The Beast of Aros Castle (Highland Isles)

by McCollum, Heather

  Could that work? Ava had struggled with the guilt of using her friend to run from Vincent. She just could not watch sweet Grace suffer at the hands of someone called Beast. “Grace Ellington,” Ava said, “you’re brilliant.”

  “Doubtful.” Grace sat upright, apparently done with her rapid breathing. “You are the brilliant one who saves us,” Grace said, wiping flat palms over her forehead and cheeks.

  “Not this time.” Ava smiled fully, even as her stomach flipped and rolled. She whisked to the trunk that held Grace’s clothes. They were the same size and build, with similarly shaped faces. They’d been raised together, so Ava knew all about the Ellington family. Even the small portrait that was sent to Aros with the betrothal contract could have been of Ava instead of Grace. The eye color was off, but what man paid attention to the details of a lady’s eyes? She grabbed Grace’s blue traveling gown and held it along her front. Perfect.

  Grace slowly stood. “You don’t mean…”

  “I will be the Lady of Somerset, and you will be my maid,” Ava announced.

  “I thought yer name was Lady Grace Ellington of Somerset,” the burly Highlander, with the scruffy beard, said as he stood before Ava, braced for battle.

  Ava waved her gloved hand in a dismissive motion. “Grace is my middle name, which I’ve used since childhood, but since my maid is named Grace, I thought it would be confusing. My husband may call me by my Christian name, Aveline or Ava. You may call me Lady Ava, and my mother’s surname name was Sutton so sometimes I’m referred to as Ava Sutton or Grace Ellington.” She shook her head. “English titles can be convoluted.”

  The man was much taller than she, stocky and muscular, and his hair was in desperate need of a brush. Ava allowed a small smile to turn up the corners of her mouth. He stared at her with intensity, his caustic gaze trying to wring secrets from her mouth.

  An aged Highlander behind him said something in their guttural dialect. Ava had a knack for languages, but Grace’s tutors had stuck to French and German, not Scots Gaelic. The stocky man pulled at his whiskers. “It doesn’t matter what yer name is, yer ladyship, as I am here to inform ye that there is a change in plans.”

  “Change in plans?”

  “We meant to meet ye on the road closer to England, but ye traveled faster than expected,” he said.

  “Is the castle not ready for our arrival?” Ava asked, but the anxious shifting of the man indicated bigger problems than unaired bedrooms.

  “Torquil Maclean of Aros Castle on Mull—”

  “Yes, I know my betrothed’s name, sir,” Ava said.

  “Well…” The large man actually blushed and kicked a rock by his boot. “Ye see, milady, he ain’t yer betrothed. He sent us to take ye back to England. He has no wish to wed.”

  Ava’s stomach rolled, but she kept her breakfast firmly rooted inside. This would explain why the Scotsmen trailed horses behind them from their boat anchored at the docks. Did they expect to just fling Ava and Grace on a horse to ride back with their skirts around their knees?

  Grace gasped softly from behind, and Ava indicated the trunk. “I have my dowry. There is a formal betrothal agreement. Torquil Maclean’s father—”

  “Is dead,” the old Highlander cut in. “And Tor Maclean is now the chief and will not be shackled to an Englishwoman.” The scar stretching out from the corner of his eye, like a river delta on a map, creased even more with his glare.

  This was dreadful. Think. Where the bloody hell was clever Ava? Without wavering, Ava took in a full breath and held the old man’s gaze until his eye twitched. He cleared his throat and looked down at his boots. “He won’t have ye,” he said. “We’re taking ye back to England.”

  Chapter Two

  Ava heard a rustle of skirts and turned to see Grace plop down on the wooden trunk that held what was left of her dowry. “If Torquil Maclean will not have me, my maid and I will return on our own to England. If you could help us procure safe passage, we will be on our way.” Once out of Oban, they would pay the driver to change direction.

  “Nay,” the lead Highlander, with the unkempt hair, said. “We must see ye home.”

  Ava helped Grace stand. “A conveyance is gracious enough.”

  “Graciousness ain’t have anything to do with it,” the old Highlander said and spat on the ground, leaving something Ava refused to look at near his boot. “We have to take ye and yer dowry back in one piece, else the Macleans of Mull will be held responsible.”

