The Beastly Laird’s Forbidden Claim (Preview)

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Chapter One

Near the Borders of Clan Keith, 1718

The road narrowed as it curved east, hemmed in on both sides by low stone walls and bramble-thick hedges.

Vivienne adjusted the shawl at her shoulders, her fingers curling into the soft wool with a grip that bordered on reverence. It had belonged to her mother once.

Sheona.

Not just a name, but a presence that clung like perfume to every room she’d ever walked into—floral, cloying, impossible to breathe through. Sheona, who had taught her how to speak softly in rooms that did not want to hear her. Who had carved obedience into her with every glance, every correction, every whispered warning dressed up as care. The woman who had smiled with ice in her teeth and called it motherly love.

The shawl had outlasted her.

Sheona had left behind no letters, only this: a shawl worn threadbare at the edges, and a hundred small cruelties Vivienne had never quite known how to name.

And yet still, she wore it, because leaving it behind felt like abandoning something that had shaped her too deeply to forget. A reminder of the woman her mother had tried to make her, and the vow she had made never to become that woman again. A weight, yes, but ballast all the same. Something to remind her of where she came from, and that there was no turning back, even as the road beneath her shifted and the path ahead stretched into places she could not yet imagine.

She wrapped it tighter around her shoulders, as if it might hold her together.

The horse beneath her shifted, hooves striking uneven ground, and one of the Galbraith guards glanced over his shoulder. “All well, mistress?”

Vivienne blinked. The question had to be repeated in her mind before she could answer. “Aye. Just tired.”

He gave a nod and turned back around. Conversation between the men had long since dulled to murmurs of travel talk, idle and meaningless. She let them fade.

Her thoughts were louder.

There were four guards, whom she had not met before. Not properly at least. Laird Gregory Galbraith had chosen them himself, after she’d insisted she didn’t need an escort at all. After everything that had passed between her and Gregory and Odette, the fact they now saw her as family, someone worth protecting, was no small thing.

They didn’t know that she hadn’t slept the night before. That she’d stood in her chambers repacking the same satchel three times over, hands shaking from something that was not fear, but not quite bravery either. That Odette had stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and half amused, asking if she’d truly lost her mind.

“Ye’re nae even sure what ye’re walking intae,” Odette, her step-sister had said, voice low, a smile playing behind the warning.

Odette had once been her adversary, the bitterness between them sown by Sheona’s careful hand. But that had changed—after Odette’s marriage to Laird Galbraith, after Vivienne’s quiet repentance. Now, she was her closest kin. Her voice was low, familiar, a smile playing behind the warning.

Odette, who had once been the outsider in their home and Vivienne, who had worn cruelty like a borrowed dress, thinking it the only way to belong. They had both changed. War had seen to that. Love, too.

Vivienne had only smiled. “That’s never stopped either o’ us.”

And that was true. Once.

But now, riding across borders toward a clan she’d never met, summoned by a man known only through whispered titles and unsigned letters, the uncertainty felt like a living thing, coiled in her belly. It slithered up her spine when she let her guard down, gnawed at her resolve.

She shifted again, the leather saddle creaking. The wind carried no birdsong here. Just the rustle of unseen branches and the faint echo of hooves behind them.

The letter had said very little.

“Our healers is gone. The sick pile faster than we can bury them. I’ve heard ye have a gift. Come, then. Show me how good ye truly are. Come before the season turns. Enter by the western border, if ye value yer life. — G.K.”

Just the rough initials and the weight of expectation.

Vivienne had read it a dozen times. She’d turned the parchment over in her hands, trying to divine something between the lines. Something more than need. Something more than desperation. Because surely no laird—no Beast, as they called him—would send for a stranger unless he’d run out of every other option.

The name alone made her stomach twist.

The Beast o’ Keith.

It had sounded like a jest, the first time she’d heard it. But Gregory hadn’t been laughing. He’d said the man hadn’t left the battlefield in five winters. That he refused court, sent no emissaries, dined alone. That he wore armor even in his own hall. Slept in a chair because no bed could hold the weight of his rage.

“Nay woman’s ever looked at him without flinchin’,” Gregory had muttered, almost to himself, eyes dark. “And I’d rather send ye intae the sea than intae Keith lands.”

And now, Vivienne Beaumont, once the girl who’d stood behind her mother’s shoulder like a shadow, now the healer who walked with poultices alone, was meant to cross into his lands and help.

She swallowed.

She had so many questions.

Why me? Why now? Why the west border? Why nay more information? Why hadnae he sent someone?

