Betrothed to the Beast Read online

  Betrothed to the Beast

  Reformed Rogues

  Book 1

  By Elina Emerald

  Copyright © 2020 Elina Emerald

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests contact via links below; [email protected] or www.elinaemerald.com

  Contents

  Betrothed to the Beast

  DEDICATION

  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

  Epilogue

  Author notes

  DEDICATION

  To those who believed I would write a book someday.

  THANK YOU

  No writer is an island

  My family who love me and encourage me to write even though they are not romance fans, in fact they hate it and would never read this book, but that is beside the point. I still love you.

  Melissa.S for keeping me accountable and asking me every day if I have finished the book yet. The answer is yes.

  JT Kingsford for being an awesome ‘writer catchups’ friend and encouraging me to finish something. Beiste also thanks you for talking me out of calling him Gabriel.

  Leilani.W for being so excited about this story before I even knew where it would take me.

  Deb.R for being so excited about the book cover.

  V.Arya for reminding me that “Every writer gets bad book reviews so publish it anyway.”

  Angelina.C for becoming the future inventor of the highly essential “Oh la la” emoji.

  Bro O – just because.

  DISCLAIMER

  This is a work of historical romantic fiction. Although some of the characters in this book were based on real medieval historical figures and places, the portrayal of these characters is fictional. It is sort of like how Shakespeare portrayed Macbeth as an evil nasty villainous King because it suited his purposes. But historically the real Macbeth was not all bad. Sure, he may have killed a cousin or two but who didn’t in those days? In saying this, I am in no way comparing myself to Shakespeare, I am just highlighting a point. If you would like to find out more information about the amazing country called Scotland with its rich and diverse cultural heritage and historical significance, head to the back of this book for some interesting links or you could google it yourself.

  Chapter 1

  Healers Cottage - Dunbar, East Lothian, Scotland 1033

  Impending death has a smell. Amelia knew this to be true as the metallic scent of blood overpowered the aromatic herbs that had since lost their potency. She sat in stillness while the midwife bustled around the mud brick room, her heavy steps leaving footprints on the dirt floor. A cloying haze of smoke and steam from boiling water settled mid-air as lingering sweat and strange odours combined to herald a body giving up its right to life. Amelia had lived fifteen summers and knew that nothing, not the yarrow nor the crushed bog myrtle, could staunch the bleeding. Her mother, Iona, would be dead within the hour.

  She gazed upon the bed where her mother clung to the still born body of her baby son. Another bastard for the Earl of Dunbar. Amelia reached out and touched his tiny lifeless fingers; it was then she wept for losing a brother she would never know, and a parent she could not bear to let go. If she had not sensed the shift before, she felt it now. The veil between the two worlds was lifting. The midwife made the sign of the cross, then left the cottage.

  “Amie” her mother rasped. “Don’t cry mo nighean.” Iona moved an errant curl away from Amelia's face. A gesture that exhausted her.

  Amelia shook her head in anguish, “No Ma, please don’t leave me, I need you.”

  “Tis my time to go, love.”

  “What will I do without you?” Amelia sobbed.

  “Use your gift, your healing skills will see you through.” Iona’s breathing became laboured, but she pushed on between breaths. “I’ve left you my notes tell no one you can read, you ken?” She coughed, and Amelia motioned as if to get water. “No.” Her mother clutched Amelia’s arm. “There is a letter in my notes and a box for you in the woods. You will need the contents to find your kin. Show it only to them.”

  “What do you mean? You are my only kin.”

  “No lass, Highland blood flows through your veins.” She was wheezing now and gasping for air. “Promise me, you’ll find them, tis my gift to you.”

  “Ma, I don’t understand.”

  Her mother winced. “Tell them Iona sent you. Promise me!”

  “I promise Ma.” Iona released her grip on Amelia’s arm it now lay limp on the bed.

  Moments later the door opened and her father Maldred, Earl of Dunbar appeared, his facial features haggard and etched in sorrow. He collapsed by the bedside. “Iona, mo ghràidh I am sorry.” He held the hand of his beloved leman as she took her last breath.

  Amelia had never seen him cry before. Their eyes met, hers full of anguish and his filled with grief and regret. “I’m sorry Lia, I swear to you I will do my best for you. I swear it.” With those words he stood and left the cottage.

  It would be several days before Amelia retrieved the box buried beneath the hallowed tree. It was made of solid oak. Within it lay a folded airisaidh and a crest badge with an insignia on it. A battle axe encircled by branches with the Latin inscription. “Aut Vincere Aut Mori” Either conquer or die. With her heart lighter than it had been in days, Amelia placed the contents back in the box and tucked it under her arm. Somewhere out there in the Highlands, she had a family and someday she would leave this cursed town and find them.

