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

by Madeline Martin

  “In Edinburgh,” she said. “The streets slope at such an angle, yer knees almost touch yer chest when ye walk them.” Evina lifted her hand and slanted her forearm drastically in illustration.

  “Buildings rise up on either side of the street, high in the air and so close together, ye canna even make out a thread of light between them. The air at the market is sweet with baking pastries and smoky with roasting chestnuts. It makes yer mouth crave their taste as much as yer hands long for the heat of holding them.”

  She didn’t eat while she spoke, and Duncan didn’t either. For while she was too engrossed with telling him of the places she’d been, he found himself transported there in his mind. Through her, he traveled over turbulent seas to the magnificent cliffs of Ireland and the exotic beauty of the Orient, rich with spices and silks. Evina had seen the world and she fed it to Duncan one delicious story at a time. Each bite more savory than the last.

  He remained quiet while she led him through the paved city of Edinburgh, and up to the statuesque castle perched atop the highest hill, so all of Edinburgh could bow before it. While the stories fascinated him, they left him with a swell of heartache.

  He had never been willing to go to the places she had been. No, he’d remained rooted in front of a window, a witness to every leaf falling from the gnarled branches of his rowan tree. His absence would not have made them fall faster.

  A complete waste.

  His life had been a complete waste.

  And it was then he suddenly realized that in the last six days he’d spent with Evina in researching her mother, he had not once gone to the window to gaze at the rowan tree.

  EVINA’S WORLD WAS GLOWING.

  The smile on Duncan’s face gave her a strange, pleasant warmth, as if all the hurt and loneliness were melting into something more.

  Her initial desire to lay with him had not lessened, but her fondness for him had left her unsure of herself. Dare she say shy?

  She found herself studying his lips as he talked, and had on more than one occasion discovered his stare locked on hers, but the nervous fluttering in her stomach restrained her from encouraging physical intimacy with him. Never had she been able to take her time with a man like this before. But then, never had she met a man like Duncan.

  “I enjoy yer stories,” he said when she finished telling him of Edinburgh. “Ye paint it so completely, I can see it in my head as if I’m there.” His brow furrowed and he frowned slightly. “It makes me appreciate what I’ve missed. Ye’ve had the world, and I’ve had this.” He lifted a hand to do a flippant, all-encompassing wave.

  It had been too easy to forget Duncan’s confinement when travel was as much a part of her own life as breathing. The constant shifting of scenery, and faces, they flew by in a blur of weeks and months and years. Her palate was rich with the spice of exotic foods and her mind colorful with cultures and their people.

  Yet for the wealth of experiences she’d had, she was a hollow void within. No home, no companionship. Merely a great void, echoing her perpetual loneliness.

  She endeavored to smile, but knew it wilted beneath the hearty weight of her sorrow. “It isna as lucky as it might seem.”

  He tore off a chunk of bread. “Traveling?”

  “Traveling alone. No’ being injured. Watching those I know die. A lot of things others would consider fortunate that dinna feel so lucky.” She stared at the hunk of bread sitting atop her food, the bottom wet with a thick, brown sauce, the top dusted with spots of flour. It had been appealing when she’d first had it placed before her.

  “As with being home, I’d wager,” she continued. “Many would consider ye fortunate to live in luxurious splendor, to no’ ever have to leave this quiet comfort. To have the companionship of a close friend over the years. I’m sure ye dinna feel lucky.”

  Duncan scoffed and lifted a cup to his lips. His throat flexed with the swallow of ale. All of him was strong, she’d noticed. From the lined muscles of his forearms, to the powerful swell of his chest visible at the neck of his shirt and the broad expanse of his shoulders.

  He’d claimed to not do much in his time at Duart Castle, but she’d seen him the prior evening in the courtyard, practicing the mettle of his sword and body on a wood frame. For his claims of inactivity, he had kept himself fine and fit.

  And she had a deep appreciation for fine and fit.

