.” She moved to walk past him. Dalziel glared at the defiant wench. She was a spitfire when angry, and she was too thin. She had dark smudges under her eyes and seemed exhausted. He remembered Mrs. Armstrong mentioning something about ‘reduced circumstances,’ and he did not like the thought of her suffering. He also knew the woman needed protection, and right there in the park, Dalziel decided he was going to be the man to take on that role. Mine! said that possessive voice in his head. “Tis Dalziel to you, and while I may not be your brother, I have every intention of becoming your husband, so you best get used to it,” he growled. Clarissa paused and stared at him, mouth ajar. “Now, if you will excuse me, Clarissa, I have matters to attend to and my clerk will be in touch.” Dalziel turned, walked away with determined steps, then yelled over his shoulder, “And I will get that name, Ris.” With those parting words, he left her standing speechless in the park not only because of his husband comment, but also because he had just called her by her nickname. Ris. *** Dalziel’s Study, Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh So, you’re not marrying Harmony Durham now?” Rupert asked Dalziel. “Not a chance.” “What do you want me to do with Harmony’s contract?” “Tear it up. Make a new one.” “Whose name should I place on this new one?” Rupert asked. “Clarissa Harcourt’s,” Dalziel replied. *** That afternoon, Dalziel called his most trusted staff members together to let them know his plans. “Mrs. Armstrong and Mr. Bell, I have found a wife. I would like the chambers and solar prepared for her. When she arrives, you will both guide her in domestic matters. Rupert, you will monitor the working accounts and ensure she has adequate money for all domestic needs. I will sign off on any expenses.” Dalziel paced the floor, then continued. “While she remains under this roof, we will accord her the proper respect as my wife. However, I expect if there is anything unscrupulous about her behavior, you will report these to me.” They all nodded in agreement. Mrs. Armstrong was practically brimming with excitement at the prospect of a wedding. “Oh, tis exciting, me lord. So, what did the lucky lady say when ye proposed?” “Twas not exactly a proposal,” Dalziel replied. Mr. Bell glanced at Mrs. Armstrong, who jabbed him in the side. “Then what was it exactly?” She frowned in confusion. “I told her I was going to become her husband and that she would hear from my clerk.” Dalziel was met with stunned silence from the three of them. Rupert cleared his throat then asked, “So, am I to propose on your behalf?” Dalziel replied, “Aye, you will present her with my terms. I am sure she will accept.” “Pardon me for saying so, but I really thought a man of your caliber had better wooing skills than that,” Mr. Bell scoffed. “I agree, me lord. That would have to be the most unromantic proposal I have ever heard.” Mrs. Armstrong shook her head. Dalziel replied, “I dinnae care about romance and wooing. She will agree because I will make her an offer too good to refuse.” *** Keywords: Book 3, OTT male, French, Anglian, Scottish clans, Assassins, Romantic Suspense, Medieval Empires, action and adventure, Warrior women, King Macbeth, arranged marriage, marriage of convenience, feisty heroines, over the top males, Highland warriors, overprotective males, Highland romance. Fans of the following authors are known to enjoy this Scottish Historical Romance series: Julie Garwood Michele Sinclair Diana Gabaldon Hannah Howell Donna Fletcher Maya Banks Kathryn Le Veque Mary Wine Terri Brisbin

Download or read book Betrothed to the Beast Historical Romance written by Elina Emerald and published by Elina Emerald. This book was released on 2020-06-15 with total page 247 pages. Available in PDF, EPUB and Kindle. Book excerpt: Awarded a B.R.A.G Medallion for Historical Romance. The Reformed Rogues series follows the lives of three fearsome Scottish Highland warriors who form a bond stronger than any blood tie. It is set in 11th Century medieval Scotland during the reign of ‘The Red King.’ RECOMMEND READING BOOKS IN ORDER. Highland Chieftain, Beiste MacGregor is a ruthlessly ambitious warrior with the viciousness of a beast. He has little interest in women beyond the bedchamber. On the order of the Red King, he reluctantly travels with his men to the Lowlands to formalize a Betrothal to a woman from clan Dunbar. He is unprepared for the troublesome but striking clan healer he meets on the way, who not only infuriates him but stirs something deep within his soul. Amelia Dunbar is a clan healer and the illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Dunbar. When she is not serving as a companion to her half-sister, she is tirelessly attending to the sick in her clan. Amelia has plans to find her mother’s people in the Highlands and is about to embark on her journey when the arrival of fearsome warriors waylays her. One warrior, they call ‘the Beast,’ rouses her ire and sets her heart racing at the same time. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam. If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, royal intrigue, and humor then you'll enjoy this book. *** Chapter 1 Healers Cottage, Dunbar, East Lothian, Scotland 1033 Impending death has a smell. Amelia knew this to be true, as the metallic scent of blood overpowered the aromatic herbs that had since lost their potency. She sat in stillness while the midwife bustled around the mud-brick room, her heavy steps leaving footprints on the dirt floor. A cloying haze of smoke and steam from boiling water settled mid-air as lingering sweat and strange odors combined to herald a body giving up its right to life. Amelia had lived fifteen summers and knew that nothing, not the yarrow nor the crushed bog myrtle, could staunch the bleeding. Her mother, Iona, would be dead within the hour. She gazed upon the bed where her mother clung to the still-born body of her baby son. Another bastard for the Earl of Dunbar. Amelia reached out and touched his tiny lifeless fingers; it was then she wept for losing a brother she would never know, and a parent she could not bear to let go. If she had not sensed the shift before, she felt it now. The veil between the two worlds was lifting. The