  ***

  Dunbar Castle, East Lothian, Scotland—1040

  If there was one thing Amelia Dunbar knew, it was this; she was never leaving this godforsaken town. After her mother’s death she found herself tied to the Estate with never ending duties as clan healer. In addition, she still had no idea who her kin were because all inquiries had come to a dead end and to make matters worse her father was at this very moment trying to marry her off to a stinking farmer. Now, by referring to him as such, she did not mean to mock farmers because working with the land is a noble profession. It was the fact said farmer literally stunk. She could smell him from where she stood, and that was a good ten feet away with the wind blowing in the opposite direction. His name was Angus, he was just shy of forty -nine with a receding hairline and every third tooth was rotten or missing. He also had seven children from two deceased wives who had no doubt expired from the stench of his breath. Amelia knew she was no brilliant catch herself, she was not bonnie or graceful or slim like other women her age, but for the love of all things holy, was it too much to ask that a prospective suiter bathed more than once a year?

  “So, what think you Lia?” the Earl asked. “He’s a fine catch with fertile land and lots of cattle.”

  “I’m sorry Da, but no. I do not think Angus and I will get along at all.” She waved at Angus, saying a quick “Sorry.” Then began
walking away.

  Exasperated, the Earl followed behind her, “Come now Lia, this is the fifth man you have turned down in two years? I am trying to do my best for you, I promised your mathair on her deathbed.”

  That was the part Amelia hated the most. Her father’s best was not good enough. His best resulted in her mother becoming a pariah. His best caused his wife Ealdgyth to die of heartbreak because he could not keep their marriage vows. His best meant Amelia had to take on more duties because he was rarely home. At two and twenty years old, Amelia was sick to death of her father’s best.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  MacGregor Keep—Glenorchy, Perthshire, Scotland 1040

  Chieftain Beiste MacGregor stood on the rocky outcrop watching his men spar on the training grounds below. He was six foot five of pure muscle with broad shoulders and a menacing scowl. A hardened Warrior, his body bore the visible signs of battle including a grotesque scar etched across the left side of his face from temple to chin. His bronzed skin a vivid contrast against rolling green hills. At nine and twenty Beiste had spent the better part of a decade fighting the wars of Kings and now he just wanted peace.

  On Beiste’s right hand, stood the equally enormous form of his Head-Guardsman, Brodie Fletcher and to his left was his Second-in-Command Dalziel Robertson. Brodie was the charmer of their group, with his handsome features and friendly disposition but rile his temper and he was as ferocious as a bear. Dalziel was the quiet one, a keen observer, he was leaner than the other two but twice as deadly. The three men had fostered together from boyhood and over the years had forged a kinship stronger than any blood tie. Ever vigilant, ever alert, they waited in silence for Beiste to speak.

  “King Duncan mac Crìonain is dead.”

  Brodie wiped the smile from his face, “How?”

  “Slain in battle by his cousin Macbeth mac Findlaích.”

  “A family feud?” Dalziel asked.

  “Aye, Thorfinn Sigurdsson of Orkney aided him.”

  “I take it Macbeth is now King of Alba.” Dalziel said.

  “Aye, twas he who sent the King’s missive requiring my immediate action.”

  “What does he want with you?” Brodie asked.

  “I am to marry some wench from the Lowlands.”

  “What?” Brodie looked outrage “Surely he cannot ask that of you?”

  Dalziel agreed “Tis a low blow, everyone kens you still mourn your wife.”

  Beiste did not need reminding. It had been two years, but the memory of Caitrin’s death haunted him still.

  “He can and he has.” Beiste bit out with anger.

  “But why?”

  “Because she is Duncan’s niece.”

  “Why would he make you marry the niece of the King he just killed?” Dalziel asked.

  “I do not ken but if I refuse, we forfeit our lands.”

  The men were silent, processing their options.

  “And what of Elora?” Brodie asked.

  “What of her?”

  “Does she ken you mean to take a wife?”

  “What I do is none of her concern.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Brodie looked doubtful.

  “Aye!” Beiste snapped. “Women have no say over what I do in or out of bed.”

  Brodie dropped the subject and glanced at Dalziel, who said nothing. They both knew Elora would not welcome the news.

  Dalziel said, “When must this be done?”

  “Within the fortnight.”

  “Then we best prepare, our men tis a sennight’s ride to the lowlands.” Brodie said.

  “But first we let off some stream.”

  ***

  Training grounds—MacGregor Keep

  Beiste swung his broadsword with a feral war cry and ran straight towards his opponent. He had already knocked out several warriors and was in the mood to pummel some more. Brodie had entered the ring and parried the blow with his square-head axe now they were locked in combat. Beiste lifted his targe with his right arm and hit Brodie on the left side of his face. Brodie stumbled backwards, but not before he swung his axe towards Beiste’s head. Beiste blocked the axe with his sword and stepped away. The two men circled one another. They had been sparing on and off for close to an hour, neither one tiring nor admitting defeat. Brodie swung his axe again, this time at Beiste’s legs. Beiste jumped over it as it sliced through air. He landed on his feet and in a surprise move shoulder charged Brodie.

