Love Beyond Wanting: Book 10 of Morna’s Legacy Series Read online

  Love Beyond Wanting

  Book 10 of Morna’s Legacy Series

  Bethany Claire

  Contents

  Copyright

  Book Description

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  A Note from the Author

  Prologue

  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 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Missed a Book in the Series?

  Sweet/Clean Versions of Morna’s Legacy Series

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  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright 2018 by Bethany Claire

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  License Notes

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Editor: Dj Hendrickson

  Cover Designed by Damonza

  * * *

  Available In eBook, Paperback, & Hardback

  * * *

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-947731-58-5

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-947731-59-2

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-947731-60-8

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  * * *

  Her destiny lies in the past. So does her heart.

  * * *

  After surviving a fire that almost killed her, Kate worked hard to rebuild her life post-amputation. She knows her own strength. In life and in work, she never backs down from a challenge. But when she travels into the past to be with her sister, she meets a man who forces her to face truths about herself she’d rather avoid—that when it comes to love, nothing terrifies her more.

  * * *

  Maddock enjoys his duty on The Isle of Eight Lairds, but dreams of more. After seeing his friend find love, he opens his heart to the belief that perhaps there is a lass out there for him, as well. When he meets Kate, the bonny sister of one of his dearest friends, he falls for her hard and fast. But she doesn’t make it easy for him. Her own fears keep her distant. No matter how much he opens himself up to her, she struggles to do the same.

  * * *

  Can they find a way to overcome the fears holding them back? If they do, can they work together to keep the evil that rules over the Isle at bay?

  * * *

  For Winston, Bash, Charlie, & Flag.

  * * *

  I couldn’t ask for better writing companions.

  * * *

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  A Note from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  I am so pleased that you’ve picked up this copy of Love Beyond Wanting. I really enjoyed writing these characters. If you’ve been a fan of Morna’s Legacy Series novels for a while and have read all the way through Love Beyond Words, feel free to skip the rest of this note and jump into reading this story. If you’re new to Morna’s world, however, I strongly suggest that you backtrack a bit before you dive in.

  We’ve entered a new chapter in my Morna’s stories, and with Love Beyond Words as the starting point, have begun a new story arc that will carry us through this novel and several subsequent novels. These books, which chronicle the legend of The Isle of Eight Lairds and the strong-willed women that Morna pulls together to defeat the evil that lives there, are more interconnected than any of my previous books. While the love stories themselves are standalones, the over-arching legend overlaps and weaves in and out of each story. For the most pleasurable reading experience, you should read Love Beyond Words before beginning this novel.

  And for the complete picture, start at the beginning with Love Beyond Time and read every book in the series straight through. I know that most of my readers would say that this is by far the most enjoyable way to go about the series. You can find a complete reading order list on my website.

  Okay, I think that’s it. However you choose to read my novels, it is my sincerest hope that you love them.

  Best wishes and happy reading,

  * * *

  Bethany

  Prologue

  Many Years Before The Start of Our Story

  The Isle of Whispers, Scotland

  * * *

  Machara couldn’t be trusted. She was the worst sort of fae, but what else did Athdara have to lose? With her son as he was now, he had no life at all. With the body of an old man and the mind of a child, the boy would wither and die long before she would, and whatever time her son had left would be lived in misery. He couldn’t speak, could barely feed himself, and rather than be rocked to sleep as a child his age should be, Willy was forced to cry himself to sleep, for he was too large to be held in her arms.

  He was just a wee tot when she lost him, barely teetering about and just learning his first words. She’d known the moment he was gone who’d taken him. A week earlier, the baker’s son had been lured into the world invisible to mortal eyes by a faerie. While Athdara had warned her young niece—begged her—to keep her son away from the spot where the first lad had disappeared, the girl’s curiosity was too strong. Just like the boy before, she was lured into
the land of the fae with Athdara’s wee son in tow.

  The children were only gone a fortnight before the Isle’s well-meaning laird struck a devil’s bargain with the faerie Machara. But as faeries always do, she found a way to twist her word. Return the children she did, but not as they were before. Their bodies had aged decades in a matter of days, but their minds remained those of children.

  “I know ye hate me.”

  Athdara reared back and spit on the ground near the faerie’s feet. “Hate is too kind a word for what I feel for ye, Machara. My son was an innocent. He wasna old enough to be fooled by yer charms. What happened to him was no fault of his own. Ye might as well have killed him. He’d be better off dead.”

  The faerie’s expression didn’t change. Athdara knew Machara was incapable of feeling remorse. She knew that for Machara to offer her a bargain, there had to be something in it for her, as well. In order to get what she so desperately wanted, Athdara would have to outwit someone far older and more powerful than she.

  “Aye, I know. ’Tis why I’ve offered ye this and ye alone. I must hide my son from his father, and he canna live amongst the fae. My own father would kill the boy if I brought him into our realm.”

  The child was no more than four—a wisp of a boy with curly honey-colored hair and shimmering green eyes that showed his half-fae blood more than any of his other features. He looked frightened standing next to his mother, shaking in the cold. Athdara watched as the boy reached for his mother’s hand, only to be swatted away by Machara’s spindly fingers. The boy’s eyes began to fill with tears, and Athdara’s heart squeezed.

  “Why canna the boy see Nicol? Nicol wouldna harm him.”

  A lump rose in Athdara’s throat as Machara laughed. Her cackle dripped with poison.

  “Do ye think I care for the welfare of this child? I wanted a half-fae child so I could use him when it suited me later in life. These children have abilities that others will never know. I may need him if my father’s curse comes true. If I gave him to Nicol, the child would grow up poisoned against me, and that willna do for my purposes.”

