She floated to the surface, coming up for air. Her linen shift clung to her body and her dark hair fanned out and floated with the ripples of the water. She closed her eyes, she opened her arms wide, allowing her fears to fall from her body and sink to the bottom of the loch.
The sound of twigs snapping alerted Abigale that she wasn’t alone. Quickly, she sank in the water to hide from what was lurking in the woods. Panic pricked up her spine as she searched the tree line for movement. Nothing… It must be a small animal running through the thicket. Another snap. This time, it she knew it was too loud to be an animal.
Abigale turned and faced Fergus.
Ears pointing in the direction of the noise, Fergus let out a gut-deep neigh.
“Ye heard that, too?” she whispered, trying not to draw attention to herself. Abigale slowly moved toward the water’s edge. The last thing she needed was to be attacked by a wild animal or worst yet…a rogue Highlander.
Wet and cold, Abigale stepped out of the water and headed straight for the huge boulder covered in green moss where her dress and dirk lay. If instincts had taught her anything, it was never to let your guard down and never leave home without a weapon.
A third snap sounded like it came from behind her. Taking a steady breath, she grabbed her dirk and spun around to meet her attacker. She lunged the blade forward, pointing it at his throat, the tip inches away from piercing his skin.
“Och, lass, I will no’ hurt ye.” A massive man with vibrant, amber-colored eyes stood before her with his hands up in surrender.
Abigale arched a dark brow. “How do I know I can trust ye?”
“I have no weapons on me… Search me if ye dinnae believe me.” With a sly grin, he turned around, inviting her to inspect every inch of his muscular body.
The stranger was naked from the waist up, making it easy to see he was telling the truth. It was clearly unnecessary, making him turn around was purely for her viewing pleasure. She could not will her eyes away if she tried.
As he turned around, it amazed her just how brawny this stranger was. Wet from a recent swim in the loch, his long black hair stuck to his neck and broad shoulders. His lower back tapered into a firm backside covered in black and gray plaid.
Growing up in the abbey, she’d never seen a man quite like him which made her feel things she’d never felt before. Why did she have the sudden urge to squeeze his buttocks? God could not have forged a more perfect man.
She’d bet a lass would lose all common sense wrapped in those hulking arms.
Being ten-and-eight, innocent, and sheltered behind the walls of the nunnery, she hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the ways of men. In fact, if she wasn’t praying, she was in the infirmary tending to the ill. She remembered Sister Kate’s nagging voice, “Ye only have room for one man in yer heart, and HE would never steer ye wrong.” Only if Sister Kate could see this man standing before her now, even she would blush.
“Ye should no’ be sneaking up on me like that.” Abigale lowered the dirk but kept her grip tight.
The stranger crossed his arms over his bare chest. “I was taking a rest while out riding when I saw ye over here. Ye know, a bonny lass like yerself should no’ be without an escort.”
“I can take care of myself just fine.”
“Aye, I can see that.” He rubbed his throat.
She stood shivering from the cold or mayhap from the intensity of his gaze. She needed to retrieve her clothes before she caught her death. Then she remembered that she was wearing a shift. Surely, he could see through it! Quickly with her free hand, she tried to cover her breasts and still have some dignity. “Would ye kindly turn around so I can dress?" She motioned with the dirk.
He did. “That’s a fine horse ye have,” he said over his shoulder.
Abigale finished dressing and began to smooth the wrinkles from her dress. “That’s Fergus, he’s a gift from my da. A true warhorse."
Of the few times her father had come to visit her at the abbey, she remembered the day when he had brought Fergus to her as a gift. A gift perhaps, but more like a peace offering for being gone for over a year. Abigale forgave him, and the white charger quickly became more than a horse, he was a friend.
“Ye may turn around now.” As Abigale glanced up, her heart skipped a beat as amber eyes pierced her, sending a rush of heat through her body. She licked her lips. How could this man, who she had never met before, make her hunger for something she had not yet experienced? Feeling uneasy, she broke their stare and quickly searched for her shoes.
