Legend Of The Highland Wolves Read online

  LEGEND

  OF THE

  HIGHLAND WOLVES

  A Paranormal Shifter Romance

  BONNIE BURROWS

  Copyright ©2015 by Bonnie Burrows

  All rights reserved.

  About This Book

  The rocky Scottish Highland village of Aargon is usually one full of peace and quiet but all that is about to change.

  Anella is the daughter of the King and she is usually kept out of harms way however she craves some excitement in her life. So when a mysterious bronze-skinned man with no memory of his past turns up in the village she is more then a little intrigued.

  Something vicious and inhuman has been ravaging the nearby villages and this man claims to be one of the few survivors.

  As Anella's friendship with the mysterious stranger begins to grow into something more, she is finally getting the excitement she has craved.

  However, his memory also begins to return at the same time. Soon this man will not just remember who he is, but he will also remember WHAT he is.

  And this could change everything.....

  Is the King's daughter sleeping with the enemy?

  WAIT....

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  Table Of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 1

  Outside, the storm clouds rally in the sky like an enemy army, infantries of rain slowly ploughing down out of the heavens, their war-drums issuing forth in the sound of thunder. Annella shivers, tightens the cross braided twine across her tunic and feels the tightness of it crush against her chest, flattening her breasts. Through a small rectangular window open to the elements, she watches a sheet of mist scatter down the far end of the valley.

  Green grass seems to spread across the land like moss, stopping only when it reaches the precipitous steepness of the cliffs that hedged the village of Aargon. She could see those familiar ridges extending from far to the north, winding their way like the inverted spine of giant snakes along the highlands. The cliffs themselves were flat on top, and from time to time she could often spot a white shape, one of the shepherd’s sheep gone astray and realizing that the only way out of its indentured servitude was a terrible fall off the stones and into the gorge and rushing river below.

  She huffed again, hurrying down the stone steps of the tower, her boots hitting each surface with a soft padded thump. The boots had been a present from her father—boar-hide which had been pounded until it was soft as a doe’s, but was hardy and thick enough to fend off even the rainiest and wettest seasons, or the razor inclines of the hills to the south of the village.

  As she entered into the main dining room, she saw that there were only a few servants dallying about. The room was huge, the locus of the castle. And, she thought, of Aargon itself. It served as a place of counsel, feasting, ceremony; all the things that made a kingdom a kingdom. A giant iron hewn candelabra hung above from a thick black chain, and as a muted sound of more thunder invaded the stone walls, she could see it tip, the faintest of movements.

  One of the servant women saw Annella; her eyes widened and she made a hissing sound at her companions, who all suddenly dissolved into silence and pretended that all along they’d been working hard at preparing for tonight. Being the king’s daughter, Annella was used to this sort of reaction—something bordered between admiration and fear, without being either.

  Annella stopped at the head of the big, U-shaped table. At the far end she could see the throne of the king, a huge wooden chair that had been carved by the master woodcraftsman in the village. Several sculpted wolf heads seemed to grow from the wooden arm rests, growling on elongated necks, and she shivered.

  “M’lady,” the oldest servant said, her head covered by a small bonnet.

  “Igwin,” Annella said with a short nod of her head. “How go the preparations?”

  “As well as can be, m’lady. We’ll be ready, don’t you worry your pretty head about it. I’ll whip these rogues into shape and have everything settled.”

  “Very good,” Annella said, “I trust you’ll not let me down.” The older servant nodded. Annella trusted her implicitly—Igwin had been with the Connell family since birth and was one of her father’s closest and most well-known friends.

  Still, she knew that most of the servants regarded her as they did any other noble; as something untouchable, something that required you to move on tip toes at all times when they were around. In truth, Annella couldn’t have cared less if Igwin and the other girls had been gossiping or frolicking nude on the great table. It was her father’s concern, these matters of politics and ceremony, and they often left her with a headache.

  “What about you, m’lady?” Igwin inquired, “I hope you’re not thinking of going out in the storm. Supposed to be a blustery one, it is. Feels like the gods themselves have been angered, although I can’t imagine what they’re punishing us for.”

  “It’s just the weather,” Annella laughed.

  “Well, you be careful.”

  “Of course,” Annella replied, giving another nod and a smile, which she hoped expressed a sentiment that said I’m one of you, don’t fear me.

  In a way, she resented her bloodline, but she would never have told her father that. Still, while there was little she couldn’t ask for and receive—she had free reign across the kingdom, the ability to come and go as she pleased—there was something stifling about being a king’s daughter. It was isolating in a way that most others couldn’t imagine.

  She knew it was simplistic, almost egotistical, to complain about her station in life. She knew there were plenty of other ladies who would’ve killed to be in her position, to have the sort of liberties she enjoyed. But she also knew they could never understand the loneliness of growing up under the tutelage and expectations of an Aargon bloodline.

