The Cruel Highlander’s Bride: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel, page 1
THE CRUEL HIGHLANDER’S BRIDE
A Scottish Historical Romance Novel
HIGHLAND BRIDES OF CONVENIENCE
BOOK I
ELOISE MADIGAN
CONTENTS
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Before You Start Reading…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Preview: A Virgin for the Highland Beast
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Also by Eloise Madigan
About the Author
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ABOUT THE BOOK
“I’ll end this war…if ye marry me.”
Ciara would do anything to protect her sister; even marry the most cruel Highlander in her stead.
Known for killing his own father, Laird Magnus needs a bride to bring peace to his clan. And the moment he sees the defiant look in Ciara's eyes, he knows he wants her.
But wanting her is dangerous. And his sweet new bride is about to find out why everyone calls him a monster...
BEFORE YOU START READING…
Before you start reading...
I bet you’re curious about Magnus and what happened with his father. So here’s a Prequel Chapter about his past, that turned him into the Beast that he is. It will help you picture my story and these characters better in your mind.
Many of my readers requested it and that's why I am giving it away for free! I believe you will LOVE IT!
It’s not mandatory to read it, but it will be really helpful if it's your first time with this book.
Read the beginning of the their story here.
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1
Thank God for whiskey.
Magnus brought the amber liquid to his lips for a large sip.
He placed the glass down and rubbed his temples, desperate to quell the tension between his eyes. The familiar ache was squeezing his forehead. He never expected to be here, slouched in a chair in front of a council—his council—but here he was.
It was the same nearly every time he sat in front of them. Everyone had a grievance, but their petty squabbles and power grabs were grating on his nerves. Was this what it meant to be a Laird? With each passing day, he regretted accepting this role more and more.
Magnus had reluctantly accepted the position of Laird when his stepmother, Elspeth, sought him out about a year ago. He didn’t want the role then, and he still didn’t, but the clan was floundering without a laird. The people who had been at the mercy of his father’s whims for years needed help. It stood to reason that not everyone in the clan was like his father…
Besides, as soon as Elspeth pleaded with him to help, he was as good as sold. If she was asking him, then things were very dire, indeed.
He had wanted to make a difference in the lives of his clansfolk. It seemed noble at the time to take up the mantle and turn it around, to be someone the people could count on. So far, though, it felt like all he’d done was listen to grown men bicker like children.
“The Gordons are encroaching on me land again,” spat one of his councilmen. His face was reddening even more as he spoke. “Just this week, I caught one of the little brutes huntin’ beyond the line.”
He was glaring daggers at one of the men across the table. Magnus knew he wasn’t a Gordon, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the connection.
After a tense stare-off, the not-Gordon man finally spoke.
“I have no control over me wife’s family, Duncan,” he said through gritted teeth.
Right, not-Gordon is married to a Gordon.
God, Magnus couldn’t keep it all straight. He tried at the beginning, but with this type of dispute as the norm, he couldn’t force himself to care.
“Are ye strugglin’ for food?” Magnus asked the portly, red-faced man.
“Nay…” the man replied slowly.
Magnus was hoping his point was clear, but the councilman just stared back at him. He heaved a sigh before downing the rest of the whiskey in one gulp.
“Does it matter, then?” Magnus prodded.
The man sputtered, his head rearing back. “Of course! If it’s on me land, it’s mine. Those are the rules!”
To Magnus, it seemed like a very childish way of thinking. Besides, it was all his land, really, if they wanted to get technical about it. It was only by the grace of their Laird that they had any land at all, and the more he knew about some of these men, the more he considered taking it all away.
“Does anyone have anythin’ of consequence to discuss?” Magnus interrupted the portly councilman before he could continue his tirade. He pointedly wiped off a drop of spit that had landed on his hand from the other man’s mouth.
A long pause ensued. The not-Gordon shot the portly, red-faced councilman a smug smile. Magnus simply motioned for the servant in the room to refill his glass—he was clearly going to need another one.