midwife made the sign of the cross, then left the cottage. “Amie,” her mother rasped. “Dinnae cry mo nighean.” Iona moved an errant curl away from Amelia’s face. A gesture that exhausted her. Amelia shook her head in anguish. “No, Ma, please dinnae leave me. I need you.” “Tis my time to go, Love.” “What will I do without you?” Amelia sobbed. “Use your gift. Your healing skills will see you through.” Iona’s breathing became labored, but she pushed on between breaths. “I’ve left you my notes. Tell no one you can read, you ken?” She coughed. Amelia motioned as if to get water. “No.” Iona clutched Amelia’s arm. “There is a letter in my notes and a box for you in the woods. You will need the contents to find your kin. Show it only to them.” “What do you mean? You are my only kin.” “No lass, Highland blood flows through your veins.” Iona was wheezing now and gasping for air. “Promise me, you’ll find them, tis my gift to you.” “Ma, I dinnae understand.” Her mother winced. “Tell them Iona sent you. Promise me!” “I promise, Ma.” Iona released her grip on Amelia’s arm. Her hand lay limp on the bed. Moments later, the door opened, and Amelia’s father, Maldred, Earl of Dunbar, appeared. His facial expression was haggard and etched in sorrow. Maldred collapsed by the bedside. “Iona, mo ghràidh, I am sorry,” he said. He then held the hand of his beloved leman as she took her last breath. Amelia had never seen him cry before. Their eyes met, hers full of anguish and his filled with grief and regret. “I’m sorry, Lia, I swear to you I will do my best for you. I swear it,” he said. With those parting words, Maldred stood and left the cottage. It would be several days before Amelia retrieved the box buried beneath the hallowed tree. It was made of solid oak. Within it lay a folded airisaidh and a crest badge with an insignia on it. A battle axe encircled by branches with the Latin inscription, “Aut Vincere Aut Mori” - Either Conquer or Die. With her heart lighter than it had been in days, Amelia placed the contents back in the box and tucked it under her arm. Somewhere out there in the Highlands, she had a family and someday she would leave this cursed town and find them. *** Dunbar Castle, East Lothian — 1040 If there was one thing Amelia Dunbar knew, it was this; she was never leaving this godforsaken place. After her mother’s death, she found herself tied to the estate with never-ending duties as a clan healer. In addition, Amelia still did not know who her kin were because all inquiries had come to a dead-end. And to make matters worse, her father was at this very moment trying to marry her off to a stinking farmer. Now, by referring to him as such, she did not mean to mock farmers because working with the land is a noble profession. It was the fact said farmer literally stunk. She could smell him from where she stood, and that was a good ten feet away, with the wind blowing in the opposite direction. His name was Angus. He was just shy of forty-nine, with a receding hairline, and every third tooth was rotten or missing. He also had seven children from two deceased wives who had no doubt expired from the stench of his breath. Amelia knew she was no brilliant catch herself. She was not bonnie or graceful or slim like other women her age, but for the love of all things holy, was it too much to ask that a prospective suitor bathed more than once a year? “So, what think you, Lia?” the Earl asked. “He’s a fine catch with fertile land and lots of cattle.” “I’m sorry Da, but no. I dinnae think Angus and I will get along at all.” Amelia waved at Angus, saying a quick “sorry,” then walked away. Exasperated, the Earl followed behind her. “Come now Lia, this is the fifth man you have turned down in two years? I am trying to do my best for you. I promised your màthair on her deathbed.” That was the part Amelia hated the most. Her father’s best was not good enough. Her mother became a pariah because of his best. His best caused his wife, Ealdgyth, to die of heartbreak because he could not keep their marriage vows. His best meant Amelia had to take on more duties because he was rarely home. At two and twenty years old, Amelia was sick to death of her father’s best. *** Chapter 2 MacGregor Keep, Glenorchy, Perthshire, Scotland 1040 Chieftain Beiste MacGregor stood on the rocky outcrop, watching his men spar on the training grounds below. He was six foot five of pure muscle, with broad shoulders and a menacing scowl. A hardened warrior, his body bore the visible signs of battle, including a grotesque scar etched across the left side of his face from temple to chin. His bronzed skin was a vivid contrast against rolling green hills. At nine and twenty, Beiste had spent the better part of a decade fighting the wars of kings and now, he just wanted peace. On Beiste’s right hand stood the equally enormous form of his Head-Guardsman, Brodie Fletcher, and to his left was his Second-in-Command, Dalziel Robertson. Brodie was the charmer of their group, with his handsome features and friendly disposition, but rile his temper, and he was as ferocious as a bear. Dalziel was the quiet one, a keen observer. He was leaner than the other two, but twice as deadly. The three men had fostered together from boyhood and over the years had forged a kinship bond stronger than any blood tie. Ever vigilant, ever alert, they waited in silence for Beiste to speak. “King Duncan mac Crìonain is dead.” Brodie wiped the smile from his face. “How?” “Slain in battle by his cousin, Macbeth mac Findlaích.” “A family feud?” Dalziel asked. “Aye, Thorfinn Sigurdsson of Orkney, aided him.” “I take it Macbeth is now king of Alba,” Dalziel asked. “Aye, twas he who sent the King’s missive requiring my immediate action.” “What does he want with you?” Brodie asked. “I am to marry some wench from the lowlands.” “What?” Brodie looked outraged. “Surely he cannot ask that of you?” Dalziel agreed. “Tis a low blow. Everyone kens you still mourn your wife.” Beiste did not need reminding. It had been two years, but the memory of Caitrin’s death haunted him still. “He can and he has,” Beiste said with anger. “But why?” “Because she is Duncan’s niece.” “Why would he make you marry the niece of the king he just killed?” Dalziel asked. “I dinnae ken, but if I refuse, we forfeit our