  Whenever she’d seen the other girls playing as a child, she had wanted so badly to join in with them. And from time to time she managed to do just that, but any time her father or the others saw, there was a stern reminder that she had other things to attend to—the life of a peasant meant hard work, laboring at a trade. But it also meant the ability to have fun, to engage in the kind of social community that she had always envied.

  For her, all her time since puberty had been spent preparing her to be a woman of the house, lessons on how to cook and what foods were best, what kinds of medicines could heal what sorts of ailments. It had been interesting, and she’d always been an astute student, but even as a child, she had understood the cost of it. In her adult life, she would have only skirting moments of time to indulge in the nostalgia of the past.

  She let Igwin and the others carry on as if nothi
ng had happened and marched toward the giant double doors, made of sturdy oak, and pounded with intricate iron hinge work that reminded her of trees. Maybe even the great tree Yggdrasil, she thought, although she knew this sort of indulgence in folklore was also something she needed to avoid.

  Her father’s kingdom was unique in that he understood the need for people to believe in something—there were Christians, Celtic Christians, Pagans, even a Moor or two in Aargon itself, and who knew how many other creeds and ideologies existed in the serfdoms outside the valley. It was why Aargon had been so successful in repelling invaders. There was a certain acknowledgment, even by their enemies, that there would be no bias—as long as they pledged allegiance, and would offer up their arms to defend the kingdom’s borders at call, they were welcome.

  More politics. She shook her head and pushed hard against the doors. They creaked open slowly and the light hue changed from a warm orange glow emitted by candles to a bluish-grey inundation that seemed to hit her like a hammer. It was starting to rain, gently, but soon the head of the storm would hit the gates and they’d be in for a downpour.

  Some weather for a celebration, she pouted her lips, and pulled her hood up over her head.

  In her free time she had also learned needlework and her outfit seemed to speak to her character. It was unlike the other frocks worn by the nobles and the peasants. She had always preferred close-fitting clothes to the heavy dresses that seemed ungainly and clumsy. Instead, she had fashioned leather leggings that ran all the way down to the edges of her boots, where a thin mane of rabbit hair surrounded her lower calves like halos.

  Higher up, a small skirt made of a darker leather that had been soaked in tannins, ruffled at her upper thighs where a small silver scabbard held her knife. She had designed her own shirts as well, but she had had to borrow one of her sister’s today, and it hung limply off her small nubile form. Her hips swayed elegantly, a piece of training in propriety that had rubbed off and become second nature, but she was aware enough of how she looked—both inside and outside the castle she attracted the eyes of men and women alike.

  She pulled the heavy tunic further over her shoulders and heard the rain pelt it, filling the inside with the echoing of their impacts. It was like a kind of song, and she closed her eyes for a minute, breathing in the damp air that smelled like hay and mud, and tried to find a pattern in the sound.

  As she hurried across the courtyard, her feet splashed mud into the air. It felt good to run in the rain and she was surprised at how fast her feet carried her to the other side of the compound, past the stables where the horses held their heads in silence, to the main kitchen.

  “Selma!” she shouted, slamming the door and throwing herself down the steps, water sparking off her tunic and hood and landing at her feet as she went. She could smell the delicious odors of fresh meat; boar, venison, rabbit stew.

  At the bottom of the stairs she saw a row of women hard at work on a number of dishes. Among them, a particularly beautiful woman raised her head. Selma was technically Annella’s half-sister, but since both their mothers had died early on leaving their father bride-less, they were as close as any blood-related siblings could be. Selma’s long, black hair arched down her back, and was clasped at the top with a metal pendant. Her blue eyes were staggering, and Annella secretly loved to look into them.

  “Annella, what are you doing?” Selma scolded, inching forward in a long grey dress that seemed to match her eyes. Her face was elongated, almost elfin in its features. The length of her face seemed only to increase the wizened look she always had, serious and uncompromising, but kind in its own special way. “You’re going to catch a cold… What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to help you,” Annella complained, throwing her hood off.

  Her own brown hair was wavy, tinged with a faint redness that only revealed itself in the glancing of candlelight or the evening sun, and hardly seemed to compare. Her own eyes weren’t blue, but a slight green. It was as if everything about her was slight, hiding just below the surface, while Selma’s beauty floated over top, evident and unbridled.

  “You’re supposed to be composing and practicing for tonight,” Selma advised, going back to cutting vegetables with a long knife.

  “I’ve practiced enough,” Annella said. “My fingers are all bloodied and sore. I can’t pick it up again right now. You don’t want me bleeding everywhere do you?”

  “Well if you’re bleeding everywhere, I certainly don’t want you in the kitchen.”

