The Highlander's Lady (Highlands Forever Book 1)

by Aileen Adams

  “It is none of your concern,” she sniffed.

  “Nor was your safety, lassie, though I didna let that stop me.” He eyed the guards; fine, fierce men he was sure, yet unprepared just the same. “Dinna take this unkindly, but your lady is in need of protection. As I was already riding north and it appears as though ye are as well, it would be no trouble to join ye for a time.”

  Were they Scots, he would have done as he wished and cared little for their protestations. As it was, he had half a mind to send them home where they might have done someone some good. They were certainly not doing their lady any.

  “Or, ye can take your chances with whomever ye might cross paths with after this,” he shrugged. “It means little to me. I shall be on my way, and bidding ye good luck on your journey.”

  “Wait.” The lass growled under her breath. “Why should we trust you? You might be one of them, luring us to greater danger.”

  “Do ye know where ye are goin’, lass? That is to say, do ye know the direction in which ye ride?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how could I lead ye anywhere ye didna wish to go? I will give ye to the count of three to make up your mind. Either I ride with ye and keep thieves and cutthroats away so ye can reach your destination unharmed, or I ride along on my own and hear of your murder later.”

  Her face went paler than before, though she managed to hold back her dismay at his harsh words. Even he wished to flinch at what he’d just said, but she maintained her dignity.

  “One,” he began, his eyes darting back and forth. “Two.”

  “All right, all right,” she spat. “You might ride with us, Boyd MacPherson.”

  “So ye have sense in that head of yours,” he observed with a grin. “Tis glad I am to hear it. Let us be on our way, then.”

  The guards were of a mind to dispatch with him and leave him by the side of the road, it was clear. He made a point of meeting their eyes as they moved ahead to keep watch while he rode beside the young woman with the sharp tongue and thick, if clumsy, brogue.

  It was never easy for a man to admit himself outmatched, but it took wisdom to admit it. They were wise men, indeed.

  The lass’s face was mostly hidden by her hood, which was just the same to Boyd as there were far more important things deserving of his attention. Movements in the trees, for one, and the poor condition of the road.

  Just the same, there was no escaping curiosity over the woman beside him. She had a great deal of poise for one so young and fair. She had not screamed—much—while in danger, and even when she had, it was to threaten her attacker.

  She had not even swooned, as women were wont to do in dangerous situations.

  “What brings ye over the border?” he asked after they’d passed the outskirts of Canonbie, with the River Esk running to their right in the near distance. The ever-present sound of running water had always struck him as rather pleasant, though the early spring thaw had left the river swollen and dangerous.

  “I do not believe that is any of your concern—nor is my name,” she was quick to add.

  “That hardly seems fair, does it? Ye know my name.”

  She sniffed. “I would not have asked for it, as it matters little. I would rather not speak any further.”

  “Why? Are ye hiding something? Am I making a grave mistake by riding with ye, lass?”

  “What?” She turned to him, brows drawn together.

  “I dinna wish to find myself hanged for aiding a criminal. Ye might be a spy, or an assassin. Ye might be running from the law at this verra moment, and with me pledging to protect ye.”

  He was only having fun with her, as anyone with eyes could tell she was one of noble birth. Though that did not explain why she would be in Scotland, and with the situation as tense and dangerous as it was.

  She blew out a gust of air, forming a cloud of fog around her head. The day had grown quite chill, indeed, the sort that got into a man’s bones and lingered even after he’d built a fire.

  “You must make me a pledge,” she whispered, glancing in the direction of her guards.

  “A pledge?” he whispered back, knowing he was enjoying himself too much but unable to help it. In truth, he’d had a long, wet, miserable ride ahead of him. This was at least a way to pass time he would have passed with no one to talk to but his palfrey.

  “Yes. Promise you will not breathe a word of it.” Her whispers rang with urgency.

  “I promise, lass, though I fear I shall regret it.”

