Captivating A Highland Warrior (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Maddie MacKenna

  In the opposite stall from Bells, Marion saw a big gray horse. He was half-asleep and Marion smiled at him.

  She was deep in her thoughts when she heard footsteps approaching. She thought it would be one of the grooms, so she didn’t give it a second thought. Until she heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey, buddy, ready for a ride?” the Laird said, speaking to the gray horse.

  Marion’s heart took an unwanted leap. Oh no.

  Bells’ stall was directly across from the big gray horse, so she couldn’t exactly hide. She thought it would be better to greet the grumpy Laird and not be uncivil.

  “Good day, Laird Gille Chriost,” she said cheerfully. So cheerfully, in fact, that she was hoping it would annoy the Laird just a little bit. His rude behavior last night hadn’t been forgotten.

  The Laird looked surprised.

  “G’day,” he said shortly.

  Improvement. At least he’s speaking to me.

  Marion was intrigued.

  “I’m afraid I must apologize. I do remember your orders to stay out of your sight. Had I been aware of your presence earlier, I would have made sure to leave before your arrival,” Marion said, now poking the thin ice purposefully.

  The Laird grunted and grabbed a saddle from the wall and put in on the gray horse’s back. Marion noted that he was saddling up his horse with swift movements—he had clearly done this a lot.

  “I only came down here to give Bells a good brushing. Besides, Deirdre and I have been hard at work all morning and we both could use a break. I’m going to meet her soon in the dining room for lunch. Will you be joining us?”

  The Laird grunted again.

  “Laird Gille Chriost, is grunting a common language of the Scottish? I was under the impression that grunting is not a suitable way for a gentleman to speak,” Marion said sarcastically.

  The last poke of the ice went through, and the Laird said, now clearly annoyed, “I do whatever I want. Besides, what are ye still doin’ here?”

  Marion was a little bit smug about being able to annoy him, but before getting a chance to reply to him, he had already mounted his horse and was half-way through the yard.

  5

  Contradictions

  Fionnghall was hurrying his grey horse into a faster trot as they made their way through the town towards the gates. He was to meet Jack there for a little hunting trip before dinner.

  What an ungrateful little English lass! I knew she wasn’t goin’ to be anythin’ but trouble. She’d clearly been the pet of her household. She doesnae belong here. Jack is goin’ to take her back to England first thing in the morning.

  He was annoyed as he pulled up next to the gate, where Jack was already waiting.

  “Good day for huntin’, eh?” Jack said with a smile. The rain had started pouring down again.

  “Sure, sure. I don’t mind the weather, better out here gettin’ soaked than in the castle with that English lass. Which reminds me—Jack, ye’re to take her back to England in the morning,” Fionnghall said as they both trotted out the town gates towards the windy moors.

  “What’s the matter? Has she gotten a bit too close to the cold and lonely heart of the Laird?” Jack said sarcastically. “When are ye goin’ to let another lass see who ye really are? Eh? It’s been years,” he continued, this time with a serious tone.

  “Jack, drop it, I don’t want to hear another word about this,” Fionnghall replied defensively.

  Jack ignored Fionnghall.

  “Look, what Bethany did years ago has nothin’ to do with this lass. She left. She’s not comin’ back. She played ye, and I ken ye’re mad about it. But there’s other fish in the sea,” Jack said.

  The rain started pouring down, making it harder to see. The horses were used to it, fortunately, and kept going along the familiar road towards the seaside.

  “Is that why ye brought her here? To be me new wife? May God rain down on you, Jack,” he said through his teeth.

  “Well, it looks like He already is,” Jack chuckled. “Just give her a chance, she seems like a nice little lass, and yer sister likes her too.”

  Fionnghall didn’t say anything, but hurried his horse faster.

  “Jack, she’s got a bad temper and she’s leaving anyway. She’s an English woman, a high-born. She doesnae belong here. And stubborn as a mule,” Fionnghall finally added.

  “Hmm. So ye already have somethin’ in common!” Jack laughed and his horse passed the Laird’s grey one, leaving Fionnghall behind.

  * * *

  The day had dragged on after the encounter Marion had with the Laird earlier. Because it was still pouring outside and it was too dark in the library now that all the daylight was gone, Marion and Deirdre had decided to withdraw into the parlor.

  The fireplace was crackling soothingly and warming up the cold and damp room. Marion sat on a chair, reading a book out loud to Deirdre, who was mending a cloak.

  The book was called 101 stories from the moors and it interested Marion greatly. It told old stories about the Scottish people. Deirdre had said each of those stories were true, but Marion had a hard time believing some of them. One of those stories told about a giant who lived in a cave down by the sea. Whether it was true or not, this book was the most entertainment she had had in awhile.

