Reformed Rogues

She's a healer. He's a conqueror. She hates domineering men. He despises defiant women. Can they stand each other long enough to survive their enemies?

Highland chieftain Beiste MacGregor earned his nickname "the Beast" through ruthless ambition and a vicious reputation on the battlefield. Haunted by loss and hardened by war, he has no interest in love—only duty. When the Red King commands him to marry, Beiste expects a docile bride he can ignore.

What he gets instead is Amelia Dunbar.

Illegitimate. Outcast. Healer. Amelia has spent her life caring for others while dreaming of a place to truly belong. But when fate steps in, she's thrust into a world of dangerous politics, simmering passion, and a battle-scarred chieftain who may not be the beast everyone believes him to be.

TROPES: Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity / Arranged Marriage. Possessive Alpha Hero. Healer Heroine. Medieval Highland Romance. Suspense.

No cheating. No cliffhangers. HEA.

Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains Mature Content, some violence and mild steam.

If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, royal intrigue, and humor then you'll enjoy this book.

***

Chapter 1

1033 - Healers’ Cottage, Dunbar, East Lothian, Scotland

Impending death has a smell. Amelia knew this to be true, as the metallic scent of blood overpowered the aromatic herbs that had since lost their potency. She sat in stillness while the midwife bustled around the mud-brick room, her heavy steps leaving footprints on the dirt floor. A cloying haze of smoke and steam from boiling water settled mid-air as lingering sweat and strange odors combined to herald a body giving up its right to life.

Amelia had lived fifteen summers and knew that nothing, not the yarrow nor the crushed bog myrtle, could staunch the bleeding. Her mother, Iona, would be dead within the hour.

She gazed upon the bed where her mother clung to the still-born body of her baby son. Another bastard for the Earl of Dunbar. Amelia reached out and touched his tiny lifeless fingers; it was then she wept for losing a brother she would never know, and a parent whom she could not bear to let go. If she had not sensed the shift before, she felt it now. The veil between the two worlds was lifting. The midwife made the sign of the cross, then left the cottage.

"Amie," her mother rasped. "Dinnae cry, mo nighean." Iona moved an errant curl away from Amelia's face. A gesture that exhausted her.

Amelia shook her head in anguish. "No, Ma, please dinnae leave me. I need you."

"'Tis my time to go, love."

"What will I do without you?" Amelia sobbed.

"Use your gift. Your healing skills will see you through." Iona's breathing became labored, but she pushed on between breaths. "I've left you my notes. Tell no one you can read, you ken?" She coughed.

Amelia motioned as if to get water.

"No." Iona clutched Amelia's arm. "There is a letter in my notes and a box for you in the woods. You will need the contents to find your kin. Show it only to them."

"What do you mean? You are my only kin."

"No, lass. Highland blood flows through your veins." Iona was wheezing now and gasping for air. "Promise me you'll find them; 'tis my gift to you."

"Ma, I dinnae understand."

Her mother winced. "Tell them Iona sent you. Promise me!"

"I promise, Ma."

Iona released her grip on Amelia's arm. Her hand lay limp on the bed.

Moments later, the door opened, and Amelia's father, Maldred, Earl of Dunbar, appeared. His facial expression was haggard and etched in sorrow. Maldred collapsed by the bedside.

"Iona, mo ghràidh, I am sorry," he said. He then held the hand of his beloved leman as she took her last breath.

Amelia had never seen him cry before. Their eyes met, hers full of anguish and his filled with grief and regret.

"I'm sorry, Lia. I swear to you I will do my best for you. I swear it," he said. With those parting words, Maldred stood and left the cottage.

It would be several days before Amelia retrieved the box buried beneath the hallowed tree. It was made of solid oak. Within it lay a folded arisaidh and a crest badge with an insignia on it: a battle axe encircled by branches with the Latin inscription, "Aut Vincere Aut Mori" - Either Conquer or Die.

