The Beast's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 1), page 1
part #1 of The Brides 0f Skye Series
THE
BEAST’S BRIDE
BOOK ONE
THE BRIDES OF SKYE
J A Y N E C A S T E L
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The beauty who refuses to be wed. The beast who loves her in vain. A twist of fate that brings them together.
Rhona MacLeod is the beautiful, willful daughter of a clan-chief on the Isle of Skye. Desperate to remain free and bow to no man, she refuses all the suitors who ask for her hand.
Taran MacKinnon is one of Clan-chief MacLeod’s most trusted warriors. He carries a secret passion for his chief’s middle daughter. However, Rhona has never been able to see beyond his scars and forbidding appearance that have earned him the name 'The Beast of Dunvegan'.
Frustrated by Rhona's defiance, her father makes a decision that will force his daughter to take a husband—games that will bring warriors from all over the island, and from the mainland, to compete. Rhona must wed the victor. Finally, Taran has a chance to prove himself. If he wins the games, he can have the woman he wants—but can he win her heart?
Historical Romances by Jayne Castel
DARK AGES BRITAIN
The Kingdom of the East Angles series
Night Shadows (prequel novella)
Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)
Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)
The Deepening Night (Book Three)
The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Mercia series
The Breaking Dawn (Book One)
Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)
Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Mercia: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Northumbria series
The Whispering Wind (Book One)
Wind Song (Book Two)
Lord of the North Wind (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Northumbria: The Complete Series
DARK AGES SCOTLAND
The Warrior Brothers of Skye series
Blood Feud (Book One)
Barbarian Slave (Book Two)
Battle Eagle (Book Three)
The Warrior Brothers of Skye: The Complete Series
The Pict Wars series
Warrior’s Heart (Book One)
Novellas
Winter’s Promise
MEDIEVAL SCOTLAND
The Brides of Skye series
The Beast’s Bride (Book One)
The Outlaw’s Bride (Book Two)
Epic Fantasy Romances by Jayne Castel
Light and Darkness series
Ruled by Shadows (Book One)
The Lost Swallow (Book Two)
All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
The Beast’s Bride, by Jayne Castel
Copyright © 2019 by Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by Winter Mist Press
Edited by Tim Burton
Cover photography courtesy of www.shutterstock.com
Scotch thistle vector image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.
Map of Isle of Skye by Jayne Castel
Excerpt from the poem, ‘Ae Fond Kiss’ by Robert Burns.
Visit Jayne’s website and blog: www.jaynecastel.com
Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel
***
For Tim, who has gotten very fond of these journeys to Scotland!
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Contents
Map
Chapter One
The Beauty and the Beast
Chapter Two
A Man’s World
Chapter Three
Too Far
Chapter Four
What News of My Wife?
Chapter Five
Interrupted by the Shrew
Chapter Six
Truth and Deception
Chapter Seven
Caged
Chapter Eight
A Ready Excuse
Chapter Nine
A Visit to Market
Chapter Ten
Racing South
Chapter Eleven
The Way of the World
Chapter Twelve
Nothing Good
Chapter Thirteen
Locked Away
Chapter Fourteen
The Day of the Games
Chapter Fifteen
Decide My Fate
Chapter Sixteen
Behold
Chapter Seventeen
The Bedding Ceremony
Chapter Eighteen
I Won’t Lie With Ye
Chapter Nineteen
Riddles
Chapter Twenty
Nothing to Prove
Chapter Twenty-one
Friendly Advice
Chapter Twenty-two
True Secrets
Chapter Twenty-three
Lammas Morn
Chapter Twenty-four
Hold-Fast
Chapter Twenty-five
Prove My Worth
Chapter Twenty-six
Things Unsaid
Chapter Twenty-seven
Only a Coward
Chapter Twenty-eight
Scars
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Beast’s Bride
Chapter Thirty
Blooded
Chapter Thirty-one
Shadows
Chapter Thirty-two
How Things Change
Chapter Thirty-three
A Fine Wife
From the author
More works by Jayne Castel
About the Author
Map
“Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.”
Kahlil Gibran
Chapter One
The Beauty and the Beast
Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye, Scotland
Early summer, 1346 AD
“Ye will NOT wed me then?”
“I’m glad to see yer ears aren’t full of porridge, Dughall MacLean. Aye, ye heard me right.”
The young man—broad and muscular with a shock of peat-brown hair—glared at Lady Rhona MacLeod. Dughall folded his thick arms across his chest, staring her down.
Rhona lifted her chin and held his gaze steadily.
“So ye think ye are too good for the likes of me?” A storm gathered in his eyes as he spoke.