  The door opened quietly and the Laird stepped in. He nodded shortly to both of them and sat in a chair close to the fireplace. He opened a small and narrow book and fell into silence.

  “Poetry,” Marion said, reading the title on the cover. “I love poems, they tell such intricate stories in only a few lines,” Marion said, directing her comment to the Laird, who didn’t say anything.

  “My brother loves poems, don’t ye, Fionnghall? That one is his favorite book of poems, always reading it. Wouldn't ye read one fer us?” Deirdre encouraged.

  The Laird looked up at his sister.

  “I don’t think Lady Marion would be interested. ‘Tis just old Scottish poems,” he said and looked down at the book again.

  “Try me,” Marion smiled and closed her book. She was surprised at the fact that this vile Laird even owned a book of poetry and wanted to know more.

  He turned over a few pages and cleared his throat. The poem he read was clearly a love letter from the poet to someone else. He read it out loud as if he had already read it a thousand times before. Marion wasn’t sure if he agreed to read the poem because he wanted to please his sister… or because he had decided to be civil.

  When the poem was over, Marion smiled.

  “I wonder whoever first said that poetry will be the death of love?”

  The Laird looked confused.

  “I thought that poetry was supposed to feed love,” he said, clearly surprised by the turn of the conversation.

  “A very strong love-bond between a couple, maybe. But if it is a new, budding love, you can be sure that a love poem will put that spark right out,” Marion said.

  “How so?”

  “Well, revealing such feelings with something as strong and deep as a poem will surely make the receiver to doubt the intentions of the writer,” Marion continued.

  “Ah, see brother, Lady Marion is so accomplished. I bet she’s studied poetry a lot. Ye both have similar interests,” Deirdre hinted a little too openly.

  He grunted disapprovingly, turning the pages of the book again.

  “Excuse me?” Marion said, her eyes narrowing.

  “The word “accomplished” is used much too loosely. I am sure ye have had a great education, Lady Marion. But I doubt ye can call someone accomplished just because they’ve had some basic education,” the Laird explained.

  Marion felt a sting of irritation creeping up her chest.

  What does he know? I am a Lady after all.

  “How would you define if a woman is accomplished?” she asked, waiting for an explanation. How did he dare doubt her wonderful education, when he had ever barely spoken with her?

  “To understand and write poetry is nae e
nough fer someone to claim to be accomplished. They should also ken how to paint, speak several languages, ken the history and etiquette. I personally ken only one lass who ever could have claimed that title,” he replied lazily, still turning the pages as if he were looking for something.

  “Well, I no longer wonder why you only know one person who can be called accomplished,” Marion responded, annoyed by the fact that her vanity had been hurt.

  * * *

  The next morning brought sunshine and a warm breeze in through Marion’s window. She stretched and yawned and buried her face back into the soft pillow. It had been a week since her arrival at Gille Chriost and it was feeling more like home.

  Her whole life she had been spoiled by her adoptive parents and servants. She had never had to really do anything for herself. This new lifestyle she had adapted to within a week was interesting to her, mostly because she could sleep however long she wanted to without Miss Keenan waking her up at the crack of dawn.

  Here, no one was telling her what to wear and what to do. She felt more independent than she ever had before. In the back of her mind, Marion was wondering what she was going to do after her search was over. She’d return back home to England, if her parents would take her back. But further than that, she did not know.

  Actually, not knowing was a little exciting for her. Her whole life, others had decided things for her. What she was to study and who she was to marry. Where she was going to live. She had never had an independent thought of her own or even a reason to make plans for herself.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Marion? Are you awake? We should go to town to search more. I’ve got the list of names with me—hurry up!” Deirdre said through the door.

  “Coming!” Marion muttered and slowly got out of bed.

  She dressed herself in the familiar purple robes and headed downstairs. Deirdre was waiting for her by the front door.

  “Ye slept through breakfast!” she exclaimed as Marion descended the stairs.

  “Did I? I must have been exhausted,” Marion laughed. She was feeling somewhat hungry.

  Deirdre seemed to have read her thoughts, because she handed her an apple, which Marion took gratefully.

  They made their way to the familiar spot by the well, this time equipped with a list of last names that started with the letter M. This made Marion feel more hopeful—maybe today would bring more results.

  Because it was clear outside, more people walked to the well to get water. Yesterday, barely anyone had left the shelter of their homes, so their water reserves were low.

  Marion greeted everyone and asked them the questions she had asked every day since her arrival. But today, she had the list of names as her weapon.

  Still, she kept getting the oh so familiar “no” over and over again. After hours of standing still, Marion’s feet were tired. She still wasn’t used to standing around, day after day. She sat on the edge of the well, rubbing her legs.

  “Excuse me, Miss Hew, would ye mind helping me a bit?” Deirdre was speaking to an old woman. She was small and hunched, and her long white hair was in neat braids next to her ancient face.