  “Much of my dowry was stolen en route,” Ava said, her voice washed thin with quiet desperation.

  The older Highlander swore but shook his head when the leader looked to him. The third Highlander stared, his brows drawn to give his young face the look of a battle-hardened warrior.

  “There is no other choice,” the leader said. “Tor Maclean will not have ye, so we must deliver ye safely back into Lord Somerset’s hands. Ye will explain the loss of dowry to him.”

  Time lingered as the horror of the man’s blunt words filled Ava, making her bones heavy and her stomach tight. They couldn’t return to York. Lord Somerset had most likely already passed, and Vincent would be waiting there, full of lustful cheer to gobble them up. Grace and she would have to escape these forced escorts and hide away until they could find a place to live in Scotland. It would be caves and wolves for the two of them.

  “What goes on here?” Two soldiers decked out in English military garb, swords at their sides, stalked across the small square before the docks. A small regiment trailed them. Had they seen their stricken expressions or just been drawn to her rich garments? “Are these Scots harassing you?” the older, dark-haired soldier asked. He had sharp blue eyes and a long nose. A puckered slash across his cheek gave him a menacing look.

  The younger soldier, with sand-colored hair and a boyish face, frowned beside him at the Highlanders. He turned to Ava and produced a smile. “I am Captain Thompson, and this is Captain Taylor. Can we be of service?”

  At least a dozen armed English soldiers surrounded them. In the middle, with her and Grace, stood the three Highlanders, obviously outnumbered, but their hands still moved foolishly to the hilts of their swords. Tension lay like a steel web between them, tightly coiled and ready to fly.

  With the image of Vincent’s victorious face still making it hard for her to draw a full breath, Ava’s desperate mind latched onto yet another rash plan. She stood tall and forced a mask of ladylike superiority over her features. “These men are my escorts to the Isle of Mull. I am Lady Grace Ellington of Somerset, betrothed to the Maclean of Aros.”

  “A gentle lady like you, pledged to the Beast of Aros?” Captain Thompson said, his roundish face filling with pity. “’Tis a shame.”

  The old Highlander, with the twitchy eye, mumbled something in Gaelic.

  Grace and she would be no better off in the hands of the English captains, who would no doubt contact Vincent about their predicament. Ava tipped her lips into a polite smile full of serenity. “We all must do our part in fostering goodwill and loyalty between our peoples.” She looked at the lead Highlander. “I will walk with my maid while your men load our trunks in your boat. I do not think them heavy enough to require your horses.” She shrugged mildly.

  The Highlander stood there blankly, her comments above his comprehension.

  “Do not worry about escorting us down to the dock,” Ava continued, willing the stunned Highlander to go along with her story. Surely, they didn’t want to incite the interest of the captains. “I’m certain these kind English captains would be happy to oblige.”

  The Highlander turned on his heel. He spoke in Gaelic to the two Scots with him, and they each took one of the trunks while he led the unneeded horses.

  Ava smiled at both British captains. “It seems we are well cared for.”

  “We should follow close behind,” Captain Thompson said, tucking her gloved hand in his arm. “They may take your trunks and leave you stranded.”

  Captain Taylor walked with
them, leaving Grace to trail on her own. “This country is made mostly of thieves.”

  At the dock, a large sailing vessel stood anchored beside a few faded rowboats. The horses were clopping up a ramp to board. “We could come across with you,” Captain Thompson said, eyeing the three gruff Highlanders as they loaded the trunks onto the deck to sit alongside several crates and the tail-swishing horses. “Delay our rounds along—”

  “The Maclean requires notice of English visitors on his island,” the leader of the Highlanders spoke out.

  The older, Captain Taylor, seemed to stand taller beside her, his voice coming out in a gruff type of clipped bark that warned of immediate, unleashed violence if prompted. “Under King Henry’s authority, we will inspect Scottish outposts to determine that they are not being used by the French. Harboring French persons is treason.”

  Getting Torquil Maclean’s men arrested or killed would not endear her to him. Ava spoke with rapid and smooth precision. “I’m sure my betrothed would be pleased to meet with you after our wedding when the castle isn’t overrun with visitors and wedding preparations.”