But of course, she already knew the answer. Because he was the kind of man who did not ask. He commanded. Even his letter had felt that way. Not curt, exactly. But final. Like the paper itself would not suffer to be questioned.

Her horse slowed as the path thinned, and one of the guards raised a hand. “Mistress,” he called softly, pointing. “There.”

She looked up.

A stretch of rock, then a rise of wooded ridge, and just beyond it, the faint line of another road, bisecting their path like a scar. And further still there was smoke, the kind that meant people, and a fire burning just out of sight.

“Keith border,” the guard said. “We’ll make camp just shy o’ it.”

Vivienne nodded.

They dismounted near a bend in the path where the trees grew close. The men moved with efficiency, one gathering wood, another checking the horses. She took her satchel and stepped to the edge of the camp, beyond the fire ring, beyond the reach of their chatter.

One of the younger guards knelt beside her, holding out a piece of oatcake wrapped in linen. “Mistress,” he offered, his voice careful, unsure. “Ye should eat something. It’s a long ride still.”

Vivienne blinked at the bread. Her fingers closed around it automatically, more out of habit than hunger. “Thank ye,” she murmured.

He lingered a moment. She glanced up briefly and nodded. After a pause, he rose and returned to the others.

The bread sat in her lap, untouched. Instead, her hands returned to the flask. She loosened her grip, noting the ache in her knuckles with clinical detachment. Her mind, too, felt taut and overdrawn, stretched thin by the unfamiliar.

She sat cross-legged with her back against the tree, the flask cradled between her palms. Around her, the woods shifted and whispered. Her eyes scanned the shadows for understanding. What kind of land bred a laird like Gavin Keith? What kind of war left so few to tend the wounded?

She reached for the shawl again, fingers curling tight at the collarbone.

Ballast, ye’re nae that lass anymore, who flinched. Nae the girl who stayed silent tae survive.

But still, when a branch cracked somewhere beyond the firelight, she flinched.

The guard nearest her heard it too. His hand dropped to the hilt of his blade. “Stay here,” he said low, a single glance her way before he moved toward the sound.

Vivienne rose slowly, knees stiff. She strained to listen. Just the wind, maybe. Just an animal in the brush. And then—

A thunk.

The sickening sound of blade striking bone. A grunt. Another.

And then the firelight exploded in motion. Figures burst through the trees in every direction, steel flashing, shouts rising like thunder. A blur of blue and green tartan swept across the camp, and Vivienne stumbled backward in time to see one of her guards fall, his throat opened clean.

“Run!” someone roared.

Her feet moved before her mind did. She turned, half-tripping on a root, grabbing her skirts as she sprinted into the darkness. The woods closed in fast. Branches clawed at her hair. The ground sloped without warning, and she went tumbling, shoulder crashing into a rock, hands scraping raw against the dirt.

Behind her, men shouted, voices rough and urgent overlapping in a chaos she couldn’t untangle. Steel clanged against steel; each strike sharp enough to split the air. A horse screamed, high, human-like, and the sound cracked something inside her.

Vivienne scrambled to her feet. Her breath came ragged and fast, a fluttering thing that wouldn’t settle in her chest. Her legs buckled beneath her for a moment, stiff from the cold and the shock, but she forced them forward, running as fast as she could. Branches tore at her sleeves, at her hair, her skirts catching on brambles as she stumbled through the thick underbrush. Her heart thundered in her ears, louder than the noise behind her, louder than the wind that cut across the ridge.

Keith. Keith was north. Nay—west. Nay—the river was east, she should’ve—should’ve crossed it at the bend—

Panic surged, directionless and raw.

The ground sloped, then dipped without warning, and she slid down a patch of wet earth, her boots skidding, knees giving. She hit a tree hard, shoulder-first, and kept going, pain lancing down her side. Her hand clutched at the shawl as if it might anchor her, but it slipped loose, useless against the chaos.

Then, without warning, something snatched her.

A hand closed around her wrist like a snare, jerking her backwards with such force her body spun. Her ankle twisted, her mouth opened—

She screamed.

But the sound was muffled almost instantly by another hand, rough and calloused, slamming over her mouth. She tried to bite, tried to wrench away, but her limbs moved too slow, her thoughts too scattered.

“Hold still,” a voice growled at her ear, the words hot and close. “Stop fighting.”

She writhed anyway, teeth sinking into leather, but the man only hissed and twisted her arm until pain spiked white-hot through her elbow.

“Damn healer,” he muttered. “We heard they were sendin’ one from Galbraith. Should’ve kent it’d be ye. Ye’ve nay place in this.”