  “Please?” Annella pleaded, leaning on the table and pushing her lips out. “I’ve been practicing in the kitchen, too. I can cook; just let me. Igwin’s taught me lots of stuff.”

  Selma raised her eyebrow. “If I let you help, will you stop chattering like a squirrel?”

  Annella tucked her lips into her mouth in reply, and stepped beside Selma. Her older sister couldn’t resist a grin, but quickly hid it behind her work as she peeled an onion and wiped at her face with her sleeve.

  “Are you nervous?” Annella finally asked after a time.

  The fire at the far end of the room crackled. It was unbearably hot in the kitchens, but she preferred it to the damp, cold dreariness of the castle and her own chambers. Stone was such an unforgiving companion, but here there was chatter among the cooks and servants, laughter.

  “Why should I be nervous?” Selma replied.

  “Well, you are getting married. That seems like something I’d be nervous about.”

  “I’m only two years older than you. It’ll be your turn soon enough.”

  The thought was a little unnerving. Both Selma and Annella were past the age of marriage for most girls their age, and at twenty-five she felt as if she’d managed to miss out on just enough of adulthood that she could still pretend she was a child. I might as well be immature as long as I can, she reconciled herself.

  “He’s a good man,” Selma said, raising her chin. “And brave. You know he once killed a bear all by himself? This marriage will help cement father’s power in the north, as well. We need Maddock’s allegiance.”

  “Cock and bull,” Annella replied sourly. She hated politics.

  *

  The storm, as promised, landed on Aargon like an anvil. The roofs rattled with the violence that breathed down on top of them, and even the wind managed to find its way through the nooks and crannies, invading like an unwelcome guest. And yet, there didn’t seem to be any joy lost on the residents inside. Annella remained in her chambers until the last possible moment, but she could hear the cajoling of the crowds below and the mead infused drunkenness that was rising like a kettle.

  She looked in her mirror and hastily scrambled out of her sister’s shirt. Half-naked, she admired herself and in the reflection she could almost convince herself she was beautiful. In reality, there was no man who wouldn’t want her. Although her waist was slim and flat, curving inward like a sail that had caught the wind, her breasts helped to stabilize the image of her as a woman, through and through.

  Large pert breasts settled on her chest, their loping weight causing them to create a small dark fold. It was the one thing about her she didn’t envy about Selma. Although they often bathed together and she had seen her sister naked many times, she had always avoided looking at Selma’s breasts, which were smaller in comparison, and swayed gently to either side, revealing a long tract of pale skin down her sternum.

  Sarah puckered her lips and groped her chest, trying to push them up. Her nipples comically extended in their pale, almost invisible, areolas. Hmph, she thought.

  She slipped on one of her own shirts, a nice forest green number that she had meticulously stitched herself into the form of tendrils, like the first shoots of spring or the roots of a flower. She could hear her father shouting her name and grabbed the stringed cithara off her bed as she ran down to the dining hall.

  There were more people than she had expected and her eyes went first to Selma who sat beside her soon-to-be-husband, Maddock. H
e was handsome, but he was at least ten years older than her. His broad beard hugged his cheeks and chin with an acute and defiant air of prestige, and his eyes—though hard—betrayed a kind of softness. A perfect match for Selma, Annella thought, although she didn’t want him to know she secretly approved of him. She knew that after their wedding, it was likely Selma would move with him, back to the northern lands where he ruled.

  “My beautiful daughter!” she heard a familiar voice boom and looked up at her father.

  Terynan Aargon had been a fearsome warrior in his past, and now that he was in his late fifties, had put on a bit of a paunch, and was streaked with a few more grey hairs, he had become a fearsome politician and magistrate. The iconic crown sat atop his skull, and his white hair draped over his shoulders, blending seamlessly into a beard of the same color.

  He raised his goblet forward, a vile smelling substance pouring onto his hand, and gave her a wink. There was a twinkle in his eyes, which she knew was reserved only for his daughters. Both of his wives, first Selma’s mother, then her own, had died shortly after giving birth to both of them, and though he had wept only once for each of them, the sisters knew he harbored their losses with an unequaled grief.

  The fact he was able to hide it so well and still be king was testament to his strength. Annella secretly wondered if such strength existed in her, as well.

  “My daughter,” he said, laughing, “Where have you been?”

  “Practicing,” she replied, “but must I really?”

  Terynan looked around the room and raised his hand in a come-hither gesture meant to exacerbate the crowds. Loud hoots and cheering issued from the warriors and envoys present.

  “I think you must,” he whispered, that same twinkle again.

  “I hate this,” she hissed back.

  He smiled fondly at her. “I know… I’ll make it up to you,” he said softly so only she could hear. “But for now, do it for your sister. Look how happy she is. Make her even happier, and let the reason for it encourage you.”