Taming the Highland Beauty (Guardians of the Isles #7)

Prologue

Dunvegan Castle, Scotland

Tuesday, April 30th, 1743

T he laughter of Clan MacLeod drifted through the afternoon air as Gille Dubh looked on from the back of the crowd gathered to welcome Rosalyn and Keiran home from whatever adventure they had been on for the past two days. Gille smiled as she caught a glimpse of Rosalyn and Keiran emerging from the old keep, unharmed. These two had overcome so many obstacles, even death, to be together in this life.

With her next breath, a pang of longing pierced her. How she craved belonging to a family the way Rosalyn, the newest member of the MacLeod clan, did; as her sister, Aria, had before her. Perhaps there was hope for Gille in the future to be a part of a clan like the MacLeods?

Suddenly, a cold hand clamped over her shoulder. Gille gasped, whirling around to find Oberon, King of the Fairies, his face twisted in a cruel smile. “Enjoying the festivities, little traitor?” His voice dripped with amusement.

Panic flooded Gille as memories of her attempt to destroy the fairy king in Fairyland flashed before her. “Your Majesty. I meant you no harm,” the fairy stammered.

“No harm?” Oberon tilted his head, searching her face. “You sought to kill me. You used your magic to send me into the shadow realm.” He raised his hand, and a malevolent green light pulsed from his fingertips. Pain flared in Gille’s chest. A coiling sensation tightened around her heart. Her magic was useless against him. Frantically, she looked at the others to see if anyone noticed Oberon’s presence. But they all simply laughed and talked to each other as though nothing untoward was happening in their presence.

“They cannot see you. Not any longer,” Oberon said with an evil smile. “Since you almost destroyed me, I will not be so kind in my turn. No, not death for you. Instead, I will curse you, Gille. You shall live the rest of your days alone in the woodlands of the human realm,” Oberon declared. “The joy you so desperately crave shall forever remain just beyond your grasp.”

“Nay,” Gille cried out.

“And you shall bear the mark of your beastly behaviour,” he said waving his hand before her face.

Gille could feel the bones of her face shifting, contorting. She brought her fingers up to feel that her cheekbones were now elongated, her nose flattened. “What have you done?”

“Only what you deserve.” Oberon laughed. “Since I am not the beast you are, I will give you one boon by allowing you to leave the woodlands for a short time—seven days at any one time, but no longer—just long enough for you to remember what you are missing. If you do not make it back to a growing, vibrant forest before sunset on the seventh day, you will turn into a tree.” The light intensified, tendrils of it wrapping around Gille, tearing at the very fabric of her being. Then as abruptly as it began, it was over, and Oberon was no longer at her side.

Gille slumped to the ground at the base of an old, moss-covered beech tree, finding herself not at Dunvegan, but in the isolated woodlands beyond. She could still hear laughter coming from the castle, but now it sounded like a distant, mocking echo. She was truly alone, condemned to wander the woodlands, yearning for a happiness that could never be hers.