“I received word that there was a skirmish with Clan Gunn at the western border last night, and we lost another squadron of men,” one of the quieter men at the table chimed in.
From what Magnus had noticed, he was one of the most useful men on his council. James Campbell, he thought his name was.
“That’s the third time this fortnight that we’ve lost men on that border,” James added.
Magnus straightened up in his chair and set his whiskey glass back on the table. He dropped his hand from his temple and surveyed the men sitting around him.
James had a concerned furrow between his eyebrows, but the other councilmen seemed, at the very least, not surprised by the news. In fact, they looked borderline irritated.
The fury that had always simmered beneath the surface rose inside Magnus with a vengeance. That was far too many men dead, men he was responsible for, men whose families depended on them. And the councilmen surrounding him, men who were meant to be his advisors, did not appear to be concerned enough about that fact.
“Why have there been so many attacks at that border?” he asked harshly.
James’s eyes darted around the room. The man was unused to his ire. He coughed but did not respond.
Magnus raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response. They would sit here in silence until someone answered him. The young Laird didn’t care if it took the rest of the day, the servants could always keep bringing him whiskey.
One of his younger councilmen squirmed in his seat and quietly said, “The late Laird started a feud with Clan Gunn, and… it’s still ongoing.”
Magnus’s hands threatened to break the glass that sat in front of him, so instead he balled them into harsh fists on the table.
“What are we feudin’ over, exactly?” he bit out between harsh breaths.
The other men in the room looked around at each other and then away, but no one spoke.
Magnus cleared his throat, but still, his councilmen avoided his gaze.
James finally spoke up again. “We are not sure, Me Laird. Yer faither…” The man stumbled over those words when Magnus shot him a dark glare. “Err, apologies. The previous Laird wasnae forthcomin’ about the cause…” he trailed off.
The pressure across Magnus’s forehead threatened to overwhelm him, and he brought his thumbs to the bridge of his nose, steepling his fingers as he hung his head. Several seconds passed as he took a few deep breaths and tried to quell the anger roiling within him.
“Ye mean to tell me…” Magnus paused and took another deep breath, because the words came out harsher than he intended. He tried again. “Ye mean to tell me that we’ve been sending our men to die, over a feud that nay one kens why we started in the first place?”
When he finally finished speaking, he lifted his head to look at James directly. At least he had the decency to bring this matter up.
James nodded slowly, and Magnus let out a harsh curse.
“I’ve been the Laird for nearly a year now, and no one thought to bring this up before now?”
Silence once again met Magnus’s question. He closed his eyes and willed his body not to react to the pounding in his blood. His fury was never fully under control, but at this moment, he could not predict what he might do.
“Me Laird?” James quietly tried to get his attention. Magnus’s eyes snapped open. “To be honest… we all expected ye’d be a lot like yer faither…”
Magnus exhaled, the tension draining slightly. Taking over the Lairdship had been an uphill battle over the last year. He didn’t know which councilmen he could trust and had primarily written them off. But they likely felt the same way about him.
He drew in another ragged breath.
Ye’re a dobber.
He was muddling this all up. How many clansmen had died while he sat here mediating disputes and drinking whiskey?
“We cannae keeping sendin’ our people to fight because of a feud that shouldnae even exist in the first place,” Magnus declared definitively. He hoped to put an end to this feud once and for all.
“Are we just goin’ to let the Gunns attack us without defendin’ ourselves? Laird Gunn doesnae seem too willing to stop the fightin’ either,” the portly councilman chimed in.
Magnus regarded him coolly before he declared, “He will be.”
“How that man can live with himself is beyond me. He should be ashamed.”
Ciara Doyle studied her father keenly as she listened to his latest gripe against the neighboring Laird MacLeon. There had been another skirmish at the border, and while they had come out victorious, they still lost far too many good men.
