Page 2 of The Beast in the Loch (The Beasts #1)

She started down the hill, her feet slipping on the small stones and gravel that would be covered in snow come the winter.

The castle seemed to grow more grim the closer she got to it.

She gazed toward the ramparts and beyond them, to the brooding stone keep that speared into the sky.

It was very quiet, eerily so. Not even a bird sang its song, and no fish jumped in the loch beside her.

The bridge across to the island was narrow and treacherous and she took care with her steps, but at last she reached the gates.

There was a bell to ring, and when she had heaved on the chain attached to it, the deep tolling rolled ominously across the water.

Terror crept up from the very depths of her being, like icy fingers clawing at her skin.

With a shiver she wrapped her arisaid even closer, as if for protection, and waited.

For a time no one came and then the wicket gate began to open.

Maire's heart was pounding. She was expecting some hideous creature to poke out its beak and shriek at her, so what happened next almost made her laugh.

A woman appeared in the doorway. She was incredibly old, with a wizened face and white hair straggling about her shoulders, and her eyes were a pale clear grey—the colour of the loch.

"What do you want, girl?" she demanded in a voice that was splintery with age.

Maire decided it was some time since she had been called 'girl' but then to this ancient crone she must seem young.

"I am the Lady Maire and I have come to beg a favour from the Knights, mother," she said, and was glad her voice was strong. It would not do to appear cowardly from the onset. There would, she thought wryly, be time enough for that.

The crone swept her a glance. "Have you indeed? It is a long time since anyone came to beg favours at Castle Samhanach." Her mouth curled over her toothless gums. "You know the rules, lady. Are you a virgin untouched by mortal man?"

"Indeed I am," Maire said, lifting her chin.

The crone nodded thoughtfully. "And you are proud and bonny, too." She drew a deep breath, as if making a difficult decision. "I think Murchadh will like you."

At the sound of the name, her heart began to tap inside her breast like a frightened bird, but Maire did not shift her gaze from those pale eyes.

"Will he help my village to drive off the Norsemen, lady?

" she asked. "Will he save my people and restore to them their homes and their land?

If he can do that then I will gladly agree to whatever he asks of me. "

The woman eyed her a little longer, as if seeking the truth behind her words, and then she nodded with resolve. "Very well, lady, come with me," and it was more an order than a request. "He is waking, and he will be hungry."

Maire shivered and her eyes grew big. Hungry seemed to suggest she might be the meal for this Murchadh.

Was that what was in store for her, was this the sacrifice she must make to save her people?

Would she become a feast for the Knights?

She knew she didn't want to die. Abruptly it occurred to her that despite her busy days as leader of the village, her life had been a lonely one.

Her betrothed had drowned before they could marry, and all her dreams of being a wife and a mother had faded with his memory.

Then, with her father's passing, she had been left with the care of the land and its people, and the years had quickly slipped by.

Before she knew it she was a spinster past her prime, and now it seemed she would end as something to fill this Murchadh's belly.

But, she told herself resolutely, she must find comfort in the thought that her sacrifice would save many lives.

Maire drew her skirts aside and stepped through the wicket gate and into the castle bailey.

It was empty and silent, and the light was fast fading as night swept in across the lonely loch and its island castle.

She followed the shuffling figure of the crone, up some stone steps, to a stout wooden door banded with iron.

The door opened to the old woman's hand and they were inside the gloomy keep.

The shadows were even longer here, and the only light was that thrown by candles and flaming torches set around the walls.

Tapestries were hung to keep out the drafts, and high above her the beams of the ceiling looked down on her white face.

Maire could see that the narrow windows were all shuttered to prevent the light from entering.

One of the stories she had heard told about the Knights was that they could not abide the light of the sun.

They were creatures only of the night. While ordinary folk were tucked up safe in their beds, the monsters held their revels.

Was it true? Maire had never met anyone who claimed to have been to their great hall, only heard the stories passed down.

Unwilling her thoughts turned again to the role she would play.

