Page 2 of A Virgin for the Beastly Highlander

His sword clanged on the ground, the ring of the metal on stone as loud as a death knoll. His gaze was trained out the window, hoping that somehow, his men could come back with his mother and sister in tow. But as he gazed outside and saw the torches spring up, he knew hope was futile.

Unable to move, he sat, stared, hoped, and prayed until the sky turned to dawn and his heart had closed off into hopelessness. He saw the lines, heard the shouts, saw the frantic rush of men up and down, some going in circles, like headless fowls and he knew…they were not coming home.

Chapter 1

Nine Years Later

Clan McKoy

September 1701

Young Olivia Webster read the missive from the king three times and while she understood them, she did not want to believe it. Seated in her father’s meeting room, she gripped the paper bearing the king’s seal so hard that the paper was in danger of ripping in two.

“Nay,” she muttered, her green eyes darting to her father. Her sire, Niel Webster, the Laird of Clan McKoy did not look any happier than she did. “Faither nay. This—this cannae be true!”

He bowed his head, and his jaw worked in frustration, “I am sorry, Olivia, but tis true.”

“Nay, nay…” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. Once again, she looked to her elderly father. “I cannae marry him.”

“Daughter, Laird Ó Riagáin is not a bad man,” her father said. “What happened nearly ten years ago changed him, that is for sure, but he is not evil.”

The sealed missive slipped from her fingers and fell to her feet before she began to pace. “How can ye tell me that? I may be young, but I remember a good deal of fighting between us. Ye even swore one day that it was yer God-given right on this land to remove scourges like Ó Riagáin from it.”

“That was before we made peace,” her father said. “I ken he is very wary of us, because after that day when his maither and sister were taken, he doesnae trust anyone. I ken that he believed I or someone connected to me had a part in their abduction.”

“It’s known that he is cruel,” Olivia worried. “Possibly even worse than the northern invaders would get from time to time.”

“Those Norse barbarians are filth,” Niel said while sitting back, his eyes steady and still as he looked at Olivia. “But Ó Riagáin is nay an animal. And I doubt he is happy about the crown’s order too. It is out of me hands, Olivia, yer trunks are already packed.”

“But we already made peace,” Olivia despaired. “Why do we need to marry?”

“I cannae tell ye, lass,” her father said tiredly. “I suppose a marriage would make our agreement that more firm.”

“But why is this coming from the king?” Olivia spun. “What does this matter have to do with him?”

“There is trouble in the capital, lass,” he said. “Five years ago, there was a plot by the Jacobite leaders to murder the king.”

“But what does that have to do with us?” she pressed. “We’re nay on the mainland.”

“Matters nae,” Niel shook his gray head. “We’re still his servants and must do as he says.”

Olivia was searching, desperately searching for any reason to show her father that this whole situation was madness. “I—”

A knock on her father’s door had them turning to see her father main man, Hector McMillian, come into the room, his lined face set and grave. “Pardon me interruption, me laird, but Laird Ó Riagáin and his men are here to see ye.”

Upon hearing those words and knowing that her fate was almost sealed, Olivia weakly slumped into the nearest chair, every drop of blood nearly absent from her body. She wanted to run, but her body was fixed to where she sat. She wanted to scream but not a word would leave her lips. All she could do was sit and watch as Hector let the men in.

Five men, clad in rich, dark leather and gray shirts came into the room, but her eye landed on the laird. He wore a crisp, saffron léine denoting his position as laird. His maroon and gray breacan feile was bright across his chest and his laird’s brooch glinted brightly.

Laird Ó Riagáin was a tall man, with a head of thick blond hair that shone like wheat under the light. With broad shoulders, and a more imposing height than any other man in the room, he easily commanded attention. Ó Riagáin’s square, hard-set jaw was clean-shaven, unlike most Scotsmen.

His head turned, and her breath hitched at her first full glimpse of his face. The clean structure of his broad cheekbones and square jaw was offset by the scar slanting through his left eyebrow.

She slowly lifted her head, ignoring her warm cheeks, and clenched her fingers to steady her hands on her lap. Clean golden eyes, the color of a hawk—and all the intensity of it too— locked with her own, boldly and without reserve. As Ó Riagáin continued to stare, her chest tightened in an unusual way. He was immobile, his face a mask of indifference, his mouth set in a hard, straight line.

“Ó Riagáin,” her father greeted him. “Welcome.”

“McKoy,” Ó Riagáin said, his voice was low, stern, and had a rumbling burr that resonated right through her. His gaze then flickered to her then back to her father, “I suppose ye have gotten the king’s missive as well?”

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