In Bed with a Highland Virgin - Bonus Prologue

In Bed with a Highland Virgin – Bonus Prologue

Four months earlier

The mornings in Mackenzie castle always felt the same, hollow and heavy, as though the stones themselves carried the weight of every soul who had bent beneath them. Marian woke to the dim light seeping through narrow slits of the window, gray and wan, carrying little warmth. The chamber was cold, the rushes damp against her bare feet when she swung them from the bed. She drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders, though it did little to chase the chill that seemed to live in her bones.

It had been years since she had first set foot there, yet she had not grown used to it. The air always smelled faintly of smoke and mildew, the corridors whispered with draughts, and silence seemed to cling no matter how many voices filled the halls. She rose as she did each day, out of habit more than hope. The heaviness in her chest had long since become familiar. It pressed down when she breathed, dulled every small joy before it could take root.

Still, she always moved. To linger too long in bed was worse.

She slipped from her chamber into the corridor, the torch brackets still smoking from the night. The hush of morning echoed soft against the stone, her footsteps alone carrying sound. She made for the kitchens, telling herself she might manage a bit of bread, perhaps broth if it was ready.

Her mind was thick with its usual fog, thoughts drifting like smoke she could never catch. She thought of her father sometimes, his voice warning, his face lined with pain. She thought of her brother, though the memory of him hurt sharper than most. Mostly, she thought of nothing at all. The gray of the corridors suited her; she had grown used to matching them.

But that morning, as she rounded the corner toward the stairs that led down to the hall, sound stopped her. Voices, low and urgent.

She froze. The laird’s study lay just ahead, its door cracked, firelight spilling faint into the hall.

Her pulse quickened. No one dared raise their voice within those walls—not unless it was something grave. She moved quieter, her steps barely brushing the stone, until she could hear.

It was Wallace.

“Da, I’ll nae wait any longer.” His tone was sharp, the edge of it grating. “I’ve been promised this fer too long. It’s mine, and I’ll have it.”

Marian’s breath caught. She edged closer, until her back pressed against the cold wall, her ear straining to the gap in the door.

Another voice answered, deeper, measured—Laird Mackenzie himself. “Patience, Wallace. Ye’ll have what ye’re after, but nae yet. A few more months. That’s the time I need tae set the Council in agreement, tae see all prepared. We’ll nae risk angerin’ the clans wi’ haste.”

“A few more months?” Wallace hissed, as though the words burned. “I’ve been waitin’ nearly me whole life. Ye ken I’ve done everythin’ ye asked, bent tae every command, and still ye tell me tae wait. Why? She’s here already. Why must I bide like some lad wi’ nay right tae claim what’s his?”

Marian’s heart thudded so loud she feared they might hear it. Her mouth went dry, her palms damp where they clutched at her shawl.

She had not heard her name spoken, but she knew. Her knees trembled. She pressed closer to the wall, her breath shallow.

The laird’s reply came low, firm. “Because a laird daesnae move by impulse. We plan. We gather strength. We build the ground we’ll stand on afore we plant the flag. Ye’ll wait, Wallace, or ye’ll ruin more than ye’ll gain.”

There was a silence, broken only by the crack of the fire. Then Wallace again, rough with frustration. “I’ve waited long enough. I willnae wait months. I’ll wed her soon, or I’ll—” His voice dropped lower, words muffled, though the fury in them was plain.

Marian’s stomach lurched.

Wed her.

The words slammed into her like a blow, sharp enough to steal her breath. She clutched the stone at her back, steadying herself, though the world tilted all the same. Her lungs would not fill. Each gasp came ragged, shallow, as though the air itself had turned against her. Panic surged up her throat, sour and hot, blurring her vision until the corridor swam.

Her mind spun, wild and desperate. She had always known why she had been taken in, but it had never had a concrete timing. Now it hit her like a ton of bricks. Married? To Wallace? The thought of his hand on hers, of vows forced from her lips—her chest clenched so tight she thought she might faint then and there. She had known she was trapped there, aye. Known there was little kindness in the Mackenzie halls, that her days were not her own. But she had not been ready for this.

The voices still murmured beyond the door, but she could not bear to listen further. Her legs moved of their own accord, unsteady at first, then quicker, until she was near stumbling down the corridor. Her breath rasped, sharp as a knife, echoing against the stone. She clutched her shawl tighter, her skirts tangling round her ankles as she half ran, half staggered toward the stair.

Seoc. She had to reach Seoc.

The thought came fierce, clear, cutting through the fog of panic. The old healer’s hut sat low by the gardens, far from the laird’s wing. He would know what to do. He always did.

Her pace quickened, the corridors a blur, her slippers near slipping on the worn steps as she descended. She could still hear Wallace’s voice in her head, sharp and certain, promising what she could not bear. The sound clung, chasing her no matter how fast she fled.

By the time she reached the lower hall, her lungs burned, her pulse wild in her ears. The great doors loomed ahead, sunlight cutting in narrow beams through their cracks. She pushed through, the weight of the wood nearly toppling her with its resistance, and the chilly air of the outer yard struck her face like a slap.

But she did not slow. She crossed the stones, skirts flying, her breath visible in the cold. The walls of the castle rose high behind her, heavy as chains, but she forced herself forward, her eyes fixed on the small hut by the garden wall.

Seoc. She needed Seoc.

Her hand pressed hard to her chest, trying to contain the wild hammer of her heart. Her mind still spun, thoughts tripping over one another—Wallace, vows, a wedding in days, weeks, months, it mattered not. All she knew was she could not survive it.