  “How is it?” he asked. “To be unharmed?”

  The memory hit her like a punch and left the odor of blood in her nostrils.

  Bodies lay everywhere in a lumpy carpet layered over the gore-soaked earth. Some cried out - for help, for their mothers, for death - but most made no sound, and never would.

  “Lonely.” She bit into the warm bread. It was moist and stuck to her teeth when she chewed, before it turned to dust against her tongue and caught in her throat. She drank deeply of her ale and wished it to be a stronger spirit. Whisky. Something to burn away the recollections.

  Evina set down her cup and regarded her uneaten stew. The days at Duart had left her full enough to not crave food with ravenous want at every meal. “It’s hard to watch people ye know be cut down beside ye, especially when ye understand ye might face their widows later without so much as a scratch on ye.”

  She’d never spoken of her miserable life with anyone. Nor had she understood how much doing so was a balm to the ache in her soul.

  “I stopped making friends,” she continued. “It hurt too much to see them die, painfully aware I couldna do anything to stop it. It was always certain I was different, but I dinna ever think.” She shook her head and gave a mirthless chuckle. “I never once considered my mother was Morrigan.”

  It was unfathomable. Even now, when Gillespie and Duncan had witnessed her healing herself from the dead, when what she read made sense. Her innate proficiency with weapons and battle, the dreams she sometimes had of slender white hands washing the blood from a man’s armor and having him die in battle the next day, and the crows. They always dotted the field following a battle with their bright eyes and oily black feathers. She’d always felt as if they’d been watching her.

  Perhaps they had. Perhaps her mother had too.

  “I’m sure she’s proud of ye.” Duncan spoke softly.

  Evina lifted her gaze to find him watching her with a soft smile on his lips. “Ye know, ye’re actually quite charming when ye’re no’ being an arse.”

  He tilted his head. “That’s probably the most flattering thing a lass has ever said to me.”

  Evina couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

  He lifted his cup and tilted it in her direction. “A toast - to the woman ye are, and the stories ye so graciously tell. Ye take me to places I canna go.”

  She lifted her own goblet. “And to ye, for the hospitality of yer home, and for the companionship which has done more for my life than any new land I’ve visited.”

  They smiled over the rims of their cups and drank deep. A sudden awareness tingled over Evina like a sensual whisper over her flesh. She had always been aware of Duncan’s attention, of his presence. Now, however, without Gillespie in the room and with them truly alone, their secrets and souls laid bare, there was an undeniable intimacy.

  Evina bit her lip and Duncan’s eyes fell to her mouth. He shifted in his seat and his knees brushed hers under the table. They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the meal which had grown cold.

  She hardly noticed. What she did notice was how Duncan’s stare followed the movement of her hands, how his gaze lingered on her lips, how the very simple observance of such things left a hum of anticipation buzzing through her.

  “It’s getting late,” he said when they’d both finished their meal. In truth, it was not nearly as far into the night as the prior evenings they’d pored over their research. “Shall I walk ye to yer chamber?”

  The breath pulled from Evina’s chest. Had such a silly reaction ever happened to her before? She didn’t think so, but she did acknowledge how greatl
y she liked it. The heady, wild emotion in a world where she held such constant control.

  “I’d appreciate it,” Evina replied honestly.

  Together they rose from the table, their gazes fixed on one another with an age-old understanding. Duncan’s hand lightly touched her lower back as he led her from the table full of books and empty plates. His fingertips trembled, perceptible against the thin silk of her gown, and she remembered it had been nearly a decade and a half since he’d had a woman.

  Her pulse quickened at the cherished poignancy of the moment, at how the quiver of his fingers against her back was so very endearing.

  Longing heated in her veins. She wanted the explosion of his pent up passion. A shudder rippled down her spine in expectation for hands blindly tearing at clothing, mouths panting against one another, bodies so hot with desire they threatened to ignite.

  She stopped in front of her door and found him so close, their chests touched and their breath shared the same intimate space. The enticing male spice of his scent set her heart pounding.

