The Sins of the Sire: Dark Highland Passions, #1

by Emily Royal

  Two years ago, English noblewoman, Elyssia De Montford, risked her life to free the Highlander held prisoner by her sadistic fiancé. She cannot forget the man who first stirred her heart—a memory that burns anew when she finds herself once more on the road to Scotland.

  Tavish MacLean has sworn vengeance. It’s been six years since his beloved sister was raped and murdered by an English lord, a tragedy which almost destroyed his family. On his deathbed, his father demanded retribution and Tavish pledged before his clan to enslave the lord’s daughter then send her back to her father, pregnant with a Scottish bastard. When he learns that she is travelling north, he seizes his opportunity and orders her abduction.

  But when his men fling the prisoner before him, Tavish recognises Elyssia, the woman who once saved his life. Loyalty to his clan trumps the debt he owes her and he claims Elyssia as his captive. Though she’s one of the hated English, her willing body ignites passion in him at night, though she fights him at every turn during the day. As time passes, he questions his loyalty, finding himself increasingly enthralled by his fiery captive.

  Treachery surrounds Clan MacLean. When long-buried secrets come to light, Tavish must risk his life and his clan, or all that he holds dear will be destroyed.

  THE SINS OF THE SIRE

  Dark Highland Passions Series, #1

  Emily Royal

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2019 Emily Royal

  Cover Art: Cora Graphics -www.coragraphics.it

  Editor: Christine McPherson

  Proofreader: Sharon Pickrel

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  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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  DEDICATION

  To Neil xx

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Huge thanks go to Tirgearr for having faith in this book!

  I must also thank the Romantic Novelists’ Association and their New Writers’ Scheme without which I would never have taken writing seriously.

  To my Beta Buddies: Your feedback was frank and on point as usual, and your constant support kept me from giving up; thank you for everything.

  To Margaret: Your critique gave me the encouragement I needed to not hide this book in a drawer forever.

  To the Wordcount Warriors: Thank you for all your support during the first draft. Thanks to Twinkle for keeping me company while drafting in the wee hours, to Sarah for those regular author gossip-fests which keep me sane and to Jasmine, and Frankie for putting up with their mother’s artistic temperament and making the best cups of tea this side of Hadrian’s Wall.

  And finally, I will ever be thankful for the Highlands, an eternal source of inspiration.

  THE SINS OF THE SIRE

  Dark Highland Passions Series, #1

  Emily Royal

  Prologue

  Tavish stood over the body of the woman on the pallet. Her fingers clenched and unclenched the rough blankets in timing with her breathing. Though she whimpered softly now, her screams still echoed through his mind; cries of terror when she’d realised what was to happen, followed by shame and agony as she had struggled against her assailants.

  He thought of his sister, the gentle Flora who had suffered the same fate at the hands of de Montford. He remembered her screams as she had died in his arms giving birth to that man’s bastard. Now, at last, after six long years, his clan had the revenge they sought as that Sassenach dog’s daughter lay before him. Lady Agatha de Montford.

  But his own shame dwarfed the triumph he’d been expecting; shame at what his men had done to her and shame at his own cowardice.

  Ye’re weak, son; always have been. Ye’ve let yer sister down.

  The voice of Da’s ghost had swirled in his mind as he’d witnessed his men, baying like wild dogs as they savaged their quarry. At the last, he’d drawn back, unable to bring himself to perform the deed which would have condemned the last piece of his soul to the darkness. The memory of sweet Flora, her gentle voice full of love, had pulled him back to the light.

  A moment of weakness.

  Or had it been the call of his conscience? For a fleeting moment, the image invaded his mind; Flora lying at the feet of the men who had stripped her of her innocence and everything else until she was a mere ghost of the vibrant young lass he had loved and cherished. This woman before him now had a brother, too. How would he feel knowing what had been done to her?

  Nay, today was not the day for sentiment. His clan demanded retribution for Flora, and today marked the first step along that path. It was too late to prevent it now.

  He motioned to the man holding her down who jerked at the noose. An ugly ring of shame, it curled around her neck like a serpent; evidence of Angus’s handiwork.

  “Turn her over, Duncan.”

  Her body flinched, but she did not resist as Duncan rolled her onto her back. Ignoring the red stains on her exposed legs, the marks of her lost maidenhead, Tavish leant over her.

  She might have been pretty before, but a darkening bruise spread across her cheek and one eyelid was swollen. Duncan had said she’d fought like a wildcat, and Tavish had heard her cursing and spitting fire, condemning every Highlander to hell; all teeth and claws. Her eyes were tightly closed, jaw clenched, and her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  Tavish swallowed any feelings of compassion he might have had, focusing on the misery of what the English had done to his family, his people.

  “Know this,” he said roughly, “you are to be the payment for the sins your sire committed against my clan. Look upon your master.”

