Awarded a B.R.A.G Medallion for Historical Romance. The Reformed Rogues series follows the lives of three fearsome Scottish Highland warriors who form a bond stronger than any blood tie. It is set in 11th Century medieval Scotland during the reign of ‘The Red King.’ RECOMMEND READING BOOKS IN ORDER. Highland Chieftain, Beiste MacGregor is a ruthlessly ambitious warrior with the viciousness of a beast. He has little interest in women beyond the bedchamber. On the order of the Red King, he reluctantly travels with his men to the Lowlands to formalize a Betrothal to a woman from clan Dunbar. He is unprepared for the troublesome but striking clan healer he meets on the way, who not only infuriates him but stirs something deep within his soul. Amelia Dunbar is a clan healer and the illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Dunbar. When she is not serving as a companion to her half-sister, she is tirelessly attending to the sick in her clan. Amelia has plans to find her mother’s people in the Highlands and is about to embark on her journey when the arrival of fearsome warriors waylays her. One warrior, they call ‘the Beast,’ rouses her ire and sets her heart racing at the same time. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam. If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, royal intrigue, and humor then you'll enjoy this book. *** 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 odors 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. “Dinnae 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 dinnae 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 labored, but she pushed on between breaths. “I’ve left you my notes. Tell no one you can read, you ken?” She coughed. Amelia motioned as if to get water. “No.” Iona 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.” Iona was wheezing now and gasping for air. “Promise me, you’ll find them, tis my gift to you.” “Ma, I dinnae understand.” Her mother winced. “Tell them Iona sent you. Promise me!” “I promise, Ma.” Iona released her grip on Amelia’s arm. Her hand lay limp on the bed. Moments later, the door opened, and Amelia’s father, Maldred, Earl of Dunbar, appeared. His facial expression was haggard and etched in sorrow. Maldred collapsed by the bedside. “Iona, mo ghràidh, I am sorry,” he said. He then 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,” he said. With those parting words, Maldred 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 — 1040 If there was one thing Amelia Dunbar knew, it was this; she was never leaving this godforsaken place. After her mother’s death, she found herself tied to the estate with never-ending duties as a clan healer. In addition, Amelia still did not know 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 suitor 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 dinnae think Angus and I will get along at all.” Amelia waved at Angus, saying a quick “sorry,” then walked 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 màthair on her deathbed.” That was the part Amelia hated the most. Her father’s best was not good enough. Her mother became a pariah because of his best. 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 was 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 bond 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 asked. “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 outraged. “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 said 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 dinnae 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 asked, “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 steam,” Beiste replied. *** 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 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 backward, 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 sparring on and off for close to an hour, neither one tiring nor admitting defeat. Brodie swiped his axe again, this time at Beiste’s legs. Beiste jumped over it as it sliced through the air. He landed on his feet and, in a surprise move, sprinted headfirst and shoulder-charged Brodie. The force pushed Brodie backward 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?” Beiste asked. “Damn,” Brodie replied. 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 stepped forward, Brodie swiped his legs out from under him. Both men now lay on their backs, blinking up at the sky. It was then Brodie chuckled and said, “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 said, then sauntered away. “That bastard really needs a good swiving,” Brodie grumbled as he and Beiste stood up, shaking the water from their hair and wiping the dust from their trews. When they turned to face their men, there was a wall of women instead. Beiste just scowled and walked away in search of water. Brodie spread his arms wide to greet them, his face split into a fierce grin. “Ladies, I need to quench my insatiable thirst!” he shouted. Brodie was inundated with a bevy of females 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.” Brodie glanced down at his groin, then back at her and winked. She blushed and giggled. A voluptuous brunette then approached Brodie. She smiled when he turned towards 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 that night. 