“Are ye a Highlander?” What kind of a question was that? Of course, he was a Highlander. Ye fool, Abigale Bruce. He must think ye a real dunderhead.
“Why do ye ask?”
“That is a plaid ye wear?” Abigale leaned against a boulder and bent down to slip on her shoes.
“Aye.”
“Then ye must be a Highlander.”
The ways of Highlanders were much different from the English-influenced ways of lowland men like her father. Still, both had fought for Scotland until the crown and riches were in their grasp. Some would say that greed was the root of all evil. Abigale thought differently. The crown was the root of all evil. Men fought for it, killed for it, and sold their souls for a taste of the power it held. She knew that all too well, because it was her father's own longing for that prize which had left her abandoned at the abbey.
The unsettled nature of Scotland had left Abigale hardened. She’d seen firsthand the aftermath of battles fought—had mended wounds, prayed over bodies, and even buried the dead. The nunnery where she grew up would set up tents to aid those wounded in combat. Abigale would assist in surgery and her passion grew for healing the sick and curing wounds. She believed life was to be valued, not destroyed.
In a way, she blamed Lady Scotland for her personal misfortunes. Her father’s growing need to fight had forced to conceal her true identity and grow up without a family. Her whole family had been affected by the battles fought for Scotland and the voraciousness to claim the crown. Though it was true she had long forgiven the Lady, she could not forget.
The Highlander seemed far away in thought, because he took a while to answer. “Some would say I’m a Highlander.” "May I?” The beautiful stranger reached for a piece of hair that was stuck to her face and tucked it behind her ear. He brushed a calloused finger down her cheek to her slender neck, leaving a fiery path behind.
He held her stare and captivated her to the point that she could not form a coherent thought. This Highlander was so close to her she could feel his breath on her skin and smell his masculine scent.
The mysterious man lowered his head, cupped his hand behind her neck, and pulled her close to claim her lips. Abigale drew in a deep breath in anticipation when suddenly a nudge from behind broke her trance. She turned to find Fergus.
“Fergus!” she scolded. “What’s gotten into ye?"
Another nudge by a wet gray muzzle almost sent Abigale to the ground until strong arms caught her around the waist. “I got ye, lass,” he whispered in her ear.
For some odd reason, the deep tone of his voice soothed her. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned back against the warmth of his body. Wait…what was she doing? Abigale Bruce, ye are to be married.
Quickly, she slipped away and began to gather up Fergus’s reigns. “I should be getting back.” It was clear to Abigale that Fergus did not approve of the stranger.
Knowing she should be heading back soon, she mounted Fergus. She dared one last look at the Highlander. Her gaze roamed his massive body, everything about him committed to memory: his striking amber eyes, strong jaw line, and the way his eyes strayed over her body. She did not want to forget him.
A lass in her situation could only dream of running away with a beautiful man to avoid being married to a monster.
She was drawn to his charm and pure masculinity which made him extremely dangerous. If only she could control her own life and be free to choose who to lo
ve. Shouldnae one marry for love?
The Highlander approached her, drawing her out of her thoughts. He touched her leg which sent a tingling sensation up her thigh. “Lass, what is yer name? I’d like to see ye again.”
Abigale panicked. Not understanding the new feelings the Highlander brought out in her, she put her fantasy aside. With a squeeze of her legs, she sent Fergus into a gallop toward her father’s castle and far away from the Highlander.
2
The Bogeyman
Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye,
The Black Douglas shall not get ye.
A thunderous knock echoed through James’s bedchamber and rattled his drunken slumber. He growled his response while rolling over on his back. A soft, warm, naked body nuzzled next to him, sighing a breathy moan.
As his way of dealing with an unwanted, arranged marriage, he had spent the night drinking heavily. To his dismay, no amount of mead was going to change his situation. The thought of not being in control of his fate burned him. The more he burned the more he drank, until he was numb, which meant a significant amount, because he was Dragonkine.