  She opened her eyes. They were an extraordinary colour: two violet gems glittering with fear and hatred. They widened in recognition, and she gave a low cry. A shock of familiarity punched him in the gut.

  Elyssia.

  God’s blood!

  He never thought he’d see those eyes again. They had haunted his dreams for so long. The eyes of the woman who, two years ago, had risked her life to save his.

  The woman who, tonight, in the name of the clan, his men had defiled.

  Chapter 1

  Two years earlier

  The hiss of the whip cut through the silence before a sharp crack made Elyssia look up. Unwilling to watch, she had cast her eyes down, but a morbid fascination pulled her gaze toward the prisoner in the yard.

  Standing erect against the whipping post, he radiated strength and defiance. He was not one to surrender. Where others screamed and pleaded for mercy, his only reaction was a slight tensing in his shoulders, a ripple of muscle just before the lash struck, leaving an ugly criss-cross pattern—an English soldier’s handiwork on the body of another Highlander. He tightened his hands into fists, and his arm muscles bulged with tension, yet still, he made no sound. Iron clinked against iron as
he strained against the manacles on his wrists which were chained to the post.

  A low chuckle to her side gave her enough warning to suppress the shudder of revulsion at her betrothed’s touch before a smooth hand grasped her own. Edward Morland, Earl of Allendyne. Though gallant and chivalrous during his courtship, his sadistic nature had emerged since their betrothal. Once married he would no longer be honour-bound not to violate her. She would cease to exist, other than as his possession to do with as he pleased, as much a prisoner as the man being lashed in the courtyard now.

  “What say you, my dear? This one shows unusual strength, even for these animals. I think I may have found my champion. He would provide me with much coin and entertainment back at Allendyne.”

  “I know not, my lord. I have no interest in such forms of entertainment.”

  Though she spoke quietly, the prisoner turned his head in her direction. Her skin tightened as two eyes the colour of summer grass fixed their gaze upon her. Even at a distance, their intensity made her skin tighten and a warmth of guilt spread through her. A spark of hatred flashed in their green depths before another crack snapped across the air, and the whip struck again. But this time he let out a grunt of pain. He closed his eyes and bit his lip. A crimson droplet bloomed on his mouth.

  Mirroring his gesture, she licked her own lips, dry with anticipation. He opened his eyes again. Bright with pain, they focused on her, calling to her; twin souls connecting across a dark chasm. Her consciousness circled inwards, magnifying her heartbeat which pulsed in her ears.

  Though she tried, she could not avert her eyes. Palms slick with sweat, her body weakened as the heat of his gaze coursed through her; not the lustful gazes of Edward or his men, but a call from beyond the physical which stirred something deep within her—passion, a burning need. He stared at her like a man dying of thirst stares at a winecup, as if only she could quench his thirst.

  Lifting a hand to her chest, she found herself trembling and heard a low voice cry out before she recognised it as her own. Edward tightened his grip, asserting his ownership of her.

  “Come, my dear, ‘tis time for you to retire.” He led her out of the courtyard, not speaking until he reached her chamber—an office in the garrison in which a small cot had been placed with her belongings.

  Withdrawing her hand, she moved towards the cot. The door slammed behind her, and she flinched at the hands which touched her shoulders. How would she survive her wedding night?

  “Does my lady have a weak stomach?” The smooth, cultured voice held a note of warning, but anger conquered her self-control.

  “No, she does not,” she retorted, “neither does she have a weak enough mind to take pleasure in such treatment of an unarmed man.”

  Edward scoffed. “These men who defy the king are traitors. Longshanks requires loyal subjects to rout them out. These Highlanders are naught but animals and must be treated as such.”

  Longshanks. Edward I. Elyssia had yet to meet the king; the man determined to conquer Scotland. Though Papa was a staunch ally and had met him often, Longshanks rarely ventured this close to the border between England and Scotland.

  “They’re not animals,” she said, “they’re men and women, with homes, families, and loyalties, just as we are.”

  “They are savages, my dear,” Edward said quietly. Ignoring the danger in his voice, she shook her head.

  “I saw only one savage in the courtyard.”

  He pulled her towards him, his fingers digging into her arms. “It seems my lady is in need of some instruction. Your father warned me of your childish sensibilities towards these Highlanders.”

  He thrust his face close and forced his mouth against hers, his thick tongue probing, fighting to gain entrance.

  “No!” She pulled her head away.

  “Nobody denies me,” he hissed, his expression contorting with anger. A slight movement to her left was her only warning, and she flinched, but too slow—a sharp crack and pain exploded in her face where he struck her, and she fell onto the bed.

  Before she could move, his weight bore down on her. Hands tore at her skirts, a shock of cold on her legs, and she squirmed away from him.

  “Stay still, woman!” he roared and forced her thighs apart.

  “Edward, have mercy!” she cried. “We’re not wed yet. Papa would have you disembowelled for dishonouring the name of de Montford.”

