Page 2 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

Dahlia froze.A Mackinnon!The Mackinnons were their sworn enemies. The long-standing feud between the two clans could never be settled and it had only been a matter of months since their last terrible confrontation. Haldor had slaughtered Laird James Mackinnon, the man who had kidnapped to force her into marriage and who was the murderer of her beloved brother, Thor.

The one man who escaped her brother’s sword was Bairre Mackinnon. After the skirmish, he had disappeared and it was rumored he’d taken refuge in France. With the death of his brother James, it was this hateful man, Bairre, who was the rightful laird.

So, who was the man seated beside Haldor?

She glanced over at him again, and he caught her eye, his mouth widening in a smile. Her heart skipped a beat. It was as if something sparkled in the air between them, capturing her attention, drawing her gaze irresistibly to him.

Arran Mackinnon was finding it difficult to keep track of the conversation. His attention was constantly diverted to the graceful lass strumming her clàrsach on the other side of the hall. The music of the harp drifted in the air, punctuating whatwas being said with a gentle harmony that eased the gruff words being uttered by the MacLeods.

Not threats exactly, but dire warnings of what might befall any of the Mackinnon clansmen who continued the raiding that had been going on since James was laird. This was exactly what Arran was attempting to convince Haldor, his brothers, and the Mackinnon Clan Council, he would put an end to.

He was sincere in his wish for the clans to live peaceably in their adjoining lands. And it was the devil’s own job trying to convince the MacLeods that he was nothing like James and Bairre, with whom they’d been feuding for as long as he could remember.

Despite the overriding importance of this meeting, he found himself distracted. Whenever he looked up at Dahlia and their eyes met it was as if he was struck by a lightning bolt. She was a true beauty with her Viking-white hair, her bonny face, and the long graceful fingers strumming her harp.

He cast his mind back to their first meeting. Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him. He’d been masked and hidden from her gaze back then. Yet… there was something in the way she looked at him that made him think she was trying to bring their previous contact to mind.

The meal came to an end, with nothing decided, no promises made, but some of the ice broken between them. Haldor and the others were friendly enough, but he was no fool. Clan hospitality meant they would show him nothing but a warm welcome, no matter how much they might distrust him.

But it was a start. As he’d taken on the lairdship unofficially, even though it was only until Bairre Mackinnon either reappeared or was declared dead, and he was making every effort to settle the disputes that were keeping his clan from leading peaceful, prosperous lives. The foremost of those disputes was the feud with the MacLeods. After years of raiding across clan territories it was time to put a stop to the enmity and bring peace to both clans.

He looked up again, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the bonny lass strumming her clàrsach. He took in the delicate arch of her neck, the tendrils of shining hair on her cheeks, the rise of her creamy breasts at her neckline He met her glorious blue eyes, feeling the heat in his belly and a twitch in his groin as his wayward cock registered his enchantment.

She rose from her chair, smoothing out the rose-colored folds of her skirt, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. He caught his breath as she turned toward him and walked across the room to the table where he sat, the silken skirt swaying enticingly with her every step.

As she approached, Laird Haldor got to his feet. She curtseyed low before him and he clasped her hand in his.

“I am here tae bid ye good night, braither.”

The sound of her soft voice with its hint of huskiness almost brought Arran undone. At that moment he’d have given anything to take her hand and press it to his lips.

Haldor turned to him. “May I introduce me sister, the Lady Dahlia.” He proffered her hand to Arran. “This is Laird Arran MacKinnon, a distant cousin of James and Bairre. He’s taken the lairdship in Bairre’s absence.”

Standing, Arran bowed from the waist, never taking his gaze from Dahlia’s.

Grasping her hand, he gently pressed it to his lips. At once his senses were assailed by her delicate rose fragrance and the softness and warmth of her skin. Even though the breath caught in his throat, he managed a few halting words of greeting.

“I am pleased tae meet ye, Lady Dahlia.”

She smiled up at him.

“Have we nae met before this night, me laird?” She half-raised a delicate eyebrow in puzzlement.

Without hesitating, he rolled the lie off his tongue.

“I dinnae believe we have met, melady. Ye’re surely mistaken.”

CHAPTER ONE

Isle of Skye, Scotland, October 1308

A Highland inn in No-man’s Land between MacLeod and Mackinnon territory

Dammit. T’would be simpler by far tae slice the throat of the beast I’m betrothed tae and end his life, rather than donning this foolish disguise tae escape the hateful man’s clutches.

Chewing on her lower lip, Dahlia MacLeod twisted her sweet features into a grimace. Flattening her bountiful breasts with the cloth drawn tight across her chest took more effort and caused more pain than she’d been anticipating.

She sucked in a shallow breath, wincing at the pressure of the tightly bound fabric, and donned the patched wool jacket she’d purchased from the village lad. She pulled on the baggy, faded-grey trews the lad had provided, tied on his soft leather bootsand, finally, drew up her mass of near-white blonde hair and tucked it severely beneath the cloth cap.

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