lands.” The men were silent, processing their options. “And what of Elora?” Brodie asked. “What of her?” “Does she ken you mean to take a wife?” “What I do is none of her concern.” “Are you sure about that?” Brodie looked doubtful. “Aye!” Beiste snapped. “Women have no say over what I do in or out of bed.” Brodie dropped the subject and glanced at Dalziel, who said nothing. They both knew Elora would not welcome the news. Dalziel asked, “When must this be done?” “Within the fortnight.” “Then we best prepare our men. Tis a sennight’s ride to the lowlands,” Brodie said. “But first we let off some steam,” Beiste replied. *** Training Grounds, MacGregor Keep Beiste swung his broadsword with a feral war cry and ran straight towards his opponent. He had already knocked out several warriors and was in the mood to pummel some more. Brodie entered the ring and parried the blow with his square-head axe. Now they were locked in combat. Beiste lifted his targe with his right arm and hit Brodie on the left side of his face. Brodie stumbled backward, but not before he swung his axe towards Beiste’s head. Beiste blocked the axe with his sword and stepped away. The two men circled one another. They had been sparring on and off for close to an hour, neither one tiring nor admitting defeat. Brodie swiped his axe again, this time at Beiste’s legs. Beiste jumped over it as it sliced through the air. He landed on his feet and, in a surprise move, sprinted headfirst and shoulder-charged Brodie. The force pushed Brodie backward so fast he lost his footing, landing flat on his back and winded. Before Brodie could roll away, the tip of Beiste’s sword was suspended and aimed two inches above his neck. “Do you yield?” Beiste asked. “Damn,” Brodie replied. He hated losing. Beiste threw his sword and targe on the ground and offered a hand to Brodie. “Truce?” Brodie agreed and just as Beiste stepped forward, Brodie swiped his legs out from under him. Both men now lay on their backs, blinking up at the sky. It was then Brodie chuckled and said, “Truce.” They lay on the ground for a moment, trying to catch their breath, when Dalziel appeared in their line of vision and threw a bucket of cold water over them. “Get up, lassies, we have packing to do,” Dalziel said, then sauntered away. “That bastard really needs a good swiving,” Brodie grumbled as he and Beiste stood up, shaking the water from their hair and wiping the dust from their trews. When they turned to face their men, there was a wall of women instead. Beiste just scowled and walked away in search of water. Brodie spread his arms wide to greet them, his face split into a fierce grin. “Ladies, I need to quench my insatiable thirst!” he shouted. Brodie was inundated with a bevy of females offering him water cups. He took one and gulped it down, deliberately flexing his muscles in the process to show his side profile to advantage. “You are so braw and strong, Brodie Fletcher,” sighed one young lass. “That I am minx, braw and strong… all over.” Brodie glanced down at his groin, then back at her and winked. She blushed and giggled. A voluptuous brunette then approached Brodie. She smiled when he turned towards her. Holding her bucket of water, she purred, “I offer you the essence of my pail and anything else you wish to partake of, Brodie Fletcher.” Brodie’s smile grew even wider. He could not quite remember her name, but he knew he would take her up on that offer later that night. Beiste was glad to be away from Brodie’s harem. Having women fawn all over him was not something he encouraged. He preferred his women wanton in bed and non-existent outside of it. He could not understand Brodie’s need to charm and seduce every woman within a ten-mile radius. Women were too much effort. *** Morag the Cailleach It was a few hours later, the Keep staff and tradespeople were preparing provisions for their chieftain’s journey. Dalziel, who was to remain and rule in Beiste’s absence, was going over security changes, and Beiste and his War Band of thirty retainers were readying their horses and making final preparations. Beiste was grooming his destrier Lucifer when all chatter ceased as men stared at a point behind him. Some made the sign of the cross, others averted their eyes as the hobbled figure waited. Beiste looked over his shoulder and stared at the wizened form of Morag Buchanan. Her face marred with wrinkles, her hair grey, and the color of her eyes were white. She wore her signature cloak. It was grey like the mist. The men called her ‘Oracle’. Some called her the Cailleach or the hag, for it was rumored she had the sight. But Beiste had never paid mind to superstition. “It seems the witch wants a word with you, Chief.” Kieran, one of his warriors, gestured towards Morag. “Aye, t’would seem so.” Beiste sighed. He put down the grooming brush and turned to face her. He really did not have time for any of her predictions, but he would hear her out. “What can I do for you, Morag?” he asked. “You go to collect your wife, I hear.” “Aye, on the morrow, but she is my betrothed, not yet my wife.” “Whether tomorrow or the next, she is your wife already chosen.” “Is there something you need Morag for I am hard-pressed for time?” He looked impatient. “Och, you young-uns, you never ken in all your rushing aboot that time has already set her trap for you.” Morag was speaking in riddles again, and Beiste did not have the patience for it. “Well then, Morag, unless you have something important to discuss —.” “Patience Chieftain, I only want to give you these for your men.” Beiste accepted the pouch and jar Morag offered, but he furrowed his brow. “What are these?” “Tis rose petals and honey.” “Why the bloody hell would my men need roses and honey?” “Your wife will ken when the time comes.” With that, Morag hobbled away, leaning on her staff. Beiste just looked down at the items and muttered under his breath, “Bloody rose petals?” “Och and Beiste…” “What?” he growled. Her eyes took on an eerie glow, then she said, “Choose well. Our future depends on it.” *** Elora It was the morning of their departure, and the men were all gathered in the bailey. Beiste had taken his leave with his mother, Jonet, and sister, Sorcha. He was just getting the horse tethered when, again; he sensed a movement behind