His headstrong bride, p.1
His Headstrong Bride, page 1
His Headstrong Bride
By
Sassa Daniels
Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Sassa Daniels
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Daniels, Sassa
His Headstrong Bride
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Period Images and Dreamstime/Martin Molcan
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
More Stormy Night Books by Sassa Daniels
Sassa Daniels Links
Prologue
Castle Donnell, Lochaber, West Coast of Scotland, May 1309
The fine drizzle of rain that had fallen steadily all morning suited the solemnity of the occasion. As the funeral mass finally came to an end and people began to slowly file out of the kirk, Margaret lingered for a moment beside the coffin of her dead lover. Although she and Niall, one of the MacDonnell clan’s finest warriors, had not been wed, all those around her knew of their close bond and showed her the respect that would be owed to his widow. She was not sure she deserved their kindness. In recent weeks, her eye had been drawn to another man, one whose desire for her had been plain to see, and she had betrayed the man she loved in thought, if not in deed.
Trying to shake off the guilt over her attraction to Lord Iain de Moray, she laid a hand on the plain wooden coffin that sat before the altar. It seemed too small, somehow, to contain the body of a man of Niall’s great stature. He had been large, not only physically, but in personality and he would be greatly missed. Soon, he would be interred in his tomb within the chapel and a carved stone effigy had already been commissioned to mark the spot where he would lie in eternal repose. The clan chief, Alexander de Moray, had wanted to demonstrate his respect for Niall by having him placed close to where his wife Ailis’ most illustrious ancestors were buried. Margaret wished they could have thrown convention to the wind and followed some ancient, pagan custom instead. She’d heard of a ritual where a warrior’s body was laid upon a pyre atop a wooden raft and set out to sea. Before the raft drifted too far from land, flaming arrows would be fired at it to set the whole thing alight. The body would be burned to ash and whatever remained would be taken by the sea. That seemed a more fitting end for a man like Niall. It hardly bore thinking about that he should be shut away for eternity in a dark chasm within the chapel walls. How could his spirit ever settle in such a place? It would surely yearn to be free.
“Lady Margaret.”
A familiar voice brought her out of her despairing thoughts.
“My lord,” she acknowledged the presence of Iain de Moray.
“May I escort you to the hall?” he asked, his tone gentler than she had ever heard it.
Where before there had been a burning desire in his eyes each time he looked at her, Margaret could see only compassion now. Iain de Moray was a hard man, but one whose heart seemed to be in the right place. She had been attracted to him despite her deep attachment to Niall and she knew that when her mind was less numb, she would feel a terrible guilt about that. Right now, however, she knew she could rely on his strength to see her through the ordeal of the wake.
All the important members of the MacDonnell clan were assembled here to mark Niall’s passing with the customary feast. The bard would recite the story of his life and people would exchange tales about their encounters with him. There would be a lot of talk, no doubt, about how he had fallen defending the castle from an attack by Gregor MacDonnell, the man who’d felt he was the rightful laird here. Niall’s bravery would be lauded, and Margaret would smile and nod, even though she felt her heart had been torn in two.
“My lady?” Iain prompted when she offered no response.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied quietly, “you may accompany me.”
Margaret placed her hand on the arm Iain offered her and allowed him to lead her out into the courtyard. The rain was still falling, and the sky was grey, but a glimmer of sunshine peeked out from behind the cloud. As they made their way toward the building that housed the Great Hall, Margaret felt a sense of panic. She could not go in there among all those people. Seized by dread, she stopped dead in her tracks.
“Are you ill, my lady?” Iain asked, his normally harsh expression softening to show concern. “Should I fetch my brother’s wife?”
That he was willing to go and speak to Ailis, a woman whose downfall he’d seemed to wish for from the moment he first laid eyes on her, was evidence of how worried he was. Margaret smiled softly and shook her head.
“No, my lord, I have no need of her,” Margaret replied. “I am just not ready to join the others yet.”
“Then where do you wish to go?”
Margaret gestured to the battlements at the top of the high wall that surrounded the castle complex. She saw the frown pass across Iain’s face before he nodded, apparently choosing not to question her strange choice. Although it was a miserable day, she knew the ramparts were the one place she might find a little comfort. Often, she and Niall had stolen moments alone up there.
“Very well, but I must insist upon accompanying you.”
Margaret acquiesced immediately, realizing he would not let her go if she refused. He probably imagined if she went up there alone, she would hurl herself onto the rocks below out of despair for her lost love. She was sad about Niall, of course, but she would never be driven to harm herself.