More men emerged from the shadows, all dressed in the same muted grey plaids, mud-caked boots, teeth bared like wolves. Her other guards… Where were they? Were they dead?

She couldn’t breathe.

One man stepped closer, squinting down at her. The man crouched in front of her, eyes gleaming in the half-dark. His face was lean, his hair tied back in a crude knot. There was blood on his sleeve—someone else’s. He looked at her like she was something caged. Not dangerous. Just… contained.

“So,” he said, voice low and mocking, “this is the lass from Galbraith.”

Vivienne blinked. Her elbow throbbed from where she’d fallen. Her vision swam.

He tilted his head. “What’s yer name, then? Dinnae think I’ve seen ye at court.”

Vivienne met his gaze, steady despite the tension in her spine. “Vivienne Beaumont,” she said. “And I’ve nay business at court. I go where I’m needed.”

Another man stepped closer, broader, with a scar running down his brow. “That’s her. The healer. The one Galbraith sent.”

The first man smiled. “Healer, is it? Thought ye’d be older.”

Vivienne forced a breath through her teeth. “I’m nae here fer Galbraith,” she said, voice hoarse. “He didnae send me.”

“Did ye hear that?” the man drawled, glancing back at the others. “Just wandering intae Keith lands with a pouch full o’ tinctures, is she?”

A few of the men laughed.

Vivienne lifted her chin. “I was summoned. By the laird o’ Clan Keith. I was told they needed healing. That’s what I came tae dae.”

The man crouching grinned wider now. “And ye just answered, did ye? Like a good wee dove?”

One of the younger men shifted behind him. “General, Sir—she daesnae look like a threat.”

“Daesnae look like a threat?” the general echoed, not taking his eyes off her. “Ye think that’s how war works, lad? Ye think the ones who patch the wounds dinnae change the fight?” He stood slowly. “She’s a Galbraith. And she’s meant fer Keith. That makes her useful. And dangerous.”

“Aye, general,” the younger man bowed his head.

Vivienne’s hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white. “I’m nae a danger,” she said again. “I dinnae fight.”

“Nay,” the general said. “Ye keep others from dying. Which is worse.”

She flinched as he stepped closer, voice dropping to something colder.

“Ye’re here tae help, girl.”

Then he turned to the others. “Take her. Strip her o’ anything sharp. We move before night thickens. If Keith sent fer her, let’s see how far they’ll chase.”

He motioned, and two of the men grabbed her arms.

“Nay—please—” She fought them, legs kicking, feet slipping in the loam. Her satchel tore from her shoulder. She saw it fall, herbs spilling like leaves across the ground.

A hand struck her across the face.

“Quiet,” the general said.

Her ears rang. Her vision swam.

They dragged her through the trees, moving fast, too fast. Her boots caught on roots. Her arms ached. She tried to count her breaths. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. But the numbers blurred.

Her mouth tasted of iron.

“Take her past the ridge. We’ll cut east from there. If Keith wants tae get healers, let them come fetch her.”

The general again. “Aye. Let’s see if their Beast comes fer her.”

Chapter Two

The forest floor blurred beneath her, mud and moss and root twisting into one shapeless dark mass. A light rain fell through the canopy, soaking into her hair, her clothes, the raw places on her skin.

Her shoulder throbbed from where she’d hit it and her lip stung where the man had struck her. Her feet barely skimmed the ground as the men dragged her deeper into the trees, each step jarring something loose inside her chest.

She was cold. She was dizzy. She was bleeding. And she could not stop shaking.

Their hands were iron on her arms. Her skirts tangled around her knees. Her mother’s shawl was gone. Somewhere back near the fire, in the dirt, torn loose when they pulled her down. It felt like her body had been torn loose, too. She could feel it fraying at the edges. Unraveling.

“Walk faster,” one of them snapped, yanking her forward by the arm.

“She’s limping,” another muttered. “Leg’s bleeding. She fell hard back there.”

“She’ll manage,” came the reply, flat and cold, making her shiver. “She’s a Galbraith. They’re always tougher than they look.”

Vivienne’s breath hitched. She hadn’t realized how shallow it had become until it caught, jagged, in her chest. Her ribs ached and her lips were dry. Blood clung to the inside of her mouth, metallic and thick, and her vision kept tilting every few steps.

She didn’t know how far they’d come. Couldn’t track direction anymore. North and south had blurred. The forest closed in like a hand tightening its fist. She didn’t know if her guards still lived or if the laird even knew she was gone. Keith. I need tae get tae Keith. I need tae—

She moved before she had time to question herself.