  The force pushed Brodie back so fast he lost his footing landing flat on his back and winded, before Brodie could roll away the tip of Beiste’s sword was suspended and aimed two inches above his neck “Do you yield?”

  “Damn.” Brodie groaned. He hated losing.

  Beiste threw his sword and targe on the ground and offered a hand to Brodie, “Truce?”

  Brodie agreed and just as Beiste moved forward, he swiped his legs out from under him. Both men now lay on their backs blinking up at the sky, it was then Brodie chuckled, “Truce.”

  They lay on the ground for a moment trying to catch their breath when Dalziel appeared in their line of vision and threw a bucket of cold water over them. “Get up lassies, we have packing to do.” Dalziel then sauntered away.

  “That bastard really needs to get laid.” Brodie grumbled as he and Beiste stood shaking the water from their hair and wiping the dust from their trews.

  When they turned to face their men, a wall of women who had gathered to witness their sparring instead met them. Beiste just growled and walked away in search of water, Brodie spread his arms wide to greet the women, his face split into a fierce grin “Ladies I need to quench my insatiable thirst!” He was inundated with a bevy of women offering him water cups. He took one and gulped it down, deliberately flexing his muscles in the process to show his side profile to advantage.

  “You are so braw and strong, Brodie Fletcher,” sighed one young lass.

  “That I am minx, braw and strong… all over.” He looked down at his groin than back at her and winked. She blushed and giggled.

  A buxom brunette then approached Brodie. She smiled when he turned to her. Holding her bucket of water, she purred, “I offer you the essence of my pail and anything else you wish to partake of Brodie Fletcher.” Brodie’s smile grew even wider. He could not quite remember her name, but he knew he would take her up on that offer later tonight.

  Beiste was glad to be away from Brodie’s harem. Having women fawn all over him was not something he encouraged. He preferred his women wanton in bed and non-existent outside of it. He could not understand Brodie’s need to charm and seduce every woman within a ten-mile radius. Women were too much effort.

  ***

  Morag the Cailleach

  It was a few hours later, the Keep staff and tradesmen were preparing provisions for their Chieftains journey. Dalziel who was to remain and rule in Beiste’s absence was going over security changes, and Beiste and his War Band of thirty retainers were readying their horses and making last preparations.

  Beiste was grooming his destrier Lucifer when all chatter ceased as men stared at a point behind him. Some made the sign of the cross, others averted their eyes as the hobbled figure waited. Beiste looked over his shoulder and stared at the wizened form of Morag Buchanan, her face was wrinkled, her hair grey and the pupils of her eyes were white. She wore her signature cloak it was grey like the colour of mist. The men called her ‘Oracle’ some called her the Cailleach or old hag for it was rumoured she had the sight. But Beiste had never paid mind to superstition.

  “Looks like the Witch wants a word with you Chief.” Kieran one of his warriors gestured towards Morag.

  “Aye, t’would seem so.” Beiste sighed he put down the grooming brush and turned to face her. He really did not have time for any of her predictions, but he would hear her out.

  “What can I do for you Morag?”

  “You go to collect your wife, I hear.”

  “Aye, on the morrow but she is my betrothed, not my wife.”
/>
  “Whether tomorrow or the next, she is your wife already chosen.”

  “Is there something you need Morag for I am hard pressed for time?” He looked impatient.

  “Och you young-uns, you never ken in all your rushing about that Time has already set her trap for you.”

  Morag was speaking in riddles again, and Beiste really did not have the patience for it. “Well then Morag unless you have something important to discuss–.”

  “Patience Chieftain, I only want to give you these for your men.”

  Beiste accepted the pouch and jar she offered but furrowed his brow, “What are these?”

  “Tis rose petals and honey.”

  “Why the bloody hell would my men need roses and honey?”

  “Your wife will ken when the time comes.”

  With that Morag hobbled away, leaning on her staff.

  Beiste just looked down at the items and muttered under his breath, “Bloody rose petals?”

  “Och and Beiste...”

  “What?” He growled.

  Her eyes took on an eerie glow, “Choose well, our future depends on it.”

  ***

  Elora

  It was the morning of their departure, and the men were all gathered in the Bailey.

  Beiste had taken his leave with his mother Jonet and sister Sorcha. He was just getting the horse tethered when again he sensed a movement behind him. Did every woman in this blasted Keep feel the need to speak to him before he left?

  “Elora.” he grunted. Her smile faltered at his curt tone, but Beiste hated this part. Dealing with women who wanted more from him than he had agreed to give. Elora had warmed his bed months ago. The only woman he had been with since his wife had passed. He found her naked in his bed waiting for him one night and took the pleasure she offered, making no promises in return. Ever since then she had tried to stake some claim on him.