  “Duncan.” His name fled her lips in a husky exhale.

  He caught her jaw in the cradle of one large palm and slowly lowered his mouth to hers.

  CHAPTER 8

  IT HAD BEEN SO LONG since Duncan had been in any way intimate with a woman, he’d almost forgotten how to kiss, how to touch. In truth, it was why he had refrained, admiring her from afar.

  After all, she was not some simple wench on whom to take the edge from his lust.

  This was Evina.

  The most beautiful woman he’d ever met, the most fascinating, incredible creature to ever wander into his life. And the one person who might be his very salvation.

  If he’d rushed it and inadvertently offended her, he could lose everything. His life, and most especially, this significant experience.

  His mouth pressed to the warmth of hers. The sweet, soft, clean perfume surrounded him and drew him close, like an embrace. He wanted to fall into it, into her, and never leave. Evina’s hand raked up the back of his neck and sent delicious prickles of pleasure tingling over his skin.

  The tip of her tongue grazed over his lower lip, enticing and silky. Heaven blossomed around him. His breath caught and his blood went molten. His fears at being inept were allayed when instinct guided him, drawn more from heart than memory. He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers, letting their breaths and tongues tangle with abandon.

  His insides trembled with nerves and anticipation and fear. Would he hurt her in his desperation? Would he be too excited, too eager?

  Too fast?

  He practically grimaced on the last thought.

  Her feminine curves and honeyed taste, all far greater than he imagined. It threatened to completely devour him and render his senses overwhelmed.

  His muscles blazed with might and energy. He wanted to clutch her against him and plunge into her, to claim her, until he was spent. His need was soul-melting, body-consuming, and barely tethered. It was all he could do to refrain from giving in to the savageness.

  Apprehension trickled down his spine like drips of frigid water. He wanted too badly, but he also cared too much. He knew he was powerful. His mind spun in a mix of desperation and lust so that he could not think straight. He knew only of his size, of what he was capable, and that he would rather die than cause her harm.

  His hands fell away and he stepped back. The solidness of his knees had disintegrated into instability, yet he remained upright by some miracle.

  She remained apart from him, breathing in deep, gasping pants through kiss-swollen lips.

  Even now he wanted to pull her toward him and let himself lose control once more.

  His stomach tightened. “Good night, Evina.” He spoke in a gravelly tone and reached out before he could stop himself, to trail a single finger down her cheek.

  Her skin was like a rose petal warmed by the sun. Was all of her as soft? Everything in him yearned to find out, to explore and taste and love. This warrior woman whose body bespoke of strength and whose skin was as supple as that of a lady.

  “I shall see you on the morrow.” The breathy whisper of her voice beckoned him closer with longing, but he resisted. She hesitated, as if anticipating he would not, and then disappeared into her room.

  Duncan lingered in the hall and stared at the darkened shadow of her door. He could have kept going. She would have let him. Now that he was thinking clearly, he knew he would not have hurt her. He could not, of course, as she was a daughter of Morrigan.

  Even if she were a normal woman, he was sure now, he would have ensured he did not hurt her. Not with the way he felt about her.

  Yet the fear had been so cold, so palpable.

  And still its obstinate effects clung to him.

  He made his way down the length of the hall and into the privacy of his own chamber.

  Eight more days. He did the sum in his head before he realized what he was doing. Eight more days of being in his room. Nine more nights of sleeping in his bed.

  Eight days and nine nights left of his very short life.

  A metallic taste edged up the back of his throat and cooled the heat of his blood. Fear.

  A jarring thought shot through him. Mayhap he had not been afraid of hurting her, but had been afraid for himself. With her affection came the bud of hope. And he could ill afford at this point in his short life to bother with something so useless.

  EVINA HAD NEVER BEEN a woman to shy away from a situation, and especially not a man. The following morning, she still reeled over his abrupt departure. She had never had a problem stating what she wanted, or getting it.