  The old Highlander seemed to choke and covered his mouth with a balled fist as he coughed.

  Captain Thompson gave a reluctant smile. “A true shame to see someone as refined as yourself sent to such inhospitable lands and people.”

  Could Mull and the Beast of Aros be any worse than Vincent, the beast of Somerset? Dear God, she hoped not. Because at the current moment there were no further options.

  She gave a slight curtsy that she’d practiced with Grace hundreds of times growing up. “Thank you again.” She nodded to both men. “But King Henry wills such alliances, and God protects.”

  Captain Taylor bowed, and Captain Thompson kissed her gloved hand, holding it out for the Highlander in charge to claim it to help her board.

  It took a long moment, and a jab from the younger Scot, to get him to step down the ramp, bypassing the fresh horse dung on it, to take Ava’s hand. He tugged Ava up the narrow plank. She lifted the edge of her skirts so as not to step in the odorous pile, since the Highlander seemed determined to drag her through it. She landed with a heavy step onto the wooden deck where several other Scotsmen from Mull stood, looking perplexed. Grace nearly ran up the plank to her side. They moved to the back of the deck as men rushed about, working ropes and oars to push off from the dock.

  The man in charge, whom another had called Hamish, clomped over to stand beside them. He clasped his hands behind his back as they watched Captain Taylor nod once and pivot with precision to rejoin his men. Captain Thompson followed suit.

  “No Englishman is allowed unexpectedly onto our isle,” he said. “The Maclean hates surprises.”

  “Well, it certainly is fortunate that I am an Englishwoman,” Ava said, stressing her sex. The man swore beneath his breath and stalked off, leaving Ava to lean against the railing while Grace sat on a crate.

  Ava stared out at the little buildings of Oban, watching them shrink as their boat surged into the strait under the muscle of the oarsmen. She tugged her wool wrap tighter around her and turned her face into the salt spray to view the green hills of Mull, the home of the Beast of Aros, a man who hated surprises.

  Ava circled her arm through Grace’s as they rode with their trunks in the back of a dusty wagon without lap blankets or cushions. Rather unceremonious, but then again, the man was expecting to return them to York.

  A thick forest of pines and hardwoods flanked the path. Already the leaves here had almost completely turned to the autumn palette. A rock outcropping looked large enough to hold a cave. Did wolves live on islands?

  Blast. She should have found a coachman willing to take seeds and cloth in exchange for carrying Grace and her to the nearest church to beg sanctuary. But could a church protect them from Vincent? Without a wedding to legally bind Ava to someone else and Godly vows to protect Grace, Vincent would just carry them back to Somerset.

  “I was reported to be mild,” Grace whispered, startling her from the racing jumble of thoughts giving her a headache. “When you sent my portrait, you said I was sweet-natured and mild. Remember?” Grace’s eyes were tight with worry. “Mild, compliant, sweet. Ava, he’ll know you’re not me. Maybe it doesn’t matter since he doesn’t want either of us. He’ll just sneak us past the English and take us back to Vincent.” Her voice had pinched into a squeak.

  Ava squeezed her hand. “One step at a time. I’ll figure this out.” She let go to grip the hay bale bumping into her arm. “Right now, I am you, and I am here to wed Torquil Maclean.”

  “Sweet, compliant, mild,” Grace repeated, open concern widening her pretty eyes.

  Ava nodded and looked outward. She studied the modest thatched cottages as they rumbled by and inhaled the crisp breeze touched with woodsmoke. “I will have to behave.” Ava watched a cat shoot out from its perch on a front stoop to pounce amongst the dry grasses.

  “He will still take us back.”

  Ava bent close to Grace’s ear. “Not if he weds me,” Ava said, ignoring her thumping heart. Being the wife of a Highland chief couldn’t be worse than being Vincent’s slave. As wife of a chief, couldn’t she find a way to save Grace? Maybe convince him to take Grace and her to Edinburgh or Inverness.

  “How will you get him to wed you?”

  “Seduce him, I suppose.”

  “God’s teeth, Ava. Seduce him? How can a sweet, mild lady seduce a beast?”