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 tradespeople were preparing provisions for their chieftain’s 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 final 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 marred with wrinkles, her hair grey, and the color of her eyes were white. She wore her signature cloak. It was grey like the mist. The men called her ‘Oracle’. Some called her the Cailleach or the hag, for it was rumored she had the sight. But Beiste had never paid mind to superstition. “It seems 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?” he asked. “You go to collect your wife, I hear.” “Aye, on the morrow, but she is my betrothed, not yet 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 aboot that time has already set her trap for you.” Morag was speaking in riddles again, and Beiste 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 Morag offered, but he 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, then she said, “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. Beiste hated this part of dealing with women who wanted more from him than he agreed to give. Elora had warmed his bed months ago. She was the only woman he had been with since his wife’s passing. 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. “I heard you will be gone for a few days,” Elora said. “Aye,” Beiste replied, and continued tightening the saddle. “Were you going to tell me?” She looked irate. “I dinnae ken why I have to tell you anything, Elora.” “But I need to ken your whereabouts if I am to help run this Keep.” And there it was. Brodie and Dalziel had warned him. Elora had misconstrued their relationship or lack of one. Beiste stopped and turned to face her. Elora flinched and took a step back. He hated it when a woman cowered before him. He had never, not once, raised his hand to a woman. “Elora, whatever we had lasted only those two nights, months ago.” “But you’ve not taken anyone else to your bed, which means you must have developed powerful feelings for me.” She pouted. “Are you daft? That means nothing. We made no promises.” “But I’ve been keeping myself for you.” “Really?” Beiste raised an eyebrow. “Because I heard you took up with Lachlan three weeks ago.” Elora’s eyes grew wide. “How did you ken that?” “Lachlan asked me what my intentions were towards you, and I told him I had none.” “But I’ve changed my mind. I dinnae want Lachlan. I want you, Beiste. It has always been you.” She flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his middle. Saints preserve him. Beiste had had enough. He removed her arms from around his waist and gently but firmly set her away from him. “No!” he replied. Then he focused back on Lucifer, already clearing his mind of the woman behind him. *** Chapter 3 Belhaven Village, Dunbar - Nine days later Come on, Mary! Stop dawdling. We dinnae have time today,” Amelia said in exasperated tones as she hurried across the crowded streets of Belhaven. One hand clutching a basket now overflowing with seasonal produce, her other hand holding her sister’s tunic so as not to lose her in the crowd. It was Market Day in the village, the busiest day of the month, and there were vendors aplenty. Amelia was there to purchase more seeds for her garden and pick up silks for their seanmhair. Unfortunately, Mary, her half-sister, was dragging her feet. “I dinnae ken why you wouldna let me buy that necklace.” Mary pouted. “The vendor said twas a fair price for the quality and it made my blonde curls striking.” Amelia rolled her eyes as they weaved their way through brightly colored baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. “Mary, he would’ve said the same thing to a muddy pig if he thought it had coin to spare.” Gentling her voice, Amelia tried to placate her sister saying, “Once I get the provisions Seanmhair ordered, we can get some berry tarts.” Mary’s eyes brightened immediately. “Really? I’m famished.” The promise of sweet treats ahead motivated Mary to pick up her pace. The sisters passed stalls selling a vast array of items, from soaps and medicinal herbs and spices to fresh flowers and candy apples. Pigs were roasting over open fires, while merchants peddled their wares of silks and materials from exotic places. Amelia was so glad she had dressed in an ankle-length linen tunic. With the warmer weather and crushing crowds, it kept her cool. She had just purchased their freshly baked berry tarts when Mary started waving at someone in the crowd. “Amelia, I see