  “My father felt it best for me to shelter with my mother’s friends on the other side of the border with so many skirmishes and battles going on around us.”

  “Your father is English?” The very word left a sour taste in his mouth.

  “Yes. The Earl of Carlisle.” She said it with pride, though the title made him wish to roll his eyes. As if he cared for any such thing.

  “And your mother had friends in Scotland? That is strange.”

  “Not very strange. She was Scottish.”

  Was. “An earl marrying a Scotswoman? I dinna believe it.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “Which is where ye learned to speak as ye did—rough, but it served to knock Jamie off-balance for a moment,” he chuckled.

  “Do not bring that up, please,” she hissed.

  “Why not? Ye did well, lass. Ye ought to be proud of yourself for shocking ears which have heard a great deal worse.”

  “Just the same. A lady does not—” She shook her head, turning her face away. “That is what brings me here.”

  “And how long will ye be here, if ye dinna mind my asking?”

  “I do mind.”

  “Just the same. I am with ye to see to it ye dinna have your throat cut, and I didna ask for silver in return. It seems to me the least ye can do is answer my questions.”

  “I did not ask you to join us. You told me you were coming along. I do not owe you anything.”

  “Ye would be without your mount and perhaps without a few other things were it not for me,” he growled. He should not have said it, but there were times when a man could be excused for speaking roughly to a woman.

  Such as when she refused to see reason.

  If she were a chicken, her feathers would have ruffled until she appeared twice her size. “You are coarse,” she sniffed, quite the lady.

  “Aye, and right, as well. Ye know it, or else ye would not have allowed me along.” He held his tongue before the impulse to remind her of how she’d screeched like a scalded cat got the better of him. For all her airs and graces, she could forget her upbringing when she had to.

  She heaved a pained sigh. “I will be here as long as need be. I could not say how long it will be before I see my home again. Is that enough for you? Would you like me to tell you more of how this pains me?”

  “Verra well, lass,” he grunted, wishing he had never pressed her so. “Ye might keep your thoughts to yourself. I merely wished—”

  “What? To upset the Englishwoman? Because you are a Scot and a Highlander, at that?”

  He turned nothing but his head. Slowly. Eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  The color rose in her cheeks again, though he did not know if it was embarrassment or fear or anger which caused her flush. “I—it means you would wish to upset me because you are of Scottish birth.”

  “And a Highlander, at that,” he reminded her. “As if there were nothing worse than being of the Highlands. I did not notice your fine guards protecting ye back there, lassie. Perhaps ye ought to spend more of your time with the coarse Highlanders, at that.”

  She huffed again, turning away. He did the same. It was best to pretend she did not exist. Were it not for his pride, he would ride off on his own and forget the entire matter.

  His pride and his conscience.

  He did not much like the looks of her guards, one or both of whom insisted on casting glances over their shoulders with each passing mile. At first, he pretended not to notice.


  After an hour, perhaps two, he stared back at them. Challenging them to speak a word. They would not. Cowards. Any man could wield a sword in battle, drunk off the glory of battle or perhaps moved to action out of fear for his life.

  Speaking face-to-face with a man, especially a stranger who’d just stepped in on one’s behalf, was another matter.

  They believed they were better than himself, just as the lass beside him believed. It came as no surprise. For his part, he would rather be skinned alive than be mistaken for one of the thieving, murderous English who had caused nothing but sorrow to his people since long before he was born.

  “Where do you live?” she asked of a sudden, after they’d ridden in silence for a good distance and the day slid into evening. “Do you not have a home to go to?”

  “Aye, I have a home,” he grunted. “I dinna live in the out of doors.”

  “Where is it? Why are you not there now?”

  “It is no concern of yours.” Yet when he caught sight of her from the corner of his eye, what parts of her face were visible beneath her hood revealed hurt at his reply. Perhaps she was merely trying to be friendly, though it would be the first attempt she’d made all day. “In the Highlands, of course. Ye know that already. I have been about, speaking to friends, asking how they will fare when the war comes—if it does.”