  Athdara wanted nothing more than to reach for the young boy and gather him up in her arms. Machara was a fool. The boy was old enough to remember all of this. She could see the child’s heart breaking right in front of her. It would take no prompting for the young boy to grow up hating his mother. Machara had already done all the work necessary to plant that seed of hate in his heart.

  “And what of yer other children?”

  “I returned to Nicol’s bed for the pleasure of it, not because I wanted more of his children. Those wretched beings willna be long for this world.”

  Athdara had to swallow the vomit that threatened to spill from her at Machara’s confession. “Doona harm them, Machara. Give them to me, just as ye are doing with this boy, and I will care for them as well.”

  Machara’s brow lifted. “I will use each of my children for a purpose that suits me. Brachan must live. The others must die. If ye speak of them again, I will take my bargain to someone else. ’Tis time for ye to decide, Athdara. Do ye accept my offer or not?”

  Carefully, and with a heavy heart, Athdara prepared her words. It was clear to her that she couldn’t save Machara’s other children. If the faerie wished them dead, she was powerless against the evil fae’s will, but perhaps she could spare one of them, and in the process, regain her son.

  “If ye will see my Willy returned perfect and whole and to the same age he truly should be now, with no memory of what happened to him, and if ye promise me that ye will never interfere in my life again or look for me or any of my kin or offspring, and ye willna interfere in how I choose to raise yer child, then aye. I shall take the boy in as my own, and I shall leave this isle with him.”

  Machara smiled and Athdara sent up a silent prayer that she’d left no room for Machara to trick her.

  “Then we’ve reached an agreement.”

  Before Athdara could move, Machara reached for Willy’s wrinkled and twisted hand. As she gripped him, his appearance changed before Athdara’s eyes. As her young son returned to the bonny toddler he’d once been, she collapsed on the ground, pulled him into her arms, and wept.

  As she held her son, Machara shoved Brachan toward her, and Athdara gathered him in her embrace, as well.

  “Leave here now, Machara. Yer need of me is done.”

  Machara nodded, but didn’t leave. “Aye, ’tis. I shall call for my son when ’tis time—when he is grown, not before, as per our bargain.”

  “How will ye call for him?”

  “He will know. There will be an awakening within him that he willna be able to deny. When this happens, ye must tell him who he is and to whom he belongs and return him to me once more. If ye doona do so, I will kill yer son.”

  Shivering, Athdara gripped each child’s hand and rose from the ground. “And what makes ye think that I willna poison Brachan toward ye like ye say Nicol would’ve? Ye’ve already sworn that ye willna interfere with how I raise the lad.”

  Machara laughed, but Athdara could see the faerie’s fatal flaw.

  “Ye are not his blood. Yer words will have no pull on him. As he grows, he will see ye as little more than the woman who saw him fed and clothed. His loyalty will lie with those whose blood runs through his veins.”

  Athdara waited until Machara was gone, but once the faerie was out of sight, she laughed. How little Machara knew of humans and love. Blood means little. Family comes from the heart. And this boy—this half-fae rarity—would grow up to be kind and good and brave—nothing like Machara.

  He would be her son, and she would love him completely.

  Chapter 1

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Present Day

  * * *

  My alarm didn’t wake me—I’d turned that off hours ago after realizing with delight that the one and only good thing about Laurel being in Scotland was that she wasn’t around to bully me into going to therapy. After this many months, I figured it was acceptable to skip one time. In my mind, it was the biggest waste of an hour each week anyway. But rather than enjoy a lazy morning in bed with my cat, my phone dinged at seven-thirty a.m. on the dot with a text message from my rehabilitation therapist, Sue.

  Laurel called before she left for Scotland. I know she’s not there to get you up and around. If Dr. Ackard doesn’t call me at 10:00 to tell me you were at your session, I’ll not be at ours at 11:30. See you in a few hours! :-)

  Groaning, I stretched and reached down to pat Mr. Crinkles, my solid black, one-eyed, relentlessly ornery cat who lay curled up on the far corner of my bed. He began to purr.

  Ever since the fire that took my right arm and my cat’s left eye, Laurel and Sue had embodied the very definition of “tough-love.” Even immediately following the accident, when I was still in unbearable pain and wading through tremendous grief over losing my arm, Laurel wouldn’t do a thing for me. She wanted me to do everything on my own. Even when I threw self-pity-fueled temper tantrums—which happened more often in those first few months than I cared to admit—she never caved.

  Sue was no different in my sessions with her. She pushed me to my breaking point every week. As a result, each week I grew stronger. I owed both of them so much, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t still incredibly pissed to get her unwelcome text message at—what was for me—the ass-crack of dawn.

  It was the one part of her work with me that drove me mad. Sue was the best rehabilitation therapist in Boston, but she would only accept clients who agreed to see a counselor each and every week while under her care. In theory, I understood her reasoning. Most of her clients were recovering from terrible accidents or illnesses and were learning to work with the body they now had. Of course there were psychological issues that needed to be worked through after such a tragedy.

  But what Sue didn’t seem to understand or believe, no matter how many times I tried to tell her, was that I had already worked through all of my feelings about the accident.
It had happened. It was awful. It was time for me to move the hell on.

  “Knock knock.” In her signature style that wasn’t really knocking, my mother knocked on the door by saying the words out loud while she pushed the door open without permission. “I brought coffee.”

  I smiled and scooted myself up in the bed. Despite my insistence that I didn’t need her help, Mom had flown up to Boston from her home in Florida the day after Laurel left for Scotland. She’d been showering me with attention, and I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t milking it just a little bit. So many of the things Laurel would never do for me, Mom would, and since it delighted her so much to feel like she was helping me, I allowed it. Or at least, that’s the excuse I made for myself when I started to feel guilty for letting her do things that I was entirely capable of doing on my own.