When a well-endowed brunette with a low-cut dress had whispered an invitation for a night filled with pleasure, he couldn’t resist. It wasn’t unusual for women to offer themselves to him. He was handsome, dominating, and a Highlander. Men feared him and woman sought to have him between their legs. Being the clan chief did have its advantages.
Another loud rap ricocheted through his head. “Go away!” he demanded. “Leave me be.”
James drifted back to sleep, when all of a sudden, the door flew open with such force it shattered the hinges. Terrified, the brunette sat up and threw her hands over her breasts as a tall man came charging into the room.
“Conall?” With his vision blurred and head pounding, James could barely recognize his best friend and second-in-command.
Conall scooped up the woman’s dress and threw it at her. “Get out!”
The frightened lass jumped out of bed, and holding her dress, ran out of the room.
“James, get yer arse up,” Conall demanded and threw a white tunic at him.
James moaned and tried to sit up, but his stomach lurched and his head spun.
“Do ye realize what today is?”
“Aye,” James rumbled.
“I’m going now to fetch yer lass. Ye best get moving.”
Lass… Lass… James lay there for a moment trying to shake the cobwebs free. “Shite.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. Today he was to marry the princess of Scotland.
Before James finished putting on his tunic, a pair of trews smacked him in the face. Conall showed him no mercy. With his hands on his hips, he stood looking over James sternly. “Make sure ye wash up. Ye stink like a dung heap.” Conall turned and left the chamber.
James did a quick sniff under his armpits. “Aye.”
After a chambermaid prepared his bath, James washed the filth off himself. As he sat on the edge of the bed pulling on his boots, preparing himself to marry a lass from a nunnery who just happened to be the king’s daughter, his mood turned dark when he thought of the situation he was in. What was King Robert thinking when he arranged for his daughter to marry him? Robert knew he was Dragonkine. Slaughtering the enemy on the battlefield was where he belonged, not tied to a lass.
He was a beast… a dragon. Even though born human, he still had gone through one hell of a transformation eighteen years ago at the wee age of ten. Now, he was twenty-and-eight, with a fully transformed beast inside.
When his dragon seized control he was uncontainable, a ruthless being wreaking mayhem upon his enemies and leaving a trail of destruction behind. Stealthy raids aided him in keeping his dragon a secret. Only attack at night and leave no prisoners behind—kill them all.
There was nothing like it in the world when he shifted. The freedom he felt when he took to the skies was indescribable. Nose to the wind, his senses were strong, slicing through the clouds. His powerful wings dominated, the call of the wild, and his blood pulsed with the earth. He was dragon.
Mentally, James shook himself and stood. Grumbling a few blasphemies, he grabbed his cloak and flung it over his broad shoulders as he made his way to the door. He knew exactly who he was, which made his situation even more dreadful. He had to come up with a plan to get rid of the princess but still keep his honor. Surely if he made life unbearable for her, she would go running back to her da, begging for an annulment. The corners of his mouth began to turn up, along with his mood, as he shut the door and strode off to the kirk.
* * *
Abigale gazed at her reflection in the mirror as the chambermaid, Griselda, pulled a comb through her tangles. She hissed in pain when the comb stumbled upon another knot. “Stop that!” She swatted at the maid.
“Ye ought to be still, lass, and stop complaining.” Griselda huffed and continued her assault. Apparently, Griselda did not care for her much, nor for her wishes. Undoubtedly, she was a miserable person.
“Ye ought to try to be kinder. Ye are yanking my hair out.” Abigale picked up a lock of hair from the floor. “Look," she demanded.
This just added to her foul mood. Her body ached after enduring yesterday’s brutal ride to Castle Douglas. Accompanied by four of her father’s trusted knights, she stopped in between downpours of cold rain, and rode their horses through the mucky terrain, making the ride twice as long as it should have been.
