Page 3 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

Surveying her flattened outline, she was satisfied that her profile as a young lad would suffice. To complete the disguise, she wound a rough plaid woolen scarf around her neck so that the lower half of her face was concealed. If she could only get out of this confounded tavern unnoticed and make her way to the horse she’d arranged with the stable boy to saddle and make ready, she could be half-way back to Castle MacLeod and the warmth of her family before her absence was even discovered.

And the mercenary she’d hired with the last of her coin would be on his way to deal death to her fiancé Bairre Mackinnon.

Once she was safely ensconced at Castle MacLeod, she had no doubt she could deal with King Robert’s command that she should wed the brute, Laird Bairre Mackinnon. The one partly responsible for the murder of her brother.

Does the king nae understand I hate the man?

A shiver of revulsion ran through her at the very thought of herself wed to such a man.

Yet, knowing all this, her brother, the Laird Haldor, had no choice but to acquiesce to the king’s wishes.

With the cap lowered over her brow, she tiptoed from the small room and crept down the stairs, hoping to leave the tavern without being seen by her so-called guards.

Guard’s me lady’s arse. They’re naught but kidnappers, taking me against me will tae marry a man whose death I wish fer most fervently.

She hovered by the staircase, inhaling the warmth of the peat fire and the smells of stew, ale and hot bodies. To her relief, the tavern was crowded to overflowing with patrons, rowdy with laughter and the raised voices of men from the nearby farms enjoying their tankards at day’s end before returning home.

With luck she could make it through the smoky tavern without drawing any attention to herself.

She scanned the crowd, her gaze coming to rest on the stalwart figure and long, fair lion’s mane belonging to her chief escort Arran Mackinnon. At the sight of him, a cold stone dropped into her belly. She’d been certain he would have been in his bed by now and that the coast would be clear for her to make her escape.

Yet there he was, seated at a table that was much too close to the doorway for her liking. Mackinnon was his with his friend Craig Donald and two companions she didn’t recognize. She agonised. Should she make a dash for it, hoping that the men were too deep in conversation to notice her? Or, should she retrace her steps back to her room and wait for a better opportunity?

She’d paid the lad, the horse would be waiting. It was now or never. If she didn’t make her break for freedom before they travelled deeper into Mackinnon country, she might not get another chance. And once they arrived at their destination, Mackinnon Castle, it would be impossible to escape.

That was something she knew with certainty. This was not the first time she was being forced into marriage with one of her clan’s enemies. Her soul was still burdened with the memory of her abduction four years ago by James Mackinnon, Bairre’s older brother.

James had not succeeded in his plot to force their marriage, but her escape from his clutches had resulted in the death of her beloved brother, Thor. Now James was dead at Haldor’s hand and the king, foolishly determined to bring peace between the warring clans, had commanded that this marriage between herself and Bairre Mackinnon should take place in one month’s time.

Thinking on this, she shook her head. Nay. Nothing would force her tae marry one of the hated Mackinnons. Not even the king’s orders. Haldor had promised he’d petition the king on her behalf but, as yet, there’d been no relief. Tonight, she was taking matters into her own hands, and if she were killed in her bid for freedom, it was better to die than to share a bed with the Mackinnon.

As she watched from the shadows, she saw Aaron Mackinnon’s three companions rise and bid him goodnight before theyslipped through a side doorway and disappeared, leaving Arran at the table, alone with his tankard.

She watched him coolly. It was not only his wild hair that gave him the look of a carved lion, but his size. He was broad across the shoulders, perhaps even a match for her own brothers, his arms were strong and cross-hatched with battle scars. But despite his look of a fierce warrior, he was not coarse like the others, there was something kind in his face. He lacked the grim-set mouth and the harsh brows of the other Mackinnons. There was even a hint of gentleness about him at times as he tended to his horse or looked into the sky contemplating.

But no matter. Standing there, contemplating Arran Mackinnon would not help her to escape. If she made haste and kept her head down, she could make it out without him noticing her.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged the cap lower and took her first steps away from the cover provided by the staircase, heading for the tavern door. She was too busy navigating her way between tables to see the serving girl emerge from the kitchen with a tray loaded with pewter tankards filled with ale.

She collided head-first with the lass, who let out a loud, head-turning shriek. The tankards went flying and the girl descended backwards, her skirt and pinafore in disarray, and Dahlia quite soaked with the spilt drinks, on top of the squirming, squealing servant.

“Get off me,” the girl yelled, pushing with both hands at Dahlia’s chest, loosening the fabric she had taken such pains to wrap around her breasts.

Dahlia scrabbled frantically to gain the traction she needed to rise to her feet while the serving-girl lashed out with both fists, keeping her off balance.

The hubbub of voices had ceased, all eyes turned to the girl’s plight, a sudden hush fell over the tavern, and all that could be heard were her screeches.

“Oooh. Someone help me! I’m being crushed. Get him off. Take him away.”

Before Dahlia could scramble upright her arm was rudely wrenched behind her back, she was dragged to her feet and, despite her efforts to break free, she found herself being roughly propelled toward the tavern door.

To her horror she saw that the serving-wench’s rescuer and the man holding her captive in a fierce, unbreakable grip, was none other than the very man she was hell-bent on escaping. Arran Mackinnon.

Giving her no chance to protest, he bundled her across the room and flung open the heavy oak door. She struggled mightily but she was no match for his strength. He kept hold of her arm in an iron grip half-dragging her outside to the cobbled tavern yard.

Wrenching herself free, her hair tumbling over her eyes she uttered a fierce oath. “God’s blood, keep yer filthy hands tae yersel.”

Then, before he could seize her again quick as a bolt of lightning she turned and ran across the courtyard toward the stables with Arran hot on her heels.

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