by Victoria Zak
A third snap sounded like it came from behind her and way too close. Taking a steady breath, she grabbed her dirk and spun around to meet her attacker face to face. Lunging the blade forward she pointed it at his throat, the tip inches away from piercing it.
“Och lass, I will no hurt ye.” A massive six-foot-four man with vibrant amber eyes stood before her with his hands up in surrender.
Abigale arched a dark brow over deep blue eyes. “How do I know I can trust ye?”
“I have no weapons on me… frisk me if ye dinnae believe me.” With a sly grin he turned around with his arms in the air inviting her eyes to gaze upon every inch of his muscular body.
Abigale took him up on his offer, for she could not will her eyes off him if she tried. Following his every move, her body came alive. Her hands began to itch as she thought about running them down the corded muscles that lined his abdomen. Hulking arms shimmered in the sunrays as if they had been kissed by the sun and she wondered how his arms would feel wrapped around her body. As he turned around, long black hair hung over his big broad shoulders and stopped at his shoulder blades. His lower back tapered in to a firm backside which was covered in a black and gray plaid. Funny… she had a sudden urge to squeeze his buttocks. God could not have forged a more perfect man, she thought.
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 mending men severely wounded from battle, or ill. Sister Kate’s nagging voice reminded her that “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 still kept her grip tight.
The alluring man crossed his massive arms in front of his bare chest. “I was taking a rest while out riding when I saw ye over here. Ye know a bonny young lass like yerself should no be oot alone 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 thin shift. Surely he could see right through to her naked body? Quickly with her free hand she tried to cover her breasts and still have some dignity. “Would ye kindly turn around now so I can dress?" She motioned with the dirk for him to turn around.
He turned, giving her privacy to dress. “That’s a fine horse ye have there,” he said over his shoulder.
Abigale finished dressing and began to smooth the wrinkles out from her dress with her hands. “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, and there were only a few, 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 absent for over a year. Abigale forgave her father, 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 and struggled to swallow past a dry throat. How could this man, who she had never met before, make her hunger for something that she had not yet had? 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… that was a plaid he wore. Way to go, Abigale Bruce, he must think I’m a real dunderhead.
“Why do ye ask?”
“That is a plaid ye wear?” Abigale leaned against the boulder and bent down to slip on her shoes.
“Aye.”
“Then ye must be a Highlander.”
Indeed the ways of Highlanders were much different from the English-influenced ways of lowland men like her father. Still both parties 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 crown and the power it held. The crown grew evil in men and she knew that all too well because it was her father's own greed for the crown that left her abandoned at the abbey.
The unsettled nature of Scotland had left Abigale hardened. She’d seen firsthand the aftermath of battles fought; mended wounds, prayed over dead bodies, and even buried the dead. The nunnery where she grew up would set up tents to aid those wounded in battle. Abigale would assist in surgery and her passion grew for healing the sick and mending wounds. Life was to be valued, not destroyed.
In a way she blamed Lady Scotland for her misfortunes. Her father’s growing need to fight for Scotland had caused her to stay hidden, conceal her true identity, and grow up without a family. Her whole family had been affected by the battles fought for Scotland and the greed of claiming 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.” He approached Abigale. "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 callused finger down her cheek to her slender neck leaving a fiery path trailing behind.
He held her stare and captivated her to the point that she could not form a coherent thought. Her body was no longer hers to control, her heart dropped, and desire pooled in her core setting her body on fire. This Highlander was so close to her she could feel his breath on her skin, she could smell his masculine scent and soon she wanted to taste his lips.
The mysterious man lowered his head, cupped his hand behind her neck, and pulled her close to him 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 rich 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, you are to be married.
Quickly she slipped away from his hold and began to gather up the leather reins. “I should be getting back.” Observing the stallion’s actions, it was clear to Abigale that Fergus did not approve of the stranger.
Jumping up on the back of Fergus, she turned to face the Highlander. The man rubbed the back of his neck as if he was thanking the white horse for saving his arse from making a huge mistake.