  “Do you not believe it will?” she asked.

  “I am not a fool,” he muttered darkly. “Aye. I believe it will. Though I wish it were not so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not?” Was the woman daft? He scoffed. “No man wants war, lass, and if it tells ye he does he is either lying to ye or lying to himself. Or he has been lied to throughout his life and believes war to be a glorious thing. I can tell ye ‘tis not. ‘Tis filthy, bloody, terrible. I would rather not see good men fight again so soon after we only just finished fighting, but there is still a great deal to be fought for and protected. If war is to come, I can only fight alongside the rest and do all I can to be certain of our victory.”

  “And you are so certain of being in the right, then?”

  Before his temper got the better of him and earned him a sword through the gut, he lowered his voice. “Allow me to grant ye a bit of wisdom, lass, and t’would be to your advantage if ye were to listen. Ye ken?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dinna ever, ever ask that question again. Not while ye stand on Scottish soil. For not every Highlander is as forgiving as myself. Ye hear me clearly?”

  She did, and she quaked in response. Good. Let her quake. Let her know what a foolish little thing she was for even considering speaking those words. Did he think he was in the right? Why would he not? This was his land, his home, and he would fight for it until his last breath if called upon to do so, the same as any right-thinking Scotsman would.

  If this lass wished to continue living, she would learn to think before she spoke. He might be able to protect her from cutthroats, but he could not protect her from herself.

  3

  By the time the campfires set around the keep of Donnan MacNair and his wife, Ann, came into view, Olivia was nearly certain she would drop from the saddle.

  She ached everywhere, the chill seeming to settle into her bones. Her backside had never been so sore. Neither had her head, which had ached throughout the day after rising before the remains of their campfire. “It happens from time to time when the weather is wet,” she’d explained to Boyd when he’d grunted in curiosity at the sight of her rubbing her temples.

  “The weather is nearly always wet at this time of year, lass,” he’d informed her, as if she did not know. As if she did not suffer it yearly.

  Yet none of it—not the hours of stony silence, nor the sense that he was always watching her, nor the occasional presence of rather nasty men along the road—mattered in the least once they passed Drummeiller, which she knew was the last village they would see before reaching their destination.

  Only a few miles ahead blazed the fires. “The men would be arming themselves in case they are called to fight,” Boyd explained with a glanced to her guards. “Perhaps it would be best for me to escort your lady the rest of the way.”

  She understood his meaning. They would not take well to the presence of Englishmen.

  “We have our duty—” Robert began.

  “Aye, and ‘tis also your duty to remain alive and in your master’s service, I would wager,” Boyd replied with none too kind a sneer. “Ye will not do him much good if ye find yourself run through by a Scottish sword.”

  “Would they do that?” she gasped. Who were these people that her father believed her safer with them?

  “I could not say for certain, lass, but would ye wish your men to take the chance?” he asked, shrugging his broad shoulders. It was difficult to read his face in the darkness which had just recently fallen. Was he serious?

  It was up to her, she realized. While they were with her, they were in her service. She could either demand they come the rest of the way or send them back and wish them well.

  Though she had hoped they might have a hot meal and a place to rest their heads before riding home.

  “Can we not ride ahead and ask Donnan MacNair if he would accept them on his land?” she suggested.

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Howard sniffed. “I would rather be on my way.”

  “What? Is the courtesy of a Scot not good enough for ye?” Boyd challenged.

  “I have had enough of the sound of your voice,” Howard muttered, one hand on his sword’s hilt.

  She realized Boyd was correct, and it sent shame rippling through her though she’d done nothing wrong. She was ashamed of the men her father had chosen to deliver her. Though she questioned whether any Englishman would feel differently.

  One look at Robert told her he agreed with his fellow guard, which left her with no choice. “Very well, then. You might tell my father you delivered me safely. Thank you for taking such pains.”