With her heart lighter than it had been in days, Amelia placed the contents back in the box and tucked it under her arm. Somewhere out there in the Highlands, she had a family, and someday she would leave this cursed town and find them.

***

1040 - Dunbar Castle, East Lothian

If there was one thing Amelia Dunbar knew, it was this: she was never leaving this godforsaken place. After her mother's death, she found herself tied to the estate with never-ending duties as a clan healer. In addition, Amelia still did not know who her kin were because all inquiries had come to a dead end. And to make matters worse, her father was at this very moment trying to marry her off to a stinking farmer.

Now, by referring to him as such, she did not mean to mock farmers, because working with the land is a noble profession. It was the fact said farmer literally stank. She could smell him from where she stood, and that was a good ten feet away, with the wind blowing in the opposite direction. His name was Angus. He was just shy of forty-nine, with a receding hairline, and every third tooth was rotten or missing. He also had seven children from two deceased wives who had no doubt expired from the stench of his breath.

Amelia knew she was no brilliant catch herself. She was not bonnie or graceful or slim like other women her age, but for the love of all things holy, was it too much to ask that a prospective suitor bathe more than once a year?

"So, what think you, Lia?" the earl asked. "He's a fine catch with fertile land and lots of cattle."

"I'm sorry, Da, but no. I dinnae think Angus and I will get along at all." Amelia waved at Angus, saying a quick "sorry," then walked away.

Exasperated, the earl followed behind her. "Come now, Lia, this is the fifth man you have turned down in two years! I am trying to do my best for you. I promised your màthair on her deathbed."

That was the part Amelia hated the most. Her father's best was not good enough. Her mother became a pariah because of his best. His best caused his wife, Ealdgyth, to die of heartbreak because he could not keep their marriage vows. His best meant Amelia had to take on more duties because he was rarely home. At two and twenty years old, Amelia was sick to death of her father's best.

***

Chapter 2

1040 - MacGregor Keep Glenorchy, Perthshire, Scotland

Chieftain Beiste MacGregor stood on the rocky outcrop, watching his men spar on the training grounds below. He was six foot five of pure muscle, with broad shoulders and a menacing scowl. A hardened warrior, his body bore the visible signs of battle, including a grotesque scar etched across the left side of his face from temple to chin. His bronzed skin was a vivid contrast against the rolling green hills. At nine and twenty, Beiste had spent the better part of a decade fighting the wars of kings, and now he just wanted peace.

On Beiste's right hand stood the equally enormous form of his Head-Guardsman, Brodie Fletcher, and to his left was his Second-in-Command, Dalziel Robertson. Brodie was the charmer of their group, with his handsome features and friendly disposition, but rile his temper and he was as ferocious as a bear. Dalziel was the quiet one, a keen observer. He was leaner than the other two but twice as deadly.

The three men had fostered together from boyhood, and over the years had forged a kinship bond stronger than any blood tie. Ever vigilant, ever alert, they waited in silence for Beiste to speak.

"King Duncan mac Crìonain is dead."

Brodie wiped the smile from his face. "How?"

"Slain in battle by his cousin, Macbeth mac Findlaích."

"A family feud?" Dalziel asked.

"Aye, Thorfinn Sigurdsson of Orkney aided him."

"I take it Macbeth is now king of Alba?" Dalziel asked.

"Aye, 'twas he who sent the King's missive requiring my immediate action."

"What does he want with you?" Brodie asked.

"I am to marry some wench from the lowlands."

"What?" Brodie looked outraged. "Surely he cannot ask that of you?"

Dalziel agreed. "'Tis a low blow. Everyone kens you still mourn your wife."

Beiste did not need reminding. It had been two years, but the memory of Caitrin's death haunted him still.

"He can and he has," Beiste said with anger.

"But why?"

"Because she is Duncan's niece."

"Why would he make you marry the niece of the king he just killed?" Dalziel asked.

"I dinnae ken, but if I refuse, we forfeit our lands."

The men were silent, processing their options.

"And what of Elora?" Brodie asked.

"What of her?"

"Does she ken you mean to