Not to mention, the cold welcome she received as they arrived late last night. She found it odd that her husband-to-be was not present to welcome her to her new home. However, it pleased her, for she wasn’t yet ready to meet him.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the last thing she had eaten was the stale bread and hard cheese that waited for her after her bath last night. After the long ride, she had been quite grateful to sink her stiff and dirty body into the warm water.
Sleep had evaded her most of the night. Even after a hard day’s ride, Abigale couldn’t escape her fear of meeting the Black Douglas. So many questions invaded her mind. What does the Bogeyman look like and is he real? How would he treat her? Would his breath smell like ale the first time they kissed? But most of all, how would he take her when they consummated their marriage? Would he be rough? She couldn’t imagine a man with such a reputation displaying mercy toward an innocent.
Being a laird’s wife and raising wee bairns, nay, more like spawns from Satan, was her destiny now. She shuddered at the sheer thought of it. How could her father do this to her? Hadn’t she suffered enough at the hands of Abbess Margaret? All she wanted in life was to be happy and have a loving family. Was that too much to ask for?
A plan entered her mind. Mayhap she could run away…find shelter in a small village where no one knew her. Start a life of her own instead of one that had been arranged.
Just as quickly as hope began to bloom, it withered away. She couldn’t live her life on the run. Her father would find her eventually; furthermore, no one escaped the Bogeyman.
A hairpin pricked her scalp and brought her attention back to Griselda. Abigale shrugged out of the way from the rough-handed wench when she saw another pin appear in hand.
“That will be enough for now.” Abigale shooed her away.
She rose on shaky legs and took a step back, so she could take a look at her dress. An off-the-shoulder, white gown hugged her body to perfection. Gold, Celtic knots lined the top of her bodice and the bottom of her long sleeves. Her auburn hair was plaited and coiled into a tight bun behind her head. Griselda really did do a beautiful job, she thought.
She wished her mother was still alive. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about the woman she had loved so much. A vision flashed of an auburn-haired woman standing in front of her, beaming with pride and holding Abigale in her loving arms. The kind and caring woman would know what to do in times like these.
A loud rap on the door made Abigale flinch and realize her
situation was all too real. Griselda opened the door and informed her that her escort was there to take her to the kirk.
Abigale closed her eyes, trying to fight back the urge to run. To run back to the loch and into the arms of her beautiful Highlander. She silently cursed her father a million times for arranging this nightmare.
“I’ll be right there.” When she went over to the bed, her hands shook as she picked up a sheer veil with scalloped, lace edges. She draped the material over her head, careful not to disturb Griselda’s creation, and with one last look in the mirror, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Abigale held on to the very last bit of courage she had left. She had survived Abbess Margaret’s cruelty; she could surely endure the Black Douglas.
A very tall, well-built man entered the chamber and offered his arm. “My lady.”
Abigale accepted, for she had no choice. She held on tight to her escort’s arm, and they made their way to the kirk.
As Abigale approached the tiny building, she noticed that it looked as if it had been burned. Charred stone marred the outside walls. The remainder of black soot still clouded the stained-glass windows and there was a hint of burnt earth in the air.
Fear quickly turned into terror as Abigale reached the wooden, double doors of the chapel. Heart racing, hands trembling, she reached for the door then paused. Panic and fear had consumed her as the air became thick, making it hard for her to breathe, and her legs threatened to buckle. She held on to the escort’s arm to steady herself. She clenched her hand to her chest and began to breathe heavily.
The escort’s brows creased. “Are ye ill?”
A muttered nay escaped her lips.
“My lady, look at me.” The escort crouched down until he was eye level with Abigale. “Slow…short…breaths…”
Swirling gray-blue eyes that reminded her of a raging storm held her stare. Her breathing returned to a normal rhythm and she felt weightless, as if in a hypnotic trance.
Highland Burn: Guardians of Scotland Book 1 Page 2