Despite her brave front, nervousness fluttered up from the pit of Rhona’s belly. They stood alone in the gardens that lay south of the castle’s curtain wall. Rhona was unarmed, and her father’s men waited some distance away at the entrance to the gardens. She didn’t have her sisters at her side either; their presence always made her bolder.
At her back, Rhona could feel the weight of Dunvegan Castle silently watching over them. The dove-grey fortress rose sheer from perpendicular edges of rock to the north, its massive battlements stark against the windswept sky.
In contrast to the barren moorland and craggy peaks that surrounded it, the garden was a small, sheltered spot. It was a softer world, although Rhona now regretted agreeing to take a walk with Dughall there. It was too private; a canopy of green and beds of herbs and flowers surrounded the pair.
Rhona forced herself not to shrink back from her angry suitor. Instead, she watched him, waiting for his temper to cool.
Dughall took a threatening step toward her, closing the distance between them. “A rare, fiery beauty, ye are, Rhona,” he growled, “but I would tame ye.”
Annoyance flared within Rhona at his presumption, making her forget her fear. “And that’s why we wouldn’t be suited,” she countered, her tone sharpening. “Ye should find yerself a biddable wife.”
He moved closer still. “Ye’d be biddable.” He lowered his voice. “Once I were through with ye.”
Rhona clenched her jaw. “Don’t threaten me.”
His face twisted—Dughall’s pleasantly handsome features turning ugly in an instant. Rhona shifted back from him, but he grasped her arm. “Ye need to learn yer place. Ye are a spoilt, haughty bitch, but I still want ye. And one day … I’ll have ye.”
Heart thumping, Rhona attempted to wrench her arm free. However, he held her in an iron grip. “Unhand me,” she snarled, fear turning her savage.
He grinned, his dark blue eyes narrowing. “Or what?”
Rhona hissed out a breath. “Let me go.”
“Beg … and I might.”
“What are ye doing, Dughall?”
A man’s voice—low and powerful—interrupted them. Rhona twisted her head to see a huge warrior, with a fur mantle about his broad shoulders, striding toward them.
Relief flooded through Rhona at the sight of Taran MacKinnon. Yet even so, the warrior’s formidable appearance struck her. He was a terrifying sight. Taran wore a heavy mail shirt under his mantle. His dark-blond hair was cropped short, a severe style that did nothing to soften his presence, and a rough stubble covered his strong jaw. He wore a grim expression, yet it was not that which drew Rhona’s eye but the scars marring his face.
They were im
One cut vertically from his forehead, missing his eye and scoring his right cheek. The other slashed sideways across his left cheek. The scars were disfiguring, and despite that Taran had served her father for a few years now, Rhona found it difficult not to stare. The cold look in his ice-blue eyes, the hard set of his mouth, warned that he was not a man to be messed with.
Her father kept this warrior at his side for a reason.
Dughall snorted, his gaze tracking Taran’s arrival. But his grip on Rhona’s arm released, and he moved away from her.
“The Beast of Dunvegan nears,” he sneered. “Yer father’s faithful hound.”
“Aye.” Rhona stepped back, instinctively moving toward Taran. His presence made her feel braver. “And he has a vicious bite, as ye well know.”
“Lady Rhona.” Taran stopped next to her, his grey-blue gaze searching for any sign of injury. “Are ye hurt?”
Rhona shook her head. “I was just explaining to Dughall that I would rather wed a stinking goat than him. He didn’t take the news well.”
“Bitch!” Dughall advanced, his hands fisting.
In an instant Taran had drawn the heavy sword that hung at his hip and stepped before Rhona, shielding her with his body.
“Be wise, Dughall,” he warned softly, “Leave now, before I spill yer blood.”
A tense silence fell. Dughall’s face screwed up, and he spat on the ground at Taran’s feet. “The Devil take ye both.”
The man stalked from the garden, between rows of rosemary and lavender. Only when he disappeared from sight did Rhona loose the breath she’d been holding.
To her annoyance, she found that her pulse was racing. As much as it galled her to admit it, Dughall had scared her.
Feeling the weight of Taran’s gaze, she inclined her head. “What?”
“Have a care, Lady Rhona,” he replied, resheathing his sword. “Some men don’t take kindly to being spurned.”
Rhona frowned. “I don’t need ye to preach to me, Taran.” She huffed out a breath. “Although I’m glad ye arrived when ye did.”
“I heard raised voices. I sensed trouble brewing.”
Rhona sighed and pushed a heavy lock of auburn hair from her face. Now that the tension had released, her legs felt oddly weak. The sensation annoyed her. She was the daughter of a warrior. She’d been taught to fight, and yet when Dughall had seized her arm, she’d been unable to free herself. That angered her. She didn’t think of herself as feeble like other women, and yet she’d been helpless.
“I’m out of practice,” she muttered. “Why did we stop our fighting lessons?”