  Never had a man kissed her so thoroughly, nor burned her so blazing hot - only to leave. She had been stunned into silence. How very foreign. The closer she got to Duncan, the more he drew away. As with all else at Duart Castle, it was odd.

  From the extensive collection of books on magic and mythology to the strange assortment of their new servants. Everyone had been kind, and yet there was something undeniably not right about them. Their gazes were too steady, their movements too stealthy, and they all held about them an air of wild beauty.

  Ala’s graceful hands pecked and floated over Evina in an attempt to lay the glossy cloth over her exactly so it parted at the top of her shoulders and spilled down her bare arms to flutter out like angel’s wings. It was lovely, truly. And wasted on a woman the likes of Evina.

  Ala tilted her head. “Do ye approve?”

  “I do. Thank ye, Ala.” And indeed Evina did appreciate it. The fabrics Ala chose were soft and light as a summer breeze, and the servant always took the care to provide some form of a soldier’s addition to the clothing. Either a breastplate or, as with the current gown, a sling of leather around her waist with a jeweled dagger thrust into the sheath.

  Ala folded her long arms over her chest and drifted back to admire her work before giving a satisfied nod of approval. Evina didn’t hesitate to escape lest Ala find another small length to smooth or shift. It was frivolous when Evina would have been perfectly fine in trews and a léine.

  She made her way down the long hall, passing the sullen faces of Maclean ancestors and impressive pieces of ancient furniture. No servants were about and the solitary silence pressed in around her. Had she ever in her life known such silence?

  Typically she found herself among armies of men either training for, engaging in, or recovering from battle. From ships to castles and out beneath the great wide sky of the whole world, never had Evina possessed such peaceful quiet to cherish.

  A masculine voice trailed from the open door of the library, its timbre sensual and familiar. Evina’s mouth curled into a smile, and she didn’t bother to stop it.

  Duncan.

  If he was an ordinary man, she might have charged into the room with her head held high and her stance wide. She would demand he take her to bed if he wanted her, or she would just as well find another to sate her desires.

  Her intentions woul
d be known and she would have what she wanted. After all, no man had ever said no.

  Her heartbeat slammed in her chest at the thought of saying such words to Duncan. Her pulse came too fast and her lungs cramped as if lacking the space to expand properly. Heat scorched in her cheeks and suddenly she was jittery with nerves.

  She forced action into her body and made her way on shaking legs to the doorway. She stopped before the closed doors and clenched her fists in frustration.

  Why was she so damned nervous? She was a woman who met a challenge with a glint in her eye and a sword in hand, not one who backed down and cowered.

  “There isna much time left for this to work, laird. Ye shouldna tell her.” Gillespie’s voice cut off her self-admonishment.

  “I have to.” Duncan’s tone was hard, the way men spoke when they were stressed. “I dinna want to keep this from her. I…”

  “Ye what?” The question was asked with careful reproach, a servant breaching the line of appropriate conversation with their laird.

  “I’m enjoying my life for the first time since the curse. I care for her.” Duncan said it haltingly, with obvious hesitation.

  Evina’s breath caught. He cared for her. A glowing heat filled her chest.

  He cared for her.

  She leaned against the wall and let the joy bloom on her lips and swirl in her stomach. Men had held affection for her before, foolish ones who had attempted to protect her in battle and fallen in their efforts. Yet never had she understood the elation of learning of a man’s regard.

  She straightened and reveled in the new knowledge. She could not continue to remain outside the doorway, listening to their private conversation. There was a pause in their discussion, which opened up the perfect occasion.

  Evina swept open the doors and hoped her cheeks were not as brilliantly red as their heat indicated they might be.

  “Ach, there she is now,” Gillespie said with an overly enthusiastic clap of his hands.

  Duncan said nothing. His gaze fell on Evina and lingered, as if he were cherishing the vision of her. He swallowed. “Evina, ye’re radiant.”