She dared one last look at him before she rode off into the glen back to her father’s castle where she would prepare for travel to Castle Douglas and marry the Bogeyman. Her eyes roamed his massive body sketching everything about him to memory; his striking amber eyes, strong masculine jaw line, and the way his eyes strayed over her body. She did not want to forget this man.
If only she did not have to go. Mayhap she could run away with this beautiful man and avoid being married to a monster. Deep down, she was drawn to this mysteriously intriguing, charming and pure male Highlander. He made her think that for once she could be in control of her life and make her own decisions. In a way she envied his freedom. It did not seem fair that she had to marry a man who her father wanted her to marry. Shouldnae one marry for love? But then again, he was a stranger… a mystery. Before she ran away with fantasies she knew better than to think of, she squeezed her legs, sending Fergus into a run. She had to marry the Bogeyman.
Chapter 2
The Bogeyman
Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,
Hush ye, hus
h 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 alone 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, being that he was Dragonkine.
When a busty brunette with a low-cut dress whispered an invitation of a night filled with pleasures to him, 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 its’ hinges. Terrified out of her wits, the brunette sat up and threw her hands over her breasts. As she tried to cover herself, a tall, robust 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 brunette’s dress and threw it at her. ”Get out!”
The frightened woman jumped out of bed naked, and holding her dress, she ran out of the room.
“James get yer arse out of bed,” Conall demanded and threw a white tunic at him.
James moaned and tried to sit up; 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 was the day 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 at James sternly. “Make sure ye wash up. Ye stink like a dung heap.” Conall turned and exited the chamber.
James sat up and did a quick sniff under his armpits. “Aye.” His face furrowed.
After his chambermaid prepared his bath, James bathed the mead and wench filth off him. So here he sat at 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 and vile when he thought of the current 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 and ambushes 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, 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 a chambermaid, Griselda, pulled a comb through Abigale’s 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 about her wishes. Undoubtedly a miserable person to boot.
“Ye ought to try to be kinder. Ye are yanking my hair out.” Abigale picked up a lock of auburn hair from the floor. “Look," she demanded.
This just added to Abigale’s foul mood. Her body ached after enduring yesterday’s brutal ride to Castle Douglas. Accompanied by four of her father’s trusted knights, they 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 ready to meet him.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the last thing she had eaten was last night’s stale bread and hard cheese that waited for her after her bath. After the long ride her stiff and dirty body had been quite thankful for the bath.
Sleep had evaded her most of the night. Even after a hard day’s travel 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 towards 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 by 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. Abigale’s forehead creased in defeat. She couldn’t live her life on the run. Her father would find her eventually; furthermore, no one escaped the Bogeyman.
A hair-pin pricked her scalp and brought her attention back to the here and now as Griselda shoved it in place. Abigale shrugged out of the way from the rough-handed wench when she saw another pin appear in Griselda’s fat hand.
“That will be enough for now.” Abigale shooed her away.
Abigale rose on shaky legs and took a step back so she could observe her dress. An off the shoulder white dress hugged her body to perfection. Gold Celtic knots lined the top of her bodice and the bottom of her long sleeves. Her auburn hair sat behind her head, plaited and coiled into a tight bun. Griselda really did do a beautiful job, she thought.
She wished her mother was still alive. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about her mother. 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, making her situation all too real. Griselda opened the door and informed her that her escort was here 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. Mentally, she cursed her father a million times for arranging this nightmare.
“I’ll be right there.”
Walking 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. Tightly she wound her fingers around the 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 the slightest smell 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 her balance. She clenched her hand to her chest, and began to breathe quickly in and out.
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 raging storm clouds held her stare. Her lungs began to slow to a steady rhythm, and her body felt weightless as if she was under a hypnotic trance.
“Verra good, lass,” he reassured her. The escort took pity on her and pushed the door open.
An eerie creaking sound echoed off the stone walls as the door opened. A rush of cold stale air hit her body causing her to shiver and rub her arms warm. The only light that shone through the kirk was a singular sunbeam peering through a small arched window. Abigale watched as dust specks danced in its rays as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Nay, this is not a place of worship, Abigale thought. ‘Tis too cold and dark. But the cloaked figure sitting on the steps next to the pulpit had to be the Black Douglas.