some of my friends. Can I go sit with them?” “Who are they, Mary?” Amelia asked. “Tis the Frasers, Isobel and her brother Patrick. They come every few weeks to trade.” “Very well, but please mind my basket and you can take my tart to share. Tis not polite to eat on your own in front of others.” Mary’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Amie.” She hugged her and disappeared into the crowd. Amelia continued alone to secure the silks for her grandmother when a vendor stepped out in front of her. He gave her a leery look while licking his lips. “Would you like to come into my tent, lass? I have some cool cider for a pretty one like you.” His plaid looked dirty, his hair greasy, and there was an unpleasant odor wafting off him that caused Amelia to almost gag. Honestly? Amelia thought, how hard was it to bathe when the North Coast Sea was less than two hundred feet away? “No thank you, I dinnae need cider,” Amelia politely refused. He stepped closer to her, crowding her in, and she stepped around him. He was about to lunge at her when the thundering sound of horses was heard through the village. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Even the lecherous vendor turned to look behind him. Amelia took a deep breath. She could feel something coming, its raw energy warning her as the earth beneath her feet rumbled. She spun around. The villagers began muttering and grabbing their children. Some huddled behind their stalls, all eyes on the strangers approaching. They were fierce looking; they wore armor and plaid. Amelia heard a woman gasp, “Tis the MacGregors.” They looked as if they had come straight from battle. Then the same woman pointed and cried, “Tis the Beast!” Amelia looked in that direction and saw him. He was magnificent. The sheer size of him made her shudder. He emanated raw energy. His bronzed skin and black piercing eyes missed nothing. He wore an angry scowl, made even more menacing by the vicious scar across his face. Men of equal size surrounded him, all wearing the MacGregor plaid. Flanking to his right was an equally fearsome warrior wearing animal fur with a battle axe strapped to his back. Amelia stood mesmerized at the sight. It would seem the lecherous vendor had taken the opportunity of Amelia’s distraction to lunge for her again. She tried to keep clear of his grip and instead propelled too far forward; the momentum pushing her directly onto the road and into the path of the riders. She froze and knew they would trample her to death, and oh, the regret that she had not even left this miserable sodding town. Amelia heard a shout ring out from the one they called the Beast; he was riding straight for her. This was it. This was the end. She closed her eyes until she felt a firm arm reach down and sweep her up like she weighed nothing. She opened her eyes to find herself sitting atop a horse, her bottom wedged between strong thighs. The smell of leather and man rattled her senses as she drank in the heady sensation before he yelled, “Daft, wench! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” “What?” Amelia whipped her head around to glare at him but stared at a bare chest instead. The Beiste tightened his hold on her, slowed his horse, then set her down in the clearing. She looked up to offer her thanks when he reprimanded her again. “Watch where you walk, silly chit! You could’ve been hurt or maimed. What were you thinking, just standing in the middle of the road like a stunned cow?” Before Amelia could respond, he continued with his tirade. “Next time do your wool-gathering where it cannot get you bloody killed!” Outraged that she would receive such a set down by a stranger in a public place, Amelia had had enough. Not only did the big brute call her stupid, he called her a cow. A cow! After two and twenty years of having the villagers snicker at her and vile, stinking men grope her, there was no way she was letting an ogre call her a cow. With both hands firmly on her hips, Amelia let fly. “How dare you? You, big ox! You,” — Her finger pointed at him. — “should not ride into a village” — Her finger pointed at the village. — “without a care in the world!” — Both arms went up in the air gesturing the world. — “You could have killed me!” — Both hands went back to her hips — “And just because I have a big arse, it does not make me a cow!” Amelia screeched. She was out of breath, her face was red after that display and standing on the roadside venting her spleen, she had to admit she felt somewhat better. In her mind, Amelia believed she had kept a civil yet stern tongue, but when she looked around and found the entire village silent and everyone staring at her with mouths ajar, she realized she had, in fact, been screaming at high volume. Had she taken the time to think about it, she would have kept her mouth shut altogether. The Beast stared at her for what seemed like an eternity; he