Her father was seated at the desk in his study. He ran a hand through his silver, shoulder-length hair and let out a heavy sigh. His blue eyes, which matched Ciara’s, flashed with anger, but there was a weariness in them as well. The feud between their clans weighed heavily on his shoulders. In all these years, he had been unable to make peace with Clan MacLeon.
Ciara looked over to her brother, Alexander, who was sitting in the matching armchair across from her. She could see the same thunderous expression on his face. The clan had lost many strong warriors this last fortnight, including men Alexander grew up and trained with. War was an ugly, brutal thing, and they were all feeling the strain of the years-long conflict.
“He has continued this pointless war that his faither started and has allowed countless of his clansmen to die in the pursuit of what? I dinnae even ken why his faither started this feud, to begin with. Land? Pride? The arrogance of those men,” her father continued with a growl.
Ciara leaned back in the plush armchair. It was one of her favorite spots in the castle, and she often found herself here when she wasn’t in town, working with their clansfolk. It’s how she knew her father wasn’t sharing the full story right now.
She had managed to keep her comments to herself before this moment. She had let her father and brother grieve and lament, but she felt the need to point out, “Ye havenae been willin’ to end this either, Faither.”
Laird Gunn grumbled to himself. “Aye, in defense of our home and our people! Clan MacLeon has increased their attacks lately.”
“Have they?” Ciara asked simply.
Her father scoffed but didn’t reply directly. Instead, he said harshly, “That man is exactly like his faither.”
Ciara’s sister, Lana, and their mother were in the study as well. They sat huddled together on the couch by the fireplace. Normally, they both spent their time in the stables or the garden, but Ciara had rarely been in the castle as of late.
And with the news of their clansmen dying in battle, everyone seemed to congregate today. Despite the circumstances, Ciara’s heart warmed at the sight of her younger sister. She had missed her and their family fiercely.
“Is it true what they say about him?” Lana asked innocently. “That he killed his faither to take over the Lairdship?” Her voice trembled at the second half of her question, and Ciara tensed.
Lana, as the baby in the family, was typically shielded from the harsher realities of war, but try as they might, they could not stop all the rumors from reaching her ears.
Highlanders were notorious gossips, and the news of a son killing his father in a duel had spread like the plague across the area. Every time Ciara heard the story, it became increasingly gruesome.
“Clan MacLeon was without an official Laird for at least a year after the former Laird died in a duel. We ken this,” Ciara reminded everyone. “It doesnae make sense that his son killed him for the position and then fled.”
As much as the gossip mill churned, they knew that much for certain. It was a curious thing. The man killed the former Laird MacLeon and then disappeared completely. She’d met the old Laird once, years ago, the last time her father had attempted to strike a peace deal. A lot could be said about the former Laird, but Ciara was very glad she’d never have to see him again.
“The boy did still kill his own faither though, and there’s been no explanation at all as to why, or where the lad had been all these years. We didnae even know the old Laird had a son,” her mother chimed in.
They still knew little about the mysterious son who eventually took over the Lairdship. Ciara could admit that not much had changed about the feud, but she’d heard whispers in town that the new Laird was not quite as vile. She didn’t relay that sentiment to her family, though. Laird MacLeon would always be the enemy in this castle.
Lana feigned a shudder and said, “I cannae imagine anythin’ more cruel. I hope I never have to meet this man in person.”
Their father let out a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, ye will, and very soon. The Laird has requested a hearin’, and he’ll arrive any minute now.”
2
The room was silent for a moment after Laird Gunn’s announcement.
“He’s comin’ here?” Lana managed to squeak out, inching closer to her mother on the couch.
Ciara watched her with concern—maybe they still had time to take Lana elsewhere. Surely, she didn’t need to meet Laird MacLeon.
“Aye,” their father said with an apologetic wince.
As Ciara was gearing up to shuffle Lana out of the study, the door suddenly burst open. In walked… Well, Ciara wasn’t quite sure how to describe the beast who barged into the room.
The man seemed to suck out all the air in the formerly cozy space with his entrance. He was forced to angle his body just to fit his broad frame through the doorway.
