Page 1 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

BONUS PROLOGUE

1307, Scotland, Isle of Skye

Castle MacLeod

Dahlia MacLeod galloped her mare up the winding road, reveling in the feel of the sun on her face and her white-blonde hair, caught by the wind, streaming behind her as she rode. Glorying in the spring morning, as she neared the castle, she waved to the guard on duty and brought her little mare to a standstill, waiting while the portcullis was raised.

She walked her horse through the gate, crossing the cobbled courtyard to the drinking trough. There, after giving her horse a pat on her neck, she slid out of the saddle and handed her reins to the waiting groom.

Startled by the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice issuing from the nearby stables she swiveled, craning her neck to catch sight of whoever was speaking.

Then she realized the man was talking to his horse.

“Good lad.” She heard him say. “I thank ye fer the safe journey.”

She was staring, mouth slightly ajar, as the owner of the deep, whisky-voice strode out of the stables. He was tall and broad with a mane of fair hair that fell almost to his shoulders. As he passed, nodding to her as he went, she glimpsed hazel eyes, a straight nose, cheeks like blades and full, wide lips.

Watching him stride up the steps of the keep she was strangely flustered. Her heart was suddenly beating faster, and she couldn’t help wishing she’d tidied her hair and had worn anything but her old, faded, blue-linen kirtle.

There was something familiar about the man. She could almost swear she’d met him somewhere. Yet she knew that was impossible, she’d never seen him before. His was not a face she’d readily forget.

Determined to put the man out of her mind, she was halfway up the stairs to her bedchamber when she was intercepted by one of the chambermaids.

Puffing slightly, the lass handed her a folded parchment. “Forgive me, melady. I’ve brought ye a message from yer brother, Laird Haldor.”

“Thank ye.” The maid hurried off and Dahlia shoved the note into her pocked to read in the privacy of her room.

It was not until she’d bathed and a donned a freshly laundered blouse and kirtle, brushed her hair and braided it, that she remembered her brother’s message.

Unfolding the crumpled parchment, she read his brief note. He was entertaining his Clan Council members and a special guest for a dinner to which no ladies were invited. He asked her to do him the honor of entertaining them with music, playing her clàrsach for their pleasure.

She smiled to herself. On rare occasions, when there was important business at hand, Haldor requested she play her Scottish harp for his guests.

Was the stranger she’d glimpsed outside the stables the ‘special guest’ her brother was dining with tonight? If so, he was someone to be wooed with music and fine food. Mayhap she would find out who he was, after all.

Damn. There was that annoying little jolt to her heartbeat again.

By the evening she was in a lather of curiosity. She’d taken special care with her appearance, donning a favorite red silk kirtle tied with a gold cord, and brushed her hair so that it tumbled in silvery waves, almost to her waist. After adding a pair of hooped gold earbobs, she put on her red silk slippers and made her way to the great hall.

The place was bustling with kitchen-maids setting up for the meal, but her brother and his guests had not yet arrived. Withthe help of the manservant who’d carried her clarsach from the solar, she set it up on its little wooden stand.

She was playing a dreamy, soft tune, lost in its gentle, sliding rhythms, when the men finally appeared and took their seats.

Her stomach lurched. There he was, the man from the stables, as handsome as she recalled, seated at her brother’s right hand next to her other brothers, Ivar and Arne. Whoever he might be, this meant he was important.

And there again was that strange frisson of heat rippling through her at the sight of him.

And it kept happening, every time she looked up and caught his gaze resting on her she could scarcely breath.

As the evening wore on, she picked up fragments of the men’s conversation.

From what she could gather there was a great deal of talk about peace. Compensation. For what? Stolen cattle? King Robert’s name was mentioned several times.

A young maid brought her a platter containing cheese, buttered bannocks and a rosewater soda. Realizing she was both hungry and thirsty she was grateful for the brief break.

“Who is the man seated beside me braither Haldor?” she asked quietly. “I cannae make out his tartan from here”

The maid glanced over to the high table. “’Tis the Mackinnon. I’ve heard he’s the new laird.”

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