him. Did every woman in this blasted Keep feel the need to speak to him before he left? “Elora,” he grunted. Her smile faltered at his curt tone. Beiste hated this part of dealing with women who wanted more from him than he agreed to give. Elora had warmed his bed months ago. She was the only woman he had been with since his wife’s passing. He found her naked in his bed waiting for him one night and took the pleasure she offered, making no promises in return. Ever since then, she had tried to stake some claim on him. “I heard you will be gone for a few days,” Elora said. “Aye,” Beiste replied, and continued tightening the saddle. “Were you going to tell me?” She looked irate. “I dinnae ken why I have to tell you anything, Elora.” “But I need to ken your whereabouts if I am to help run this Keep.” And there it was. Brodie and Dalziel had warned him. Elora had misconstrued their relationship or lack of one. Beiste stopped and turned to face her. Elora flinched and took a step back. He hated it when a woman cowered before him. He had never, not once, raised his hand to a woman. “Elora, whatever we had lasted only those two nights, months ago.” “But you’ve not taken anyone else to your bed, which means you must have developed powerful feelings for me.” She pouted. “Are you daft? That means nothing. We made no promises.” “But I’ve been keeping myself for you.” “Really?” Beiste raised an eyebrow. “Because I heard you took up with Lachlan three weeks ago.” Elora’s eyes grew wide. “How did you ken that?” “Lachlan asked me what my intentions were towards you, and I told him I had none.” “But I’ve changed my mind. I dinnae want Lachlan. I want you, Beiste. It has always been you.” She flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his middle. Saints preserve him. Beiste had had enough. He removed her arms from around his waist and gently but firmly set her away from him. “No!” he replied. Then he focused back on Lucifer, already clearing his mind of the woman behind him. *** Chapter 3 Belhaven Village, Dunbar - Nine days later Come on, Mary! Stop dawdling. We dinnae have time today,” Amelia said in exasperated tones as she hurried across the crowded streets of Belhaven. One hand clutching a basket now overflowing with seasonal produce, her other hand holding her sister’s tunic so as not to lose her in the crowd. It was Market Day in the village, the busiest day of the month, and there were vendors aplenty. Amelia was there to purchase more seeds for her garden and pick up silks for their seanmhair. Unfortunately, Mary, her half-sister, was dragging her feet. “I dinnae ken why you wouldna let me buy that necklace.” Mary pouted. “The vendor said twas a fair price for the quality and it made my blonde curls striking.” Amelia rolled her eyes as they weaved their way through brightly colored baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. “Mary, he would’ve said the same thing to a muddy pig if he thought it had coin to spare.” Gentling her voice, Amelia tried to placate her sister saying, “Once I get the provisions Seanmhair ordered, we can get some berry tarts.” Mary’s eyes brightened immediately. “Really? I’m famished.” The promise of sweet treats ahead motivated Mary to pick up her pace. The sisters passed stalls selling a vast array of items, from soaps and medicinal herbs and spices to fresh flowers and candy apples. Pigs were roasting over open fires, while merchants peddled their wares of silks and materials from exotic places. Amelia was so glad she had dressed in an ankle-length linen tunic. With the warmer weather and crushing crowds, it kept her cool. She had just purchased their freshly baked berry tarts when Mary started waving at someone in the crowd. “Amelia, I see some of my friends. Can I go sit with them?” “Who are they, Mary?” Amelia asked. “Tis the Frasers, Isobel and her brother Patrick. They come every few weeks to trade.” “Very well, but please mind my basket and you can take my tart to share. Tis not polite to eat on your own in front of others.” Mary’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Amie.” She hugged her and disappeared into the crowd. Amelia continued alone to secure the silks for her grandmother when a vendor stepped out in front of her. He gave her a leery look while licking his lips. “Would you like to come into my tent, lass? I have some cool cider for a pretty one like you.” His plaid looked dirty, his hair greasy, and there was an unpleasant odor wafting off him that caused Amelia to almost gag. Honestly? Amelia thought, how hard was it to bathe when the North Coast Sea was less than two hundred feet away? “No thank you, I dinnae need cider,” Amelia politely refused. He stepped closer to her, crowding her in, and she stepped around him. He was about to lunge at her when the thundering sound of horses was heard through the village. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Even the lecherous vendor turned to look behind him. Amelia took a deep breath. She could feel something coming, its raw energy warning her as the earth beneath her feet rumbled. She spun around. The villagers began muttering and grabbing their children. Some huddled behind their stalls, all eyes on the strangers approaching. They were fierce looking; they wore armor and plaid. Amelia heard a woman gasp, “Tis the MacGregors.” They looked as if they had come straight from battle. Then the same woman pointed and cried, “Tis the Beast!” Amelia looked in that direction and saw him. He was magnificent. The sheer size of him made her shudder. He emanated raw energy. His bronzed skin and black piercing eyes missed nothing. He wore an angry scowl, made even more menacing by the vicious scar across his face. Men of equal size surrounded him, all wearing the MacGregor plaid. Flanking to his right was an equally fearsome warrior wearing animal fur with a battle axe strapped to his back. Amelia stood mesmerized at the sight. It would seem the lecherous vendor had taken the opportunity of Amelia’s distraction to lunge for her again. She tried to keep clear of his grip and instead propelled too far forward; the momentum pushing her directly onto the road and into the path of the riders. She froze and knew they would trample her to death, and oh, the regret that she had not even left this miserable sodding town. Amelia heard a shout ring out from the one they called the Beast; he was riding straight for her. This was it. This was the end. She closed her eyes until she felt a firm arm reach down and sweep her up like she weighed nothing. She opened her eyes to find herself sitting atop a horse, her bottom wedged between strong thighs. The smell of leather and man rattled her senses as she drank in the heady sensation before he yelled, “Daft, wench! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” “What?” Amelia whipped her head around to glare at him but stared at a bare chest instead. The Beiste tightened his hold on her, slowed his horse, then set her down in the clearing. She looked up to offer her thanks when he reprimanded her again. “Watch where you walk, silly chit! You could’ve been hurt or maimed. What were you thinking, just standing in the middle of the road like a stunned cow?” Before Amelia could respond, he continued with his tirade. “Next time do your wool-gathering where it cannot get you bloody killed!” Outraged that she would receive such a set down by a stranger in a public place, Amelia had had enough. Not only did the big brute call her stupid, he called her a cow. A cow! After two and twenty years of having the villagers snicker at her and vile, stinking men grope her, there was no way she was letting an ogre call her a cow. With both hands firmly on her hips, Amelia let fly. “How dare you? You, big ox! You,” — Her finger pointed at him. — “should not ride into a village” — Her finger pointed at the village. — “without a care in the world!” — Both arms went up in the air gesturing the world. — “You could have killed me!” — Both hands went back to her hips — “And just because I have a big arse, it does not make me a cow!” Amelia screeched. She was out of breath, her face was red after that display and standing on the roadside venting her spleen, she had to admit she felt somewhat better. In her mind, Amelia believed she had kept a civil yet stern tongue, but when she looked around and found the entire village silent and everyone staring at her with mouths ajar, she realized she had, in fact, been screaming at high volume. Had she taken the time to think about it, she would have kept her mouth shut altogether. The Beast stared at her for what seemed like an eternity; he raised his hand to signal to his men to stop. They were currently smirking, trying to wipe the amusement from their faces. Beiste dismounted his horse and scowled, his face a mask of tightly controlled rage. He walked towards the woman he now considered a howling wench and, given his height and the length of his legs, it took him two seconds to reach her. Oh bollocks. Amelia’s throat suddenly felt parched, she could feel all the villagers behind her step away. She could already hear the bards singing about her death in a marketplace covered in candy apples, berry tarts, and horseshit. For centuries, she would be the cautionary tale for plump Gaelic women everywhere with acerbic tongues. “Bloody hell!” she muttered to herself. She was on her own. As the Beast approached, her knees trembled. She saw his broadsword sheathed in the scabbard at his side. Was that blood still on his sword? Was that the blood of another mouthy lass who dared to question him in the previous village? The road spun. She felt lightheaded, but she would not yield. Amelia raised her chin slightly. Her mind sifting through escape plans, all of them failing because she could not run without sustaining a serious chafing injury. She was doomed. Amelia looked up. The Beast was standing directly in front of her, staring down. Lud, he was huge. She braced. “The next time a man saves your life, a word of thanks would do, not your damn screaming like a banshee for the world to hear!” He roared the last part of the line. “You,” — His finger pointed at her. — “are damned lucky my men and I,” — His finger pointed at himself and his men. — “dinnae believe in harming women, if you,” — He pointed at her again. — “had challenged anyone else,” — Both his arms gestured around the village. — “who kens what your insolence could have cost you?” — He pointed at her then brought his face closer. — “Have a care for your safety lass, dinnae court danger with your reckless behavior,” he seethed. Amelia thought, for someone who accused others of screaming, he sure did a lot of bellowing himself. The Beast looked at a point behind her and shouted, “Is this your woman? If she is, you need to keep a firm hold of her tongue.” A deep voice with a smooth brogue answered, “No, she is not, but I would still prefer no harm came to her.” Amelia whipped her head back to find Mary’s friend Patrick Fraser a scant distance behind her, standing legs apart, one hand resting on the scabbard of his sword, as if ready to protect her. Bless-ed man. She spotted Mary and Isobel a safe distance away, looking worried. Amelia suddenly felt contrite and embarrassed. Could this day get any worse? “I am sorry. I thank you for saving me,” she responded, feeling genuine remorse and relief that the Beast had not taken her head off with his broadsword. The Beast continued to stare at her for a few moments, then just grunted, shook his head, and walked away. *** Could this day get any worse? Beiste could not believe the wee termagant he had just encountered. He was tired and hungry, and that besom screamed at him like a wild, stuck boar when he had just saved her life. The daft woman needed to reign in that temper of hers before she met with violence. It worried him that the bonnie lass was courting danger. The woman had a death wish. Beiste heard a chuckle from his left and gritted his teeth. Brodie the ass found the whole incident amusing and had not stopped chortling about it since they left the village. Beiste instantly regretted his decision to bring Brodie along. The man was an idiot. As they rode towards Dunbar Castle, Beiste kept thinking on the termagant once more. He noted she looked familiar, a memory from his past, those eyes of hers one brown and one green. He had seen them before. Beiste thought also of her kissable lips and luscious breasts and rounded hips. He had become aroused watching her feisty display. For a screaming banshee, she had a body built to