She walked in silence, a little ahead of Iain, toward the west tower. No words passed between them as they climbed the stairs, but she was grateful for his presence anyway. As she came out into the open air at the top of the tower, she made her way along the wall walk to her favorite spot overlooking the sea. Peering down onto the rocks below, she shuddered. It was only a few days since her friend Edane’s body had been found down there. There was speculation that the woman had jumped to her death after betraying the clan and letting the enemy in through the castle gates. Although her actions had led to Niall being slain, Margaret could not find it within herself to hate the woman whose companion she’d been for more than two years. She had simply been trying to help her husband, Gregor, to reclaim what he felt was his.
“You were thinking about the MacDonnell woman?” Iain asked.
“I am thinking I have seen too much death of late,” Margaret replied.
Iain nodded and shot her a look that told her he understood exactly how she felt. Although he was a warrior, used to cutting men down in battle, she knew that he, too, had suffered a terrible loss when his own wife was murdered.
“I am also thinking that despite all that has happened, I will be sad to leave this place.”
“You intend to leave?” Iain asked.
“My father desires my return to his home.”
At the thought of going back to face her father’s disapproval, Margaret felt tears welling in her eyes. He would be furious when he learned the secret she’d been harboring these past few weeks, one that could not be hidden for much longer. She ran her hand over the gentle swell of her abdomen and a sob escaped her. As she felt Iain’s arm around her shoulder, the pain of Niall’s loss and all the worry she held for the future came flooding out. Resting her head against Iain’s chest, she accepted the comfort he wished to offer her. He muttered soothing words to her and rubbed her back. It felt strangely natural to be in his arms. Even though he was a virtual stranger, she felt protected, as if nothing bad could touch her. As she looked out over the raging sea below, she wondered if she would ever feel this safe again.
Chapter One
Stirling, Scotland, June 1314
The shrill sound of a woman screaming pierced through Iain de Moray’s restless slumber. He sat bolt upright, breathing heavily as he tried to shake the horror of those cries from his mind. Seven years had passed since the death of his poor, fragile wife, Isabella, yet he still dreamed of her sometimes. She’d been murdered while he was away from home, fighting for King Robert the Bruce. In his bleakest moments, he pictured her so vividly, reaching out to him, begging him to save her. He would give everything he possessed to be able to go back in time and protect her from those murderous thugs. He had failed to keep her safe, as was a husband’s duty, and the guilt haunted him daily.
It was odd that he couldn’t remember dreaming about her this time. Usually, he saw her face so vividly, her slender form and that gloriously red hair cascading down her back. He couldn’t recall seeing her in his dreams, but he had heard that scream as clear as a bell. Shaking his head, he
Once a lasting peace had been secured, perhaps he would finally return home to see his young daughters. Not that they’d be that young anymore. It was at least six years since he’d seen them, and he doubted they would even recognize him after all this time apart. They had been mere babes when their mother was killed, and he’d thought it best to leave them in the care of a nursemaid. There were times when he wished he’d been a better father to them, but he could not dwell upon his many shortcomings now. He needed to rest.
The moment he closed his eyes, he heard another bone-chilling wail and realized there actually was a woman crying out for help. Diving from his bed, he landed on his feet. Grabbing his sword, he threw open the flap of the tent. The cold light of dawn greeted him and, as he looked around, he discovered that he was not the only one whose sleep had been disturbed. Right on the edge of camp, a crowd was gathering. As he made his way toward the scene of the commotion, he saw two soldiers engaged in a furious struggle with a woman.
She was more than likely one of the whores who followed the camp but, even so, Iain did not approve of the way they were handling her. Some women enjoyed a bit of rough treatment, he knew that from experience, but she was clearly in distress. With so many men around, she was also in real danger. Iain had seen even the most disciplined of soldiers forget themselves when their spirits were running high after victory in battle. He had to take charge of the situation.
“What the devil’s going on?” he demanded as he strode through the circle of men who’d gathered to watch this little sideshow.
Although these men were not under his command, they seemed to be aware of who he was, and none challenged his authority. When it came to situations like this, his reputation for violence and an uncanny ability to cheat death was extremely useful.
“Found her sneaking about the camp, my lord,” one of the two soldiers who were holding onto the woman said. “She had this on her.”
He held up a vicious-looking dagger. Its blade was sharp, lethal, but its handle was ornate. This expensive, bejeweled weapon was not something a camp whore would be carrying unless she’d stolen it.
“Whose blood is on it?” Iain could not help noticing the glistening red sheen on the tip of the dagger.
“Young Kenneth’s,” the man replied. “She tried to stab him.”