Her body twisted hard, dragging her feet sideways, and yanked her arm back with everything she had. The shock of resistance tore through her shoulder, but she didn’t stop. She wrenched free and bolted left, toward the thickets.

It worked… for half a breath. The grip on her right arm slipped. Her sleeve tore. She turned fast, lungs heaving, skirts catching on thorns. But the woods were uneven, wild. Her boot caught on a root hidden beneath the leaves, and suddenly the ground was gone.

She fell hard.

Her body hit the slope like a dropped stone. Her hands landed on sharp rock, skin splitting open on impact. Her elbow smashed into something solid, and pain screamed up her arm. Her chin struck moss. She rolled once, twice, and then lay still, winded, mouth full of dirt and the dull, sick tang of blood.

The world pulsed around her, the trees above spinning as she tasted copper on her tongue and heard footsteps closing in. Still, she tried to crawl, but they were on her again within seconds.

“Feisty,” the general’s voice hissed behind her. “Ye think ye’re clever, lass?”

“Let go o’ me!” she cried, voice cracking. “Let go, let go—”

Another strike across her cheek silenced her. Pain lit up behind her eyes and the world blurred.

“Hold her,” the man barked. “We’re almost tae the ridge.”

Vivienne could barely hear him as blood roared in her ears. Her limbs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. And then—

A sound. A low whistle. The men froze.

“Someone’s coming,” one of the men hissed.

The general turned, eyes narrowing. “Get her behind cover. Now.”

They dragged her toward a fallen tree, but it was too late.

The woods exploded. Steel screamed against steel. Horses reared. Shadows broke through the underbrush, figures in dark green and black tartan, moving like thunderclouds.

The first blade missed her by inches, driving instead into the chest of the man holding her left arm. He went down in a howl of blood and disbelief.

A second man fell near the ridge, tackled by a Keith warrior in a bear-like charge. The two of them crashed into the underbrush, weapons slashing wild.

She felt hands leave her and felt her body hit the earth. She curled instinctively, arms covering her head, the noise rising around her into something unbearable. She could hear the general yelling, commands or curses, she couldn’t tell.

And then, through the chaos, she saw him.

He didn’t come riding like the others, shouting or swarming. He came alone and moved through the melee with lethal precision, every strike efficient, brutal. His blade was long, and it did not pause. It caught the torchlight as it moved, silver and clean, like a line drawn through the dark.

Vivienne’s breath snagged.

He wasn’t armored like the rest. No visible sigil. No crest. Just a high leather guard strapped tight around his neck, like a collar too purposeful to be for vanity. His long hair was unbound, wet with sweat and rain, clinging to his jaw, his brow, the curve where cheek met temple.

And still, he looked untouchable.

But it was more than that. It was the way he moved. Not just strength. Not just skill. Presence. Like the earth itself made way for him. His silence rang louder than any war cry.

Vivienne couldn’t look away.

She knew she should run, should hide, but something in her stilled. Her heartbeat, ragged and wild moments ago, slowed into something heavier, as if her body recognized him before her mind did.

He looked carved from the storm itself. Violent, rain-slicked, beautiful. And terrifying. And she did not know why, but for one brief, breathless second, she wondered what it would feel like to be seen by a man like that. To be held in the eye of that silence. To be claimed by it.

Then the general shouted, and the moment shattered.

Vivienne tried to crawl back, away, but her limbs wouldn’t move fast enough. Her palms slid on moss. Her head swam. She heard their swords clash before she saw it.

The general swung first, wide and brutal, a fury-fueled arc.

The man parried easily, stepping in close. The second clash came louder, and then the two men locked blades, face to face.

Vivienne couldn’t look away.

The general fought with anger. She’d seen men like that before, too reckless to be clever. But this man moved with a cold, controlled violence, not rushed or enraged, he was trained for this. He broke the lock and sent the general reeling with a strike to the side of the knee. Then he stepped in and slammed the hilt of his sword into the general’s jaw.

He fell, face down.

The silence that followed felt unnatural, too quiet for all that had just passed. Vivienne could only watch as the man turned toward her, his face clean of blood, his eyes—grey, or perhaps silver—locking onto hers. He didn’t speak, just looked, and in that silence thick with smoke, blood, and something she couldn’t name yet, Vivienne froze.

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Couldn’t read a thing behind those strange, silver eyes. He looked half-man, half-shadow. And in that moment, she didn’t know if he had come to help her or to claim her. Didn’t know if he would offer her his hand or take her by the throat. He could be savior or punishment.

All she knew was that he saw her.

She didn’t know what he was yet, only that no one that precise, that silent, could be safe.

She ran until her lungs tore.