  Boyd snorted at this, clearly unimpressed with the pains they’d taken, and they pointedly ignored him as they brought their palfreys about and rode at a brisker pace than they’d managed until then. As if they could not wait to put Scotland behind them.

  On the one hand, she could hardly blame them. They were in terrible danger of being caught and questioned should they come across the wrong people, those who did not feel hospitable toward the English even if war had not yet been declared.

  On the other hand, they were supposed to be there for her. Protecting her. Yet they’d left her in the hands of this strange Highlander who might have wished her ill.

  “Dinna trouble yourself, lass.” The Highlander sounded gruff, perhaps a bit regretful. “There are some who would rather sleep in the cold and wet than accept the kindness of a stranger. ‘Tis nothing to do with ye or what they think of ye.”

  Tears of frustration and fatigue welled in her eyes, and she wished they would not. “I suppose we ought to continue on.”

  “Aye.” He led the way with no further remark, and she silently blessed him for it. The sense that she might crack apart at any moment, like an eggshell, was very real.

  The fires were large and warm, and the men gathered around them in various states of drunkenness. She supposed this was the way of it for men, though it filled her with no small bit of embarrassment. They laughed and told jokes and honed their blades. Some sang songs—a few of which were bawdy enough as to make her cheeks burn.

  Yet they left her alone, which came as a relief. Soon they were passing through the wooden gates of the keep and into a courtyard filled with horses and young men who groomed and fed them.

  “And where is the man of the house, then?” Boyd called out, dismounting and handing his horse’s reins to a young man. “Donnan MacNair, ye have a guest!”

  Olivia gasped at the man’s freeness, the way he called out to a stranger. Was this the way all such matters were conducted here? If a stranger rode onto her father’s estate and called out to him
this way, it would cause no end of consternation.

  A ruddy-faced, heavyset man of roughly her father’s age stepped out from inside the keep, peering into the torchlit night. “And who is darkening my doorstep at such an hour?” he demanded.

  “Boyd MacPherson, and I have brought a gift for ye.” Boyd looked up at her. “Do ye need help getting down, lass?”

  No, she did not need help. She needed to understand. This was all very surprising.

  “Boyd! As I live and breathe, man!” Donnan turned, calling over his shoulder. “Ann! ‘Tis Boyd MacPherson.”

  They were friends? “Why did you not tell me you knew them?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Ye never told me your name, lass. Come. Allow the mare a rest.” He took her by the waist without so much as asking permission and lifted her out of the saddle, putting her on her feet before she had the chance to cry out in surprise.

  Donnan joined them, a slight limp slowing his gait. “And who is this, then?” he asked upon meeting them. Yet all Olivia need do was lower her hood for his jaw to hang open and his eyes to soften. “Och. I know who ye are. We have been waiting for ye, lass.”

  A woman with grey-streaked black hair joined them. “What is all the fuss?” she asked, sounding put-upon and distracted by a dozen other matters of greater importance.

  Yet she, too, changed upon setting eyes on Olivia, placing a hand over her breast. “My heavens,” she whispered.

  Olivia looked from one of them to the other. “Have I done something wrong?” she whispered.

  Ann found her voice first. “Nay, lassie. Ye are the image of your mam.” Her eyes sparkled. “My dear, dear cousin Ava. She was a sister to me. Allow me to welcome ye to our home, my dear.” She gathered Olivia into a fierce hug.

  “I would swear ye were she,” Donnan murmured, shaking his head. “I had forgotten how bonny a lass she was.”

  Ann cleared her throat, hands upon her hips.

  Donnan cleared her throat, too, rolling his eyes in Boyd’s direction. “Though not as bonny as my Ann, ye ken.”

  Boyd laughed. “I happened upon Olivia while riding up to meet ye.”

  Olivia’s jaw dropped, but Boyd pretended not to notice. He might have told her he was on his way to see them! And what were the chances of them meeting up that way? He held a murmured conversation with Donnan while Ann called out to have Olivia’s chambers freshened and stew heated over the fire for the both of them.