  Deirdre showed the list to the old woman, who took it in her shaking hands.

  “We are tryin’ to find Lady Marion’s birth parents. Their last name starts with an M. Lady Marion was abandoned about 20 years ago. Dae ye remember any old families who had lost a girl bairn?” she asked the old woman, speaking very slowly.

  The woman stared at the list for a long time without saying a word. Deirdre gave Marion a suspicious look.

  “MacDougall… Macalister… Macallan… MacDheorsa…” she spelled slowly.

  She fell quiet again.

  “MacDheorsa. MacDheorsa family had a small bairn years and years ago. I remember… she vanished. They said she died of a cold. But I never believed them,” the old Lady said with a shaky voice, handing the list back to Deirdre.

  Deirdre looked disappointed.

  “Miss Hew… The MacDheorsa’s have a daughter. She has nae died. Her name is Beitris,” Deirdre said and put her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  Miss Hew looked confused but picked up an empty bucket and cranked a bucket of water up the well.

  “Oh well… sorry I couldnae be of help…” she said and walked away slowly with her bucket.

  Marion stood up.

  “What was that about? Does she know something?” Marion asked and her heart took a hopeful leap.

  Deirdre looked at her with apologetic eyes.

  “I’m sorry she got yer hopes up. Miss Hew is old and a bit… confused at times.”

  “But she said a name—MacDheorsa. Who are they?” Marion said, looking after the old woman who was slowly walking ahead.

  “See… MacDheorsa’s dae have a daughter, her name is Beitris. They are a very wealthy family, Beitris’ father is the Laird of Brun and her mother is the Lady of Brun. But Beitris is nae dead, Marion, she’s my brother’s betrothed,” Deirdre replied quietly, looking just as disappointed as Marion felt.

  So, the Laird is engaged to be married. I pity the poor woman, such a cold-hearted man for a husband. And what kind of grace can this Beitris possibly possess?

  Marion brushed away the disappointing meeting with Miss Hew and kept going. She talked to every person who came across the well, but didn’t get one step further than she had before. Apparently, no one in the town had ever heard of a missing baby girl.

  Hours went by and the bright day turned into a dim evening. No more people came to the well, so Deirdre suggested they return to the castle. Marion felt the most disappointed she had since her arrival. There was a heavy pit in her stomach and it felt as though a tight iron fist was crushing her heart.

  Marion agreed and they made their way back to the castle slowly. She was fighting back the tears that had started moistening her eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of Deirdre, though she felt like her whole world was coming crashing down.

  She had been at Gille Chriost for over a week now and had gotten no further than where she’d been upon her arrival. If she even had one little lead, everything would be easier to bear.

  Deirdre glanced at Marion from the corner of her eye. It seemed like she must have seen the disappointment and sadness written across Marion’s face.

  “Marion, what would ye say if we took a day off tomorrow from talking to the townspeople?” she asked.

  “Do you want to continue the search in the library?” Marion asked and wiped away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

  “Na, I was thinkin’, maybe we could climb up the hills to pick some wild flowers and apples. To talk a little bit and to get our minds off of the search,” Deirdre said, taking Marion’s hand.

  Marion felt like Deirdre really understood what she was going through. As though she silently felt what Marion felt. Or maybe she just truly cared. Marion sighed, but thought it might be a good idea to get away from everything for a little bit.

  “Sure, that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Marion said and attempted a smile. Deirdre smiled back. Their friendship got stronger day by day.

  * * *

  The following day was perfect for staying outdoors. It was noon when Deirdre and Marion grabbed a wicker basket and headed for the hills. They walked across town to the east and reached a pasture with sheep.

  “I thought we had to get out of town to reach the hills. Isn’t the entire town surrounded by wooden walls?” Marion said and stepped over the low pasture fence. Immediately, a couple of young lambs expressed interest in her.

  Deirdre looked a little smug.

  “Aye, everyone else would take the gate to get out of the town limits. But I ken a crack in the wall just behind the pasture. We will save miles by cuttin’ through here,” she said and lead Marion through the green pasture, petting the lambs that followed her.

  The large pasture was full of sheep that grazed along quietly. The day was bright and very warm and the sun was shining. Onl
y a few fluffy clouds were sailing across the sky quietly. Marion inhaled deeply and enjoyed the fresh air.

  “Marion, tell me something. Ye have told me a bunch about yer family back in England, but I ken nothing of yer life. Dae ye have a betrothed?” Deirdre asked, slowing down her pace to match Marion’s.

  A faint memory of Albert Byron, the Earl of Brookville, rose up in Marion’s mind. Immediately, she felt the heavy weight of guilt in her chest. The thought had reminded her of everything else back in England—her parents, Edith, their very possible disappointment and the disgrace she had caused them.