Iain’s brows shot up. As he looked at the woman, studying her carefully, he could tell she was no common harlot and she seemed an unlikely murderess. This was a woman of some refinement. There was something in her bearing that told him she was a lady, but it was not just her posture that gave it away. Her dress had been torn at the neck, presumably in the scuffle with the guards. It allowed him a glimpse of the palest white skin. She had clearly never spent a day toiling in the fields. Then there was her hair. The color of an autumn sun, it looked soft, silky, as though she took care of it in a way a working woman would not have time to do. For a moment, as she glanced up at him, Iain saw a flash of something familiar, but he quickly shrugged off the notion that he knew her. He rarely associated with women, far less those of the nobility. Generally, he found their attempts to net themselves a well-connected husband a complete bore.
“Is he badly hurt?” Iain asked as he took the dagger from the soldier and inspected it closely. It really was a very fine weapon. The craftsmanship was exceptional. He stuck the knife in his own belt, intending to keep it until he could decide what to do with it.
“He’ll live,” the second of the two soldiers responded.
Iain grunted and nodded his head.
“Did this Kenneth person try to hurt you?” Iain asked the woman as he tried to make sense of what had happened.
“He confronted her, nothing more,” the first soldier replied when it became clear from her sullen silence that the woman would not speak. “She was trying to free one of the prisoners.”
“Is that so?” Iain’s curiosity was piqued now. “Which prisoner?”
As both men shrugged, their captive took advantage of their sudden lapse in focus and twisted around. Wrenching herself free from the grasp of the soldier on the left, she kneed him right in the balls. As the man bent double, cursing and moaning, she whirled around and struck the other hard in the throat, leaving him gasping for breath. Then she took off running. Even in her long skirts, she was fast. Unfortunately for her, Iain was faster. Within seconds, he was on her.
Lifting her from her feet, he flung her over his shoulder and marched off toward his tent. Some of his own men were milling about now and, although several gave him a wry look of amusement, nobody made a move to stop him. None who had heard the stories about him would dare.
The little hellcat hissed and spit, kicking out at him as he took long strides across the field. Once inside his tent, Iain wasted no time on pleasantries. He sat on the low stool in the corner and pulled the woman down over his lap. Without hesitation, he flipped her skirts up around her waist and began to deliver a series of hard smacks to her beautiful, peachy bottom. She struggled for all she was worth, but Iain simply put a hand at the small of her back to hold her still as he continued to beat out a steady rhythm on her gloriously rounded buttocks. Despite her protests, there was a tell-tale glistening between her thighs. Iain couldn’t suppress a smile. This little wildcat was enjoying being over his knee and at his mercy.
As she wriggled against him, her moans and cries made his cock stiffen. There was something about this woman he found incredibly appealing.
“Oh, you pig, Iain de Moray!” she shrieked, no doubt in response to his massive erection prodding at her side.
Iain instantly stopped spanking her. He hadn’t told the lass his name, of that he was certain. So, how did she know who he was? Drawing the hair back from her face, he stared at her for several long seconds, wondering why she was so familiar. As she glared up at him, realization finally struck.
“Lady Margaret?”
“Aye,” the woman confirmed.
Shock hit Iain so hard, he immediately leapt to his feet and the woman who’d been draped over his knee fell to the floor with a thud. She rolled over, onto her back, her eyes flashing anger at him.
“I did not recognize you,” Iain said, still in a state of complete bewilderment. What on earth was Lady Margaret Baillie, a friend of his brother’s wife, Ailis, doing here?
“Perhaps you should spend more time looking at a woman’s face and less staring at her arse, you bastard son of a whore!”
Iain shook his head, more in dismay than anything. The sweet and gentle Lady Margaret he remembered from his time at Castle Donnell would never have used such coarse language. Then again, the woman he’d known would not have had reason to be creeping around an armed camp in the wee hours of the morning either.
“What are you doing here, my lady?” he asked softly, hoping to coax some answers from her.
“That is not your concern.”
“It is when I’ve just rescued you from two soldiers who would have shown no hesitation in raping you.”
“And what about you?” she snarled. “Will you show hesitation?”
Iain snorted in disgust at the very suggestion he would force himself on her. When they had known one another at Castle Donnell, he’d desired her. In truth, he still wanted her now, but he would have her in his bed willing, or not at all.
“I have no plans to rape you, Margaret.”
“Then let me go.”
She struggled to get to her feet and stood, with her arms folded in front of her, a defiant pose that made him want to pull her back down over his lap.
“You know I can’t do that, lass. You were caught skulking about near the prisoners.” He studied her expression, trying to get some idea what she was thinking. “Were you trying to free someone?”
“What business is it of yours if I was?” Her tone was hostile.
Iain arched a brow at her. Did she not realize that she was going to be in trouble with more important men than him for trying to get close to the prisoners in the early hours of the morning? As if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d stabbed one of the guards. That she’d not done him any real harm would mean little to the king.
