Page 1 of A Bride for the Kilted Beast

PROLOGUE

One month earlier, Castle Lennox

Odhrán arrived early for the meeting with his father in the old man’s study. While he waited, he took in the familiar room, the walls redolent with woodsmoke, whisky, and power.

One day, this’ll be mine.

Leaving the door open, he took the opportunity of his father’s absence to cross the floor to the enormous carved desk that stood near the far wall, to the right of the mighty hearth. A fire had been lit and was throwing out a feeble heat that barely warmed the chilly air.

Odhrán saw parchments spread across the surface of the desk. Out of curiosity, he rifled through them to see if they held anything of note. To his disappointment, they dealt only with the domestic affairs of Clan Lennox, merely confirming what he already knew: the clan’s fortunes continued to grow.

He listened for a moment, but there were only the faint calls of life from the hallways and passages of his home. No sign of his father yet. Odhrán slipped around the desk and carefully lowered himself into his father’s chair.

It was more of a throne really, an oaken, box-like structure, with a high back carved with the arms of the Lennoxes, a hawk in flight with a lamb clutched in its talons. He ran his hands over the polished wood of the arms, thinking the seat befitting of a powerful laird.

“Get out of there, boy,” came a gruff voice from the doorway. “Ye’re nae the laird yet.” Startled, his heart skipping a beat, Odhrán sprang up out of the chair and stepped aside as the tall, burly figure of his father approached.

“I was just waitin’ on ye, Faither,” he said, watching while his father removed his plaid from his shoulder and threw it on a nearby settle before taking his rightful seat.

“Aye. I can see that,” the laird rumbled without warmth, laying his large, battle-scarred hands on the desk and looking at his son out of his sharp, cold, gray eyes.

“Mayhap ye’ll sit here one day, but I warn ye again, if ye dinnae find yersel’ a good wife soon, ye’ll nae sit here at all.”

Odhrán bristled inwardly, sick and tired of hearing the same threat repeated over and over those last few years. He threw himself into a nearby chair and stretched out his legs.

“’Tis hard tae find a laird willing tae let his daughter marry a Lennox when the reputation of the clan stands so low,” he said, not daring to add the fact that everyone knew that was all due to the old man’s aggressive, acquisitive, often brutal dealings with the other, more reputable and powerful highland clans. “Ye ken well we have more foes than friends.”

“Ach, I care naught fer any of that. I’ve made us rich, and the others fear our army. We’re powerful, and the rest dinnae like it.”

“Aye, ’tis true enough, but it disnae make things easy fer me,” Odhrán pointed out.

“Enough with yer excuses, boy,” his father said scathingly, his grizzled face creased into the mask of disapproval Odhrán knew so well. “Yer blether disnae change the situation. ’Tis ye who must secure our future. Ye must find a wife and give her sons, without delay.”

“What about the MacCraven or the McGivens’ lassies? Their faithers seem keen fer one o’ them tae wed me,” Odhrán suggested.

His father shook his head, his impatience, never far from the surface, clearly beginning to rise.

“Nay, nay, boy, have I nae told ye many a time? I dinnae want ye tae marry any old laird’s daughter, ye must wed a lass of good blood, from one o’ the high clans, tae give ye bairns o’ pure blood. We Lennoxes have the gold and the power. And if ye marry the right lass from the right clan, she’ll bring her good reputation with her. That’s our future, and it depends on ye, boy!”

“All right, all right, ye dinnae have tae tell me again, Faither.” Odhrán nodded, hiding his irritation at hearing the familiar refrain.

“If ye cannae dae it soon, then I’ll be forced tae make a proposal to yer cousin, tae make him the next heir. Rollo already has a wife and bairns, and that’s what the clan want in a laird, nae a man who cannae even get a decent lass tae wed him,” his father told him in his typical brutal fashion.

Even as he seethed with concealed hatred for his father, Odhrán’s blood froze at the terrible possibility of losing his birthright to his cousin Rollo Lennox, something the Laird now threatened him with almost daily.

In yer dreams, auld man. That’ll never come to pass. Fer if I have tae, I’ll kill ye and Rollo both tae ensure me birthright. ’Tis me who’ll be the next Laird ’o Lennox!

Comforted by his secret resolution, he decided it was a good moment to put his plan before his father, hoping it would finally stop the old man’s endless threats and nagging, and ensure his own future as laird.

“Nay, Faither, ye dinnae need tae dae that. I’ve nae been idle on that score, I promise ye,” he said in a conciliatory tone, encouraged by the spark of interest in the laird’s eyes as he looked at him. “I’ve been doin’ some research, and I’ve come up with a good plan, one that’ll make us some money, and get me a high-born lass fer a wife.”

“Is that so, lad? Let’s hear it then,” the Laird replied with interest, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he leaned on the desk and regarded his son.

“Aye. I’ve been lookin’ into which o’ the clans of high repute are crumbling for lack of gold but have an unmarried daughter who’s the heir tae their faither’s lairdship.”

“And?”

“Well, it seems there are five o’ them,” Odhrán explained, watching the old man’s face carefully. “So… I came up with the idea of holding an auction.”