take an enormous man without fear of breaking her. Beiste shook his head to stop the errant thoughts plaguing his mind. It had been too long since he’d had a woman. He was now lusting after some screeching, she-cat. But he would say this; she smelled of lilacs and clean fresh woodlands. If only she was not such a screamer. An even darker thought crossed his mind. What would she be like under him, screaming his name in pleasure? Damn it! He needed to stop this train of thought. Damn wench. *** Keywords: Free book, healer heroine, Scottish clans, Romantic Suspense, Medieval Empires, action and adventure, Warrior women, King Macbeth, Love at first sight, feisty heroines, over the top males, Reluctant hero, Highland warriors. Fans of the following authors are known to enjoy this Scottish Historical Romance series: Julie Garwood Michele Sinclair Diana Gabaldon Hannah Howell Donna Fletcher Maya Banks Kathryn Le Veque Mary Wine Terri Brisbin Joanna Fulford

Download or read book Arrowsmith Historical Romance Novella written by Elina Emerald and published by Elina Emerald. This book was released on 2021-04-19 with total page 118 pages. Available in PDF, EPUB and Kindle. Book excerpt: This is a spin-off (87 pages) to the Reformed Rogues series. Recommend reading series and books in order. As the King's Man in the North, Ewan Arrowsmith walks a fine line between life and death. Deceit and treachery are his constant companions. But there was a time, long ago, when he only knew the truth and the love of a good woman called Beth. Their affair was brief due to a betrayal that led to tragedy. Years later, in a strange twist of fate, their paths cross again because of the interference of Clan MacGregor. Both have suffered in the intervening years. This time they must decide whether a second chance at love is worth risking everything. If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, emotional drama and family secrets, then you'll enjoy this book. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam. *** Chapter 1 – The Past 1036 Edinburgh, Scotland “I will not leave you, Brother, reach for my hand,” Ewan Arrowsmith shouted while desperately trying to help his best friend Robert Wakefield scale the wall. It was too high for Robert’s shorter stature, but Ewan now straddled the top, reaching down, trying to pull his best friend over it. From his vantage point, he could see Goldie’s men running down the side street, closing the gap between them. Robert tried several times but stumbled and could not get a foot up. “No, I cannot reach, you go without me Ewan, lest Goldie catches you too!” Robert yelled resigned to his fate. It was his fault they were in this predicament and running for their lives. Leaving anyone behind was not something Ewan could abide by. He dropped back down from the wall to join Robert on the ground. “What are ye doing?” Robert shouted in anger. “Get back up there!” Ewan ignored him, grabbed him around the waist, and physically threw him upwards. “Reach,” Ewan shouted. Robert grabbed the top of the wall and looked over his shoulder at Ewan. “Get over, Rob! We dinnae have time to waste,” Ewan yelled, aware time was running out. Robert complied and hauled himself up. He then reached down for Ewan. Ewan backed up a few paces, then ran at the wall, and using the momentum he took a step and pushed himself upwards. He clasped Robert’s hand in a firm grip. Then both men scrambled over the wall just as Goldie’s men appeared below. Ewan and Robert landed sure-footed on the other side and sprinted towards the woods. It was another close call and a lucky escape. Once again, it was Ewan who had saved them both from a disastrous outcome. That was the nature of their unlikely friendship. Robert was the wealthy heir of a Northumbrian landowner. Ewan was the son of a Scottish farmer from Kinross. Despite the class and demographic divide, they had remained firm friends since meeting at a guild archery tournament in Inverness. Arrowsmith apprenticed in the forge of a nobleman called Macbeth. Over the years they had helped each other out of a tight bind. But lately, it seemed the older they became, the tighter the binds they found themselves. After running a distance, they retrieved their horses tethered by a copse of trees and tried to catch their breath. They had managed once more to outrun Goldie and his cutthroat crew. Whether it was adrenalin or humor at the situation, both men burst out laughing with relief at their narrow escape. “What the hell made you think you could swindle Goldie?” Ewan asked between gulps of air. “I just figured he would not notice I was cheating.” Robert shrugged his shoulders and chuckled. The two had spent the weekend in Edinburgh drinking and gaming at a local tavern. Both used aliases when they frequented gaming establishments. But this time it almost got them killed. Goldie was a powerful yet unscrupulous proprietor in these parts, and unbeknownst to the two, he owned the tavern Robert tried to swindle. Robert held the winning hand, but he was also cheating, and once discovered, all hell broke loose. “I’ve told you plenty of times Rob, you need to ken your surroundings before you ply your tricks,” Arrowsmith grumbled. “I know, but where’s the fun in that?” Rob replied with a cheeky grin. Once they caught their breath and were sure no one was following them, they set off, this time toward Robert’s home. “You can stay at the estate for a few days and travel home at your leisure,” Robert said to Ewan. Ewan tensed. He did not like that idea. They were not of the same social class. It was one thing to be gaming at taverns together; it was another thing to be sitting at the table of a nobleman. Ewan knew he was not welcome in any of the lavish homes Robert easily gained entrance to because of his birth. Robert noted Ewan’s reluctance and added, “Be at ease, my grandfather has journeyed to Bath. 