Her Highland Beast: A Scottish Medieval Romance with a Fairytale Twist

Her Highland Beast


Madeline Martin


Copyright 2018 © Madeline Martin
HER HIGHLAND BEAST © 2018 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.
HER HIGHLAND BEAST is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Dar Albert @ Wicked Smart Designs.


Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Madeline Martin


PROLOGUE
February 1360
Isle of Mull, Scotland
DUNCAN MACLEAN HAD FOLLOWED the scream. He lifted the dark-haired child from where she lay beside the dead soldier. Evidently he had died protecting her, the bandits having run off when she screamed. No doubt they’d heard Duncan approach. Mayhap they’d seen him and fled in fear.
At fifteen, he was already larger than most men. Stronger, even.
The sun waned with the threat of the night drawing near. Regret niggled at him. He shouldn’t have left his mother and her lady’s maid alone. It had been foolish. Only he’d assumed the scream had come from a maiden in need of saving. He had rushed to the sound, eager to cut his teeth of his battle skills in an act of defending a great beauty from a horrid beast.
Alas, there had been no maiden. Only a young girl who might soon die. Aye, of course, he was glad he’d saved her, but the act would yield no grateful lover.
A curl of smoke showed in the distance, its peaty scent trailing in the air. Duncan carried the chit until a small monastery came into view. The girl’s shins jutted out beneath the grimy blue dress she wore, but her body was slight. He assumed her to be at least five years his junior. The monks would know what to do with her, for certainly he did not.
He lay her in front of the door and hesitated. Her glossy black hair splayed out over the leaves and called to attention how very pale she was. She was so small. Helpless.
What if they cast her out? Did she have anywhere to go?
Without thinking, Duncan tugged the heavy ruby ring from his hand and put it on her finger. It gaped around the tiny digit like a golden halo.
If nothing else, she would have payment – whether for the monks, or for food.
He rapped hard upon the door, then ran in the direction where he’d left his mother and the old witch she kept as her lady’s maid. Despite his fast pace, the hunt for his mother took longer than expected. Clearly he had wandered farther from them than he realized. Finally, the babble of the rushing stream met his ears. The rest of the forest was still.
Too still.
A coppery odor caught the breeze and the hair on his arms stood on end. A moan came from behind the brush, low and grating.
Duncan’s heart pumped harder, leaving him more breathless than the run. He drew his blade, ready to slay any foe nearby. And he could slay any man. He knew as much in his soul. He crashed through the trees, and stopped.
His mother lay strewn on the ground, unmoving. A brilliant red stain spread over her chest and glistened in the fading light. Blood.
His throat clenched around his heart and a choked cry emerged from his lips. He went to his mother and fell to his knees at her side. The witch lay several feet away, curled into a pain he could not see in the folds of her dark cloak.
She lifted a blood smeared hand and pointed at him. “Ye killed us.” Her eyes narrowed into black slits. “With yer youthful arrogance.”
His mother twitched and gave a garbled choke that made him wince. He leaned over her, wanting to touch her, to comfort her as she’d always comforted him. But where to touch her without causing pain?
“Mother.” The word strained against his tight throat and made his eyes tingle with warmth.
Her closed lids did not open and he found himself desperate to peer into the blue, loving gaze he’d known his whole life. Lines etched her mouth as if she were attempting to clench in her suffering.
“Ye left us.” The witch grunted, but he did not look away from his mother. “We were robbed and left for dead while ye played the part of a hero. Our deaths will haunt ye. Our deaths will be yer end.”
His mother caught Duncan’s hand in a grip as firm as his da’s and stared up at him wide-eyed. “Nay,” she grated. Her fingers were like ice.
“I curse ye, Duncan Maclean.” The witch’s voice shook with vehemence. “Ye’ll live twice yer life, for another fifteen years with the burden of what ye’ve done. With the knowledge that on yer 30th birthday, ye will die.”
A chill jolted down Duncan’s spine. A curse was no thing to be taken lightly. But he did not turn from his dying parent.
“Nay,” His mother said with more force. “My child.” She licked her dry lips. “My son.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
Duncan shook his head. He meant to tell her not to talk, to save her strength, but found he could not speak himself. Not around the hard lump lodged in his throat. He mutely shook his head in desperation.
Her brows pursed together and her eyes clamped closed. “Spare—” She winced. “Spare my son.”
A soft exhale fled her body and the grimace of agony pinching her lovely features relaxed. All of her relaxed. And all of Duncan