The Laird’s Runaway Bride (Charmed by the Sassenachs #1)

Chapter 1

1

Arran hefted the bow on to his shoulder, and narrowed his eyes.

Just a few dozen yards away, a doe had reached the edge of the burn. The river ran through the forest, winding through the mossy floor and the ancient oaks and birches that populated it. With her soft, dark eyes and freckled coat, she hadn’t spotted him behind a tree, though she glanced around nervously for a moment, as though she sensed something was amiss. As she lowered her head to the water, Arran aimed his bow, drew in a long breath, and…

“Arran, there ye are!”

The doe’s head snapped up, and she bolted into the woods. Arran let out a growl of annoyance, lowering his weapon, and glanced around to see Gregory striding towards him through the trees. His height was impossible to ignore. It made him a good warrior, but an obvious hunter.

“Ye’re lucky ye’re a friend, Gregory,” he remarked, shaking his head. “You just cost me a beautiful doe.”

“Aye, well, I’m sure you’ll find another,” he replied, slapping Arran on the shoulder cheerfully. “We’ve already had a productive day. I’m sure there’s enough to feed everyone for another week at least…”

Arran hooked the bow over his shoulder, the quiver of arrows slung across his back.

“You can ne’er be too careful,” he muttered, and Gregory cocked an eyebrow, an incredulous expression crossing his creased face.

“Aye, and you can never let yourself relax and accept that you’ve done enough.”

Arran grimaced.

“I’m the Laird,” he reminded Gregory. “As you well know. And I cannae risk allowing my people to go hungry.”

“Aye, aye, I ken, I ken,” Gregory replied, holding his hands up. “Where are the rest of yer men?”

“A few of them are taking the game back to the larder to skin and prepare it. The rest are just behind me, scaring out some of the deer from their hiding places.”

Gregory eyed him for a moment.

“You could leave this to them, you know,” he remarked. “Ye’re the Laird. You’re meant to be back at the Keep with some pretty girl in your bedchambers, not out here hunting like us common folk.”

Arran didn’t reply. He felt little need to. Gregory, for as long as he had known Arran, knew very well that Arran took his position as Laird with deadly seriousness. He wore it not like a mark of pride, but like a burden he had to carry through everything he did. As the winter approached, he had to make certain that the larder was full of meat and vegetables for his people to live on, and he would much rather have it overstocked than under.

Besides, he found hunting peaceful. It reminded him of when he had been a lad, with his father, the way he had steadied Arran’s hand as he guided the bow towards their target. His father had always made sure that the young Arran paid heed to the land and everything it did for them, and, to this day, Arran tried to do just that.

“Ye’ve been talking about this pretty girl I should have a lot lately,” he shot back, cocking an eyebrow at his friend and second-in-command. “Ye think it’s about time you settled down, Gregory?”

Gregory laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the air around them.

“Aye, that’ll be the day,” he chuckled, as though the very thought of it was ridiculous. Perhaps, to Gregory, it was. After all, he had enjoyed the company of many women over the years, and none of them had served to keep his interest beyond their initial encounter.

But then, Arran heard a noise, and his head snapped around to look towards the burn again, and, sure enough, a stag was picking its way out of the forest towards the water. A mighty beast with a heavy crown of antlers, he was no doubt the king of this forest, or he had been up until the moment that he had the misfortune to land in Arran’s sights.

Arran’s hand whipped up, silencing Gregory, and he reached for his bow once more. With practiced ease, he moved an arrow against the string, and drew it back, inhaling deeply before he took his shot. He’d only get one attempt at this, and he refused to allow himself to fail once more. Gregory, for once, kept his mouth shut, and watched as Arran prepared to send the arrow flying towards the beast before them.

Time slowed, as it often did when Arran was in the middle of a hunt. His reputation as a hunter was well-earned, his swiftness in taking his shot and his focus on hunting his prey near legendary. He could hear nothing but the sound of his heartbeat, the thrum of his blood around his head. It was as though all he could see was the stag in front of him, the way its small, pink tongue flicked out against the water, its chestnut fur almost shimmering beneath the sunlight.

And then, all at once, something drew its attention. Its head snapped up, and it half-turned, revealing the delicate flesh of its throat. Arran knew he’d get no better chance than this, and he let his arrow fly towards the creature before him.

The flint arrowhead cut through the air silently, before it landed with a thud in the side of the stag’s neck. The beast reared back, a trail of blood dripping from the wound, before it took off into the woods with a howl. Arran, wasting not a moment, sprinted after it, his legs carrying him with a practiced speed towards the creature.

It didn’t get far, the arrow having made a mortal wound, and it didn’t take long till Arran caught up to it. He reached the stag as its legs buckled beneath it, and it sank to the soft forest floor, its eyes already taking on the opaque edge of death.

He could have stood back and allowed the stag to die slowly; it would surely have been safer that way. No matter how wounded the creature was, it still had a generous head of antlers that it could dig into him in its death throes.

But Arran, though he was many things, he would never be cruel to an animal who was giving up their life to feed his people. He moved towards the creature, which let out a low bray as he drew closer, and wrapped his arms around its strong neck. He could feel its breath coming hard and fast, the rise and fall of it a reminder of why he needed to do this.

“Thank you,” he murmured to it. And then, in one swift motion, he twisted its neck to the side, listening for the distinct sound of the bone cracking beneath his grip. When he removed his arms, the animal flopped to the ground, the breath gone from its lungs, the life drained from its eyes.

He smoothed his hand across the stag’s face to close its eyes, and pulled the arrow from where it had buried itself in the creature’s pelt, a spray of blood splattering his hands and arms. He paid little mind to it for he was used to gore, having hunted for so long, and he was not one to get squeamish about it now. He tucked the arrow back into his quiver, and he was about to call over Gregory to help him heft the animal on to his shoulders when a sound caught his attention.

Footsteps. But not those of another deer, no. Human footsteps, he was sure of it. He rose to his feet. Had Gregory already followed him? No, the steps didn’t sound confident enough to belong to his friend. They were picking carefully through the forest, as though fearful of what they might find there.

Arran didn’t call out, instead moving back towards the burn the stag had been drinking from. He glanced around, searching for the source of the sound, half-expecting to see one of his less experienced men pausing to take a drink, but there was nothing. No sign of the tartan that they wore draped around their shoulders on the hunt, no sound of their footsteps marching across the ground.

A splash sounded, like something dropping into the water. He frowned and moved through the trees, the scent of blood and earth thick in his nostrils. None of his men would have paused to wash themselves, would they?

As he emerged from the thicket of trees and back to the edge of the river, he saw it. Saw her . A woman, undressed, kneeling in the water, shivering, her long blonde hair cascading down her back like the sunlight dappling through the trees around her. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, her face drawn, as though it had been a long time since she had gotten any rest.

Almost without thinking, Arran found himself moving towards her, taking another step closer to her. His mind flashed, for a brief moment, to the story of a water nymph that his grandmother had told him when he was nothing but a boy. A warning to steer clear of beautiful women who he saw bathing in the rivers and fens, especially when he felt drawn to them beyond all logic.

But before he could stop himself, his feet found a twig below him, and it snapped. The sound cut through the quiet air, and the woman’s head whipped up. Her eyes opened, her gaze landing on him, and her lips parted.

All at once, a scream cut through the quiet air around them.