'Tis only my sister and her chaperone at home. My sister is most likely roaming the countryside gazing at some natural monstrosity.” Ewan relaxed and accepted the invitation. He had been to the Wakefield manor house in the past but never met Robert’s family. Ewan’s father had warned him not to get too close to peers. But seeing as Robert’s estate was closer, he decided it was better to rest there for the night. He could make his way home in the morning. Once they arrived at the estate, they occupied the east wing and continued drinking and carousing. At least Rob was the one doing the carousing with a pair of giggling maids. Ewan was not in the mood to dally. Being in a large house made him nervous and out of place. After an evening of drunken shenanigans, Ewan was finally shown to a guest bedchamber where a bath was drawn for him. One of the serving women made it clear should he need help with his bath, she was willing. Flattered by the attention, he was uncomfortable taking liberties in his friend’s home. Besides, he felt like an imposter and would not take advantage of his host’s goodwill. Arrowsmith turned down her offer, bathed, and slept alone in the largest bed he had ever seen. He decided he would stay an extra day, then hie back to the Highlands. He needed to assist his father with the harvest season and return to Spey Valley in Inverness. *** Beth Elspeth Wakefield, Beth to her friends, was born into power and privilege. From an early age, it was expected she would marry well and carry on the family tradition of Wakefield’s marrying into the royal houses of England. Her grandfather and guardian had deigned it to be so ever since Elspeth’s mother, quit English society, and joined a religious order of Beguines. His eccentric son-in-law then had the nerve to up and die before Beth was nine summers old. The only problem with that trajectory was Elspeth inherited her mother’s zest for life and her father’s disdain for rules. She rarely paid attention to anything her grandfather said. When the strictures of society became too much, she happily lost herself in her paintings, which is why she was up at dawn sitting atop a steep hill sketching subjects from a distance. Her tutor wanted her to learn Romanesque art designs because iconic figures were all the rage. But Beth preferred real-life subjects to depictions of saints. From her vantage point, she sketched the heart of the estate, everyday yeomen and crofters who worked the land and provided domestic service at the manor. It fascinated her that no one thought to capture their lives in paintings. Beth loved colors and had an eye for texture and hues. To create something from nothing was the highlight of her day. She began working on the tools of her trade, mixing earthy pigments with egg tempera to create vibrant, bold colors. Studying her sketches whilst mixing her paints, she was oblivious to the curious feathered creature coveting her tools and waddling closer to her instruments. It wasn’t until a long beak plucked the mixing brush from her fingers and took off running that Beth realized she’d been robbed by a goose. *** Arrowsmith It was early in the morning as Arrowsmith walked the vast estate. Robert was still abed and most likely would not surface for some time. Arrowsmith was never one to sleep in. Years of helping his father with chores on the farm and training with other men at the forge meant he got up at the crack of dawn. A habit he was apt to maintain. Never one to be idle, Arrowsmith woke early, ate a large breakfast, ignored the maids giving him subtle glances, and ventured outdoors. He often marveled at the idleness of noblemen. Even if he were a wealthy man, he could never remain idle. He had a strong work ethic and was reliable to a fault. He was just walking up an incline when he heard a feminine voice cursing and shouting. He also heard intermittent honking sounds. Arrowsmith followed the noise and froze on the spot, not knowing whether to laugh or help because the scene before him was utterly ridiculous. A young woman in peasant garb was battling a goose that had something in its beak. “Damn you, give it back, Esmerelda!” she said with one hand around the goose’s neck trying to wrangle it into submission. Her other hand attempted to pry an item out of its beak. The goose swiped her face with its wings in protest. The more the woman yelled, the louder the goose honked. “Stop it! You know tis not polite to steal my things,” she hissed. The recalcitrant goose struggled out of her grip and pecked her on the backside. She yelped the goose honked. Then it snatched something colorful off her trestle table and ran off with it. Its white feathers slowly taking on a cobalt blue tinge. Meanwhile, the woman was covered in red and green hues. She gave chase and caught the recalcitrant goose again. It honked even louder. Turns out it was a call to arms because Arrowsmith witnessed in disbelief several geese warriors cresting the horizon in defense of their kin. A cacophony of nasal monosyllabic, honking was their battle cry. They immediately set upon the young woman and attempted to peck her to death. He was already moving towards her when he heard a muffled voice say, “Oh no, you will not win! You tiresome creatures.” She held steadfast to the item within the assailant’s beak before she stumbled and disappeared beneath a flurry of feathers and beaks. Arrowsmith spotted a flash of a shapely thigh and ankles before the gaggle swallowed her up. Arrowsmith chuckled as he waded into the heart of the feathery war zone. He narrowly escaped several winged attacks as he wrenched out a disheveled, cursing, hissing, creature with dark brown curls, covered in blue paint and feathers. She came out the victor because firmly clasped in her hand was the object she fought so hard to win. Arrowsmith shooed the gaggle away and the offending goose with an indignant glare upon its avian face honked once more, got one last peck on the woman’s bottom before leading its battalion away. Arrowsmith just stared at her, his eyes shining with restrained laughter. She was a mess. “That blasted bird, thinks she owns the place,” she said as she tried to wipe the paint off her dress and her hands. When she finally looked up, Arrowsmith felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He took a sharp intake of breath and his step faltered because she was a vision. Suddenly he was a shy, untried boy. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, 'tis very kind of you." She smiled at him and held her hand out towards him. Arrowsmith was smitten. He glanced at her hand, then at her, and did not move. “Well, are you going to shake it or just look at it?” she asked. Arrowsmith blushed and shook her hand. “I am Beth. Pleased to meet you.” “I am Ewan, but my friends just call me Arrowsmith.” “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ewan,” she replied, not wanting to presume a friendship so soon. Beth released his hand and returned to her painting tools, trying to clean up the mess the goose left behind. “Are you new to the area, Ewan? I have not seen you in these parts.” Arrowsmith loved the way she said his name. “I am just visiting a friend at the manor house,” he replied. “You are friends with Robert Wakefield?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Aye, I am.” Beth stopped to take his full measure. The lilt of his accent was Scottish. She thought his brogue was very charming, and she was trying hard not to blush because he was very handsome. There was a rugged appeal about him. He was a masculine specimen, like a sculpture chiseled from rock. She wished she could sketch his likeness someday. There was a depth of character in his eyes and his hands showed signs of hard work. Solid hands, solid heart. They remained silent for some time, both trying to think of something to say when Arrowsmith’s eyes lighted on a sketch sitting on a wooden support made of poplar birch. The drawing was exquisite. It was just a charcoal sketch, but she had drawn the exact likeness of the gardener. The artistry mesmerized Arrowsmith. She captured the very essence of the gardener at work. The details in his hands, the lines in his brow, and the dogged determination on his face as he tilled the soil. Arrowsmith thought her talent extraordinary. “Oh, that’s nothing.” Beth blushed and snatched the sketch off the easel and away from his view. “Tis just a… I’m just trialing some new style of drawing.” “Tis verra beautiful, lass. You have an exceptional talent to capture his likeness so well.” Beth was embarrassed at his praise. “Tis not very Romanesque… I should paint more iconic figures.” Arrowsmith said, “I dinnae ken what any of that means, but you have a gift.” She blushed and started fussing with things on her trestle table. “I make a terrible artist. My tutor expects me to study more refined figures.” “Pardon my ignorance, but why?” “Tis what they expect of painters these days.” Beth shrugged her shoulders. Arrowsmith had nothing much to say to that statement. He was fascinated with the tools of her trade. There were two egg yolks on the table and pigments of different colors. “What do you use the eggs for?” he asked. Beth’s face lit up. No one ever asked her about her painting technique. It was nice to talk about art for a change. She could not understand why, but she found it easy conversing with Ewan, and she started blathering on. “I mix the pigments with the egg yolk to create shiny colors for my paintings. The yolk creates a protective barrier so the colors last longer. Tis a cheaper method to using oil.” She glanced at Arrowsmith and noticed he was listening to her intently, as if imagining how the process worked. And that was how Arrowsmith, and Beth struck up a friendship, discussing painting techniques. Eventually Arrowsmith settled on a tree stump beside her and watched as Beth brought color and vibrant life to the gardener’s sketch. Before long, they had fallen into a comfortable conversation about many other topics. Beth became even more animated as she spoke about things she had seen on her travels and Arrowsmith shared about the tools of his trade as a bowyer at the forge. Beth listened with fascination, wishing she could watch him fashion a bow and arrowhead sometime. Arrowsmith knew at that moment he had found the woman he wanted to make a life with. His dream had always been a simple one. To earn a good living from his craft, marry a bonnie woman and create a family and a home for them to live in peace. He decided Beth was that woman, and judging by her clothing and her down-to-earth manner, he reasoned she must be an artist in the training of some sort. If he took her with him to Inverness, after they married, of course, she could likely ply some of her trade for noble families. Arrowsmith was smiling as he gazed at Beth while she talked about a festival she had attended earlier that year. He was already mapping out his life with her when they were interrupted by someone approaching. “Arrowsmith, there you are! Blast, I have been looking for you everywhere. I see you have met my sister Beth,” Robert said whilst on horseback. Robert burst out laughing at the sight of Beth. “Bug, you look horrendous,” he said, calling her by her pet name. Beth glared at her brother for calling her ‘bug’ in front of a visitor. But it was when she glanced at Arrowsmith that she felt a strange tension. Arrowsmith stood immediately and stepped away from her. His body stiffened, and his entire demeanor changed. The relaxed, jovial man she had spent the morning conversing with was gone. Beth felt the weight of his judgment, and she knew not why. Robert rolled his eyes. “Tis, only Arrowsmith, and I am certain he thinks my sister resembles a bug too.” Arrowsmith’s dream shattered with Robert’s declaration. She was Robert’s sister? Damn him to hell! He knew then she was beyond his reach. His eyes shuttered, and the warmth left them. “I see,” Arrowsmith said, and remained quiet. He was a farmer’s son and a guild bowyer. She was so far above his station in life there was no point pursuing the acquaintance. What a fool he was. “Come, let’s return to the house. Cook has prepared a lavish feast for us!” Robert said. Arrowsmith nodded his head. He silently helped Beth pack her things and followed the siblings back to the manor. He refused to make eye contact with her or engage in conversation, such was his disappointment at his future loss. *** Keywords: Second chance at love, first love, OTT male, Scottish clans, Romantic Suspense, Medieval Empires, action and adventure, Warrior women, King Macbeth, spies, feisty heroines, over the top males, Highland warriors. Fans of the following authors are known to enjoy this Scottish Historical Romance series: Julie Garwood Michele Sinclair Diana Gabaldon Hannah Howell Donna Fletcher Maya Banks Kathryn Le Veque Mary Wine Terri Brisbin Joanna Fulford

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