  Letting her go, he stood back, his eyes bright with lust, the sour stench of wine on his breath. A slow smile slithered across his face. She lay still, paralysed with fear, legs still akimbo where he had parted them, her face throbbing with pain.

  “Very well,” he said quietly. “I can wait, for the sake of honour, but rest assured, I’ll have you. When you are mine, you’ll pay for your defiance.”

  After the door slammed behind him, female shrieks echoed in the passageway outside. Edward had found one of the whores servicing the men at the garrison. With luck, he would take a mistress after they married and leave Elyssia alone; the thought of his hands on her made her flesh itch.

  Undressing and slipping under the blanket, she closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. Pained green eyes penetrated her dreams. Who was the man in the courtyard? How might it feel to have his hands on her? Her mind’s eye conjured images of strong muscles straining against the chain, beads of sweat running along the bronzed skin of the Highlander who in one brief instant had touched her heart more deeply than she had ever experienced.

  But she belonged to Edward. In a matter of days, he would be able to do what he wished with her.

  * * *

  “Get up, Highlander scum.”

  Tavish opened his eyes to reveal a pair of booted feet close to his nose. He splayed his hands in the dust-ridden stone floor of the cell to push himself up, and a streak of fire spiked through his back where he had been lashed two days before. But this time he was able to deny the English soldier the satisfaction of hearing his pain. Unlike before, when he had looked into a pair of brilliant blue eyes, their violet hue full of torment and compassion which had made him lose his resolve and cry out as the lash struck.

  Who was she?

  The boot crushed his fingers, sending shards of pain through his arm.

  “Today is your lucky day, Highlander. You’re to provide our lord with his entertainment.”

  Tugging at the chain fixed to the manacles on Tavish’s wrists, the soldier jerked him upright and pulled him through the cell door. Stumbling, he had no choice but to follow.

  The murmur of voices signalled the excitement rippling through the onlookers. Blinking in the light of the courtyard, Tavish followed his jailer to the whipping post. Was he to be lashed again?

  Nay, this morning’s entertainment was to be of a more sadistic form. Secured to another post by a chain attached to one wrist stood a huge figure. Though a man, he looked more like a mythical beast. His chain was at full stretch, and he strained against it, snarling with animalistic fury at the onlookers; soldiers already laughing and exchanging wagers.

  Cardred, son of Morcar. One of the barbarians—landless, soulless men who took their living and pleasure from raiding others, stealing livestock, burning homes, and raping the women.

  A wall surrounded the courtyard, on top of which a walkway led to the soldiers’ chambers. Allendyne sat in a central position on the walkway, the woman beside him. As if she sensed his eyes on her, she turned her head and met his gaze and parted her lips. She must have made a sound, for Allendyne immediately addressed her with a sharp word. Turning her head to acknowledge him, she revealed a bruise on her cheek just below her right eye. Nodding submissively, she turned to face the courtyard once more, her expression impassive.

  The jailer secured Tavish to the post before barking an order. Two men threw a knife at the feet of each prisoner before darting out of reach.

  Allendyne stood, and a hush fell over the onlookers.

  “You fight to the death. May the strongest man win. Fight well, for I have need of
a champion.”

  A thick snarl rumbled in the barbarian’s chest. Dark brown eyes, almost black, glared from beneath shaggy brows and a thickly jutting forehead. A huge vertical scar bisected one cheek which puckered and creased as he opened his mouth in a sneer, showing several gaps between blackened teeth.

  “I will not fight for an Englishman’s amusement.” Tavish waved his hand in appeasement. “We could agree not to fight.”

  Cardred merely growled and picked up the knife, running his finger along the blade, smiling as a trickle of red liquid seeped from his flesh.

  “The blade is sharp, MacLean. I shall enjoy slicing you open with it.”

  “I will not fight you!”

  “My lord, I beg—” the soft voice from above was abruptly silenced. Looking up, he saw Allendyne pulling the woman towards him by her arm before kissing her, holding her in a brutal grip, admonishing her in a low voice before he pushed her back.

  Cardred laughed, a low savage rumble echoing around the courtyard.

  “When I’ve gutted you, MacLean, my people will destroy these English dogs, and I will have that pretty little English whore for my own.”

  He lunged at Tavish, the knife blade slicing through the air. Unable to move in time, Tavish saw a red stain spread across his arm before the sharp sting registered in his mind.

  “To the death!” a voice cried. Cardred ran towards him again.

  Diving towards his opponent’s legs, Tavish rolled on the ground, avoiding another slash before reaching out for his knife and slicing upwards. A hot, red spurt sprayed out from the barbarian’s leg, and with a howl of rage and pain, the man fell to his knees. Tavish leapt to his feet, avoiding Cardred’s flailing arms, but he reached the end of the chain and jerked back, losing his balance. Sharp pain snapped in his wrist where the manacle dug into his already sensitive flesh.