Her steps faltered once, nearly sending her to her knees, but she caught herself, dragging her skirts high and pushing on. The earth gave beneath her slippers, damp with morning dew, but she scarcely felt it.

At last, the healer’s hut came into sight, smoke curling thin from its chimney. Relief cut through her panic. She stumbled to the door, her fingers shaking as she lifted them to knock.

Her knuckles barely grazed the wood before the door swung inward. Seoc filled the frame, his wiry frame stooped but steady, eyes sharp as ever despite the haze of age. The smoke from his hearth clung to his robes, the scent of dried herbs trailing after him.

“Marian?” His voice was low, startled. His gaze flicked over her face, down to her trembling hands, the wild flutter of her chest. “Saints preserve us, lass, what’s happened?”

She tried to answer, to force words past the knot in her throat, but nothing came. Only a strangled gasp. Her lips parted once, twice, then failed her.

Seoc’s brow furrowed deep. He reached for her arm, guiding her inside with surprising strength. “Come in, child. Ye’re white as linen. Sit, afore ye fall.”

The hut’s warmth struck her, but it did not ease the chill buried in her bones. She sank onto the wooden stool by the hearth, her skirts pooling heavy round her ankles. Her hands shook where they clutched at one another, her breath breaking uneven, her chest tight as though the air would not come.

“Tell me, Marian.” Seoc crouched before her, his hand resting light upon her knee, steady as stone. “What’s set ye so?”

She opened her mouth, but again, no words came. Instead, a sob ripped from her, sudden and fierce. Her shoulders collapsed under the weight of it. She pressed her palms hard to her face, trying to stifle the sound, but the sobs kept coming, hot and broken, shaking her body until she almost slid from the stool.

“Ah, lass.” Seoc’s voice softened. He rose, fetched a blanket from his cot, and draped it over her shoulders. Then he moved to the shelf, hands busy with jars and pouches, until he returned with a small wooden cup. The sharp scent of herbs rose as he poured hot water over them, the steam curling between them like breath.

“Drink,” he urged, pressing the cup to her hands. “Slowly. It’ll steady ye.”

Her fingers fumbled against the wood, nearly spilling the content, but she managed to lift it to her lips. The brew was bitter, biting her tongue, but the warmth slid down her throat, anchoring her enough that her sobs slowed to ragged breaths.

Seoc settled into the stool across from her, his eyes fixed steady on her face. “Now. When ye can, tell me.”

She wiped at her cheeks, her breath hitching still. “I… I heard them.” Her voice broke, barely a whisper. “Wallace. And his faither.”

Seoc’s eyes narrowed, though his tone stayed calm. “Heard them where?”

“In the laird’s study.” She shook her head, the memory slicing through her. “They were arguin’. About me.”

Seoc leaned closer, his brows drawn tight. “What did ye hear?”

Her lips trembled. The words tasted like ash, but she forced them out. “Wallace means tae wed me. Soon.”

The healer’s jaw clenched, though he said nothing at first. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Marian’s breath quickened again, panic rising sharp in her chest. “I cannae. I cannae, Seoc. I’ll nae survive it. The thought o’ him—his hand on mine, his voice speakin’ vows I dinnae choose—” She shook her head hard, clutching the blanket tighter round her. “It feels like chains closin’ round my throat. I’ll choke. I’ll die.”

Seoc reached across the space and caught her hand in his. His palm was rough, the grip firm, steadying her spirals. “Breathe, lass. Slowly now. Ye’re safe here.”

She dragged a breath in, then another, though they still came jagged. Tears blurred her vision, spilling over no matter how fiercely she tried to hold them back.

“Ye’ve time yet,” Seoc said at last, voice low, certain. “The laird’ll nae rush such a matter. He’s too careful fer that.”

“I heard him,” Marian whispered, eyes wide. “Wallace said he wouldnae wait. He’s tired o’ it. He’s been waitin’ too long.” Her nails dug into the blanket. “Four months, his faither said. But Wallace—” Her voice cracked. “He means tae have me sooner.”

Seoc’s eyes softened then, though anger flickered in the lines of his face. “Och, Marian. Ye’ve been dealt a cruel hand, aye. But dinnae fash yersel’ into despair. There may yet be a way.”

Her gaze shot to him, desperate, pleading. “What way? Tell me. I cannae live like this, waitin’ fer the day they drag me tae the church.”

Seoc was quiet a long moment, his thumb rubbing slow over her knuckles. She could see him thinking, the weight of years in the lines of his brow, the flicker of firelight in his eyes.

At last, he exhaled. “I have a thought. A plan, maybe. Naught certain yet. But I’ll nae sit idle while they steal yer will.”

Her heart lurched, hope flaring fiercely. “What plan?”

He shook his head, though his hand stayed steady on hers. “I’ll nae say till I’ve turned it o’er, seen it from all sides. Plans made in haste break easy. But I swear it tae ye, lass—I’ll find a way. Ye’ll nae be left tae Wallace, nae so long as I’ve breath.”

Her lips parted, though no words came. Relief cut through her panic, sharp as a blade. Tears welled fresh, spilling silently down her cheeks.

Seoc gave her hand a final squeeze, then released it, rising to tend the fire. “Drink the rest,” he said gruffly. “Warm yer bones. Ye’ll need strength fer what lies ahead.”

Marian lifted the cup again, though her hands still shook. The bitterness no longer mattered. Only the warmth, the promise in his voice, the faint spark of hope kindling against the cold dread in her chest.

She clutched it close, as if the heat itself might keep her alive.