Fear prickled her skin but she kept her chin high and her back straight. She must not think about what she would lose here tonight; she must think instead of what she would gain for her people. Surely any sacrifice would be worth it, knowing they were safe?

Be brave, she instructed herself, and pray that the end will be swift.

"Wait here, lady." The crone left her standing in the middle of the great room, and Maire listened to her muttering to herself—"It is time, surely it is time.

"—as she hurried off. She climbed some wooden stairs, awkwardly because of her old bones, and vanished through yet another door.

Alone in the shadows, with the silence broken only by the faint hiss of the burning torches, Maire waited.

There was another tale she had heard and now it came to her despite her efforts to keep it at bay.

The Knights were supposed to be creatures from a time long ago, ancient ones who had survived the centuries, and now took shelter in their castle on the loch.

They clung to life in their stronghold, granting the occasional favour in order to repay some sort of debt, the details of which no one could now remember.

They were not immortals but near enough. Certainly they were not human . . .

"Girl! Come!"

Maire jumped and looked up.

The crone was standing at the top of the stairs, and when Maire hesitated she beckoned impatiently for her to hurry. Too late now. There was nothing for it but to do as she was bid.

The room she was shown into was small, a sort of anti-chamber, and there was yet another door leading into yet another room, but this door was shut. Thankfully, Maire thought, because she could hear heavy footsteps behind the thick wooden panels. As if something big was stirring.

Could this be Murchadh waking?

She shivered again and then started when the old woman took her arm in sharp bony fingers. Her grey eyes examined Maire's pale, determined face and she nodded. "Aye, you are brave," she muttered. "'Tis good, lady. Murchadh is ready to hear your favour."

Her teeth were chattering but she bit down hard, clenching her hands in the woven wool of her arisaid, and telling herself it would be over soon.

And what did it matter what happened to her, when her people would be saved?

She supposed she would live on in tale and legend, just like that other woman from the village to the south, who had vanished a hundred or more years ago.

They would talk and sing of Lady Maire, and in that way she would live forever.

The door opened.

There was a chair drawn up to the hearth, where logs burnt brightly, but she could only see the tall back of it.

Ornate carvings covered the dark wooden frame, strange beasts with dragon heads and cresting waves, reminding her of the Viking long ships.

The warmth was stifling but Maire was cold and she felt her body begin to thaw and at the same time a strange lassitude came over her.

And then her unseen host spoke in a deep, strangely accented voice.

"Come to me, Damsel."

Suddenly her legs seemed to be made of water. She took a steadying breath and then another, and then she stepped forward, cautiously circling the chair. And there was Murchadh.

She couldn't help a little gasp of surprise. It was the man from the loch! Surely she wasn't mistaken? And yet for a moment her head spun as she also realised that if this was Murchadh, then he was not an awful monster, but a man, just like any other.

As soon as the thought entered her head she pushed it aside.

Because he wasn't like any other. Murchadh was no ordinary man.

He sat in his chair, naked from the waist up, his chest broad and powerful, the muscles on his upper arms bulging even at ease.

His hair was dark and hung to his shoulders, and when she looked into his face she saw that he was at once handsome and manly.

And his eyes . . . her own gaze was caught and held by eyes as dark as a moonless night.

For a moment she could not move. He seemed to be delving inside her head, reading her thoughts, and swiftly she dropped her own gaze to his boots, afraid he might know she had watched him in secret.

And yet she could not seem to curb her curiosity.

His legs were encased in close fitting breeches, and the hand that rested on the arm of the chair closest to her was broad and scarred, as if from many battles.

"This is the Lady Maire," she heard the crone saying. "She has a favour to beg, Murchadh."

"Has she indeed?" The sound of Murchadh's voice seemed to brush against her skin, like a lover's touch, and to her confusion she felt once more the stirrings of desire.

When she was slow in answering, the old woman nudged her and nodded encouragingly. "Tell him what it is you want, lady," she said with a hint of impatience.