“Ye stopped them.” Did she imagine it, or was there a trace of mirth in his voice? “Ye said ye were too occupied by other matters.”
“Well, I’m not anymore,” she replied, meeting his gaze squarely. “We shall resume them tomorrow at noon.”
“Aye—as ye wish.”
“Good.” Rhona gathered her skirts and moved past him before flashing Taran a smile. “Next time I spurn a man, I want to be ready to geld him if he touches me.”
Taran MacKinnon watched the second daughter of Malcolm MacLeod walk away from him, heading out of the garden and back toward the castle.
Now that her gaze was averted, his own devoured her.
She wore a kirtle of green plaid with a straw-colored leine underneath. The garment was fitted, highlighting her statuesque form and lush curves, and the dip of her waist. She walked with a determined stride, her long, curling dark-red hair tumbling down her back.
Taran’s breathing hitched as he watched her—the fire-haired woman he’d wanted for a while now.
Only, she didn’t return the sentiment. To Rhona he was merely her father’s warrior. Scar-face—The Beast of Dunvegan.
The name Dughall had thrown at him didn’t bother Taran, he’d heard it enough times over the years for the insult to lose its sting. But he didn’t want Rhona to look at him that way.
A bee buzzed by, on its lazy path to the bed of roses behind him. Taran inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers and closed his eyes for a moment.
Being near Rhona MacLeod was agony. She’d ensnared him, dug her thorns deep into his flesh. Standing close to her for a few moments had been both pleasure and pain.
He heaved in a deep breath, opened his eyes, and followed Rhona out of the garden. Sparring with her tomorrow would be sweet torture.
He could hardly wait.
Chapter Two
A Man’s World
“YE will have to choose a husband sooner or later, lass. Don’t make me choose one for ye.”
Malcolm, clan-chief of the MacLeods, glared at his daughter before spearing a leg of roast fowl with a knife. Next to him, his wife, Una, cast her husband a reproachful look. She’d been trying to get him to eat less of late. He was a big, bearded man with a wild mane of greying auburn hair. At fifty winters the clan-chief’s girth was increasing with each year; over the past few months, gout had pained him terribly.
“Aye, Da,” Rhona replied, favoring him with a contrite smile, “but let it not be Dughall MacLean. The man’s a brute.”
She was merely trying to appease him. Rhona had no intention of wedding anyone. She’d seen nothing of marriage in her twenty winters to make her want to shackle herself to a man. Her mother had died many years earlier, yet Rhona remembered how oppressed she’d been, how Malcolm MacLeod’s word was law in all things. Her father treated his second wife no differently, although Una didn’t seem as cowed as her mother had been.
Beside Rhona her elder sister, Caitrin, shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, a hand straying to her swollen belly. Next to Caitrin, the youngest of the three sisters, Adaira, bowed her head. Her silky brown hair fell across one cheek, her mouth twitching as she fought a smile.
“Most men are brutes,” Caitrin murmured, censure in her sea-blue eyes. “I wish ye well finding one that isn’t.”
Rhona’s gaze narrowed. “Those are fine words coming from a wedded woman with a bairn on the way.”
Caitrin’s gaze held hers a moment before dropping to the trencher of pottage before her. Rhona continued to watch Caitrin, her own frown deepening. Her sister would never have said such a thing if her husband, Baltair, had been present.
Fortunately for them all, he was away hunting, and Caitrin—who was heavy with bairn—had come to live in Dunvegan until after the birth. Once the child was born, she would return home to the MacDonald’s broch, Duntulm, which lay upon the northern coast of the isle.
Caitrin’s situation was just another reason why Rhona had no intention of choosing a husband.
Her sister had changed since wedding Baltair MacDonald two years earlier. It was as if a light had gone out within her; she seemed so distant these days.
“What kind of man would sway ye then, sister?” Adaira asked, observing Rhona over the rim of a cup of wine, her hazel eyes mischievous. “Must he be handsome, strong, or kind?”
At the head of the table, their father snorted. “Spare me the witless chatter of women.”
This comment drew a snort of laughter from his son, Iain. Like his daughters, Iain was born of his first wife, who had died when Rhona was eight. He’d just reached his sixteenth summer and had recently developed a sneering attitude toward his elder sisters.
Rhona cast her brother and father a withering look, before her attention shifted to her step-mother. Una was a beauty with clear skin, sharp blue eyes, and raven hair. She’d once been the wife of the chieftain of the Frasers of Skye. Ever since she’d left her first husband for Malcolm MacLeod, there had been a rift between the two clans. Una was now favoring her husband with a simpering smile, as if he had not just insulted her sex.
Rhona gritted her teeth. She hated that it was a man’s world, and that women like Una would play down their own cleverness to flatter their husbands’ egos.
