Page 1 of A Virgin for the Highland Beast
1
Thank God for books.
Sunlight poured through the open window as Emma sat in the nook of her room, devouring the pages of her book. Reading was the only escape she had from the turbulent world around her.
Although she had a roof over her head, and daily meals, her home, which was once filled with laughter and love, was nothing more than four walls and empty ever since her father passed.
The door of her room flew open abruptly, pulling her from the solace of the story. With wide eyes, she looked up to find her sister, Isobel, barging in, her face red and fear flickering across her features.
“What’s goin’ on?” Emma asked, slamming her book shut. Isobel’s breaths came in short bursts as she tried to regain her senses. “What’s Geoffery done now?”
“Ye’ve got to come quick,” Isobel finally answered as she pointed to the door. “It’s Nora.”
Panic shot through Emma as she tossed her book aside and rose swiftly. Isobel turned on her heels as they marched through the barren hallway.
“What’s happened? Is she all right?” Emma asked, at her sister’s heels.
“He’s thrown Nora in the dungeon,” Isobel hissed.
“What? Are ye sure? Why?” Emma asked, her voice rigid with barely contained anger.
Isobel nodded, her petite frame bristling with tension. Despite her small stature, unlike Emma’s, her body was athletic and curvy, a testament to a lifetime of hard work in the rugged Highlands. Her hair, a golden blonde, was chopped to chin length, on Geoffery’s orders, and it fell in untamed waves around her strikingly blue eyes.
At just nineteen, Isobel held a youthful vigor that was impossible to ignore, her features often settling into a maddening expression of stubborn determination.
Emma’s fists clenched at her sides as she glanced over at her sister, their footsteps echoing in the hall. Her eyes were narrowed in anger, and her jaw was set in a determined line.
“I watched them, Emma. Geoffrey’s men dragged her right out of the garden,” answered Isobel, her voice straining from the race to get to Nora.
“On what grounds did he take her?” Emma questioned, her voice icy with impending fury.
“I heard them chargin’ Nora with being a witch. And then, they took her. Carried her off like she was some common criminal,” Isobel replied, her voice a raspy whisper as Emma’s eyes shifted to the open doors, hoping no one else in the area heard them.
“A witch?” Emma echoed, her voice rising incredulously.
Isobel nodded, her face growing ever redder with rage. “They said she’d be tried and killed. I came to ye right away. There’s no way I’m goin’ to let me sister die as a witch. They’ll have to kill me, too.”
Emma’s hands clenched into tight fists, the cool Highlands air suddenly feeling stifling. “No one is going to die. Besides, there’s no evidence. Nora is a healer, we all ken that. It’s her callin’, and no one does it better than her.”
“Ye think I dinnae ken that? I swear, I’ll kill Geoffery for this,” Isobel growled as they turned the corner.
Emma grabbed Isobel by the shoulders and shook her head. “Keep yer voice down,” Emma warned. “It’s bad enough Nora is in the dungeon, do ye want to join her as well?”
“I’d like to see them try to take me,” Isobel stated defiantly. Her voice echoed angrily through the quiet night, her outrage clear as glass.
“Stop,” Emma said, jerking her sister away from the corner. “Ye’ll do as I say, understand? Now, keep yer voice down. I’ll talk wit’ Geoffrey and see what this is all about. Maybe it was a misunderstandin’ of sorts.”
“Ye cannae believe that.” Isobel glared at Emma.
“I dinnae,” Emma hissed. “But best to go about this manner carefully. There’s nae tellin’ what Geoffrey will do next. We’ve got to be smarter than him. Let me talk to him. I want ye to stay here, understand?”
Resigned to do as she was told, Isobel gave a sharp nod.
With a furious exhale, Emma rolled her shoulders back and stormed down the hallway, her skirts swooshing around her ankles.
The hallway was an austere stretch of stone, weathered by the centuries and cooled by the unforgiving Highland winds. Its steely elegance was a testament to the castle’s age and former grandeur, now marred by the ominous threat of witchcraft accusations. The candles in the sconces flickered dimly and cast elongated shadows that danced across the rough-hewn walls that she passed by.
As Emma’s boots struck the flagstone with a determined rhythm, the sound echoed through the corridor, a relentless drumbeat of ire and disbelief. Each footfall resounded like a rebel cry, reverberating off the cold, unyielding stones and painting a vivid picture of her simmering wrath.