  Ava glanced at the lone driver, but he didn’t seem to hear them from the front with the wheels creaking against the pebbly road. “It will all work out,” she assured Grace. “I am certain.” Which, of course, was an absolute lie.

  Aros Castle sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean with a river running behind it. Ava could hear the gurgling, churning water over the wagon wheels as they rode up to the stone fortification. A huge wall of chiseled granite surrounded Aros in gray. A pointy-toothed portcullis stood poised to descend like a monster’s maw, gobbling its enemies. Surrounded by a modest village with a small chapel, smithy, and artisans, Aros seemed self-sufficient. And completely impenetrable, she thought as they rolled through the five-foot thick wall. The fleeting plan she’d had to escape Mull with Grace seemed so improbable as to be absurd. Marrying the Beast of Aros might truly be their only option.

  The wagon halted before the doors to the keep with a jerk. “Remember,” Grace said. “Mild. Sweet.”

  “Very well.” Ava smoothed the blue traveling gown under her cape. “But I refuse to tremble.” She hadn’t quaked or swooned with Vincent breathing down her neck. Blast if she would show fear to a man that didn’t even want her.

  “Even mountains tremble,” Grace whispered, “when God wills it.”

  “Then I hope you included my performance in your prayers,” Ava replied.

  They helped each other out of the wagon since the driver didn’t seem to know he should offer. The other men from the boat rode their horses into the bailey, dismounting near the steps where they flipped their reins to waiting stable boys. Hamish strode up the steps into the soaring stone keep, leaving them to follow behind alone.

  “I have to use the privy,” Grace whispered to her. “Badly.”

  “Come then,” Ava said. She felt better having a plan—a plan that didn’t sacrifice her friend. Ava tugged Grace along to ascend into the dark entryway. Wall sconces gave off the scent of burning oil and provided enough light to illuminate the small space. They stepped through to a cavernous room beyond.

  Stone walls soared upward to arched wooden rafters carved with wolves and other beasts. A single, large hearth sat at the far end, and a sturdy wooden table, long enough to seat a regiment, ran down the center where Hamish stood with…

  Ava froze as a tall, commanding man swung around to stare at her. Wavy brown hair sat clipped close to his head. A square jaw sported a trimmed beard. But what stopped her in her tracks was the fury in his narrowed eyes.

  He cursed in Gaelic. “Ye, lass, are not we
lcome here,” he said with such low tones it sounded like a growl. He must be Torquil Maclean.

  “Welcome or not, I am here,” Ava called back, completely throwing off the idea of behaving meekly. The meek would be gobbled up immediately. “And my companion is in need of the privy.”

  “Oh God,” Grace whispered with obvious mortification, but it was too late to pull back.

  “So you can growl all you want later,” Ava said. “But right now, you will see to our comfort or…”

  “Or what?” he asked, the lines of his face less threatening and more curious.

  “Or…” Ava’s mind moved through the small list of possessions with her, but nothing stood out as very threatening. “Or my maid will ruin your castle floor.”

  His stare moved between her and Grace. “Ye are threatening me with pissing?”

  “One must use the weapons one has at hand,” Ava said.

  The young Highlander who’d accompanied them chuckled.

  The Maclean crossed his arms over his chest. His glare taking on a humorous glint. “We have no privies on Mull. That’s an English convenience. My men will take ye to a privy in York.”

  The young Highlander moved forward, but the infuriating chief stayed him with a slight raise of his hand. This was a game to him, and he was certain he’d win. He’d better get used to surprises.

  “We will stay,” Ava said and fought the urge to prop her hands on her hips. Grace had told her that ladies don’t do such things. So instead she crossed her arms to mimic the Highland chief. “Grace, go ahead.”

  “What?” Grace squeaked.

  Ava met the Highlander chief’s glare as she spoke. “We’ve been told that the Scots urinate wherever they may be.” Ava threw an arm out to indicate the hall. “So, we shall need to get used to the practice. Try, though, to avoid your skirts.”

  A woman with a long graying braid whisked into the hall, yelling in Gaelic. She switched to English. “We have privies. Heavens, Tor, don’t torture the lass.” She beckoned to Grace. “This way.”