raised his hand to signal to his men to stop. They were currently smirking, trying to wipe the amusement from their faces. Beiste dismounted his horse and scowled, his face a mask of tightly controlled rage. He walked towards the woman he now considered a howling wench and, given his height and the length of his legs, it took him two seconds to reach her. Oh bollocks. Amelia’s throat suddenly felt parched, she could feel all the villagers behind her step away. She could already hear the bards singing about her death in a marketplace covered in candy apples, berry tarts, and horseshit. For centuries, she would be the cautionary tale for plump Gaelic women everywhere with acerbic tongues. “Bloody hell!” she muttered to herself. She was on her own. As the Beast approached, her knees trembled. She saw his broadsword sheathed in the scabbard at his side. Was that blood still on his sword? Was that the blood of another mouthy lass who dared to question him in the previous village? The road spun. She felt lightheaded, but she would not yield. Amelia raised her chin slightly. Her mind sifting through escape plans, all of them failing because she could not run without sustaining a serious chafing injury. She was doomed. Amelia looked up. The Beast was standing directly in front of her, staring down. Lud, he was huge. She braced. “The next time a man saves your life, a word of thanks would do, not your damn screaming like a banshee for the world to hear!” He roared the last part of the line. “You,” — His finger pointed at her. — “are damned lucky my men and I,” — His finger pointed at himself and his men. — “dinnae believe in harming women, if you,” — He pointed at her again. — “had challenged anyone else,” — Both his arms gestured around the village. — “who kens what your insolence could have cost you?” — He pointed at her then brought his face closer. — “Have a care for your safety lass, dinnae court danger with your reckless behavior,” he seethed. Amelia thought, for someone who accused others of screaming, he sure did a lot of bellowing himself. The Beast looked at a point behind her and shouted, “Is this your woman? If she is, you need to keep a firm hold of her tongue.” A deep voice with a smooth brogue answered, “No, she is not, but I would still prefer no harm came to her.” Amelia whipped her head back to find Mary’s friend Patrick Fraser a scant distance behind her, standing legs apart, one hand resting on the scabbard of his sword, as if ready to protect her. Bless-ed man. She spotted Mary and Isobel a safe distance away, looking worried. Amelia suddenly felt contrite and embarrassed. Could this day get any worse? “I am sorry. I thank you for saving me,” she responded, feeling genuine remorse and relief that the Beast had not taken her head off with his broadsword. The Beast continued to stare at her for a few moments, then just grunted, shook his head, and walked away. *** Could this day get any worse? Beiste could not believe the wee termagant he had just encountered. He was tired and hungry, and that besom screamed at him like a wild, stuck boar when he had just saved her life. The daft woman needed to reign in that temper of hers before she met with violence. It worried him that the bonnie lass was courting danger. The woman had a death wish. Beiste heard a chuckle from his left and gritted his teeth. Brodie the ass found the whole incident amusing and had not stopped chortling about it since they left the village. Beiste instantly regretted his decision to bring Brodie along. The man was an idiot. As they rode towards Dunbar Castle, Beiste kept thinking on the termagant once more. He noted she looked familiar, a memory from his past, those eyes of hers one brown and one green. He had seen them before. Beiste thought also of her kissable lips and luscious breasts and rounded hips. He had become aroused watching her feisty display. For a screaming banshee, she had a body built to take an enormous man without fear of breaking her. Beiste shook his head to stop the errant thoughts plaguing his mind. It had been too long since he’d had a woman. He was now lusting after some screeching, she-cat. But he would say this; she smelled of lilacs and clean fresh woodlands. If only she was not such a screamer. An even darker thought crossed his mind. What would she be like under him, screaming his name in pleasure? Damn it! He needed to stop this train of thought. Damn wench. *** Keywords: Free book, healer heroine, Scottish clans, Romantic Suspense, Medieval Empires, action and adventure, Warrior women, King Macbeth, Love at first sight, feisty heroines, over the top males, Reluctant hero, Highland warriors. Fans of the following authors are known to enjoy this Scottish Historical Romance series: Julie Garwood Michele Sinclair Diana Gabaldon Hannah Howell Donna Fletcher Maya Banks Kathryn Le Veque Mary Wine Terri Brisbin Joanna Fulford