Highlander’s Cursed Bride
A Scottish Historical Romance Novel
Lydia Kendall
Contents
A Little Gift for You
Scottish Brogue Glossary
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
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
The Highlander’s Iron Lady
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Lydia Kendall
About the Author
A Little Gift for You
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you, called Falling for the Highlander. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping the image below or this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
Lydia Kendall
About the Book
The Highlander challenged destiny, but destiny brought him an English gamble...
Suffering under the iron hand of her obsessive father, Joan Hale spends her entire life in the Hale Mansion, isolated from the rest of the world. Desperate to take control of her destiny, she decides to escape.
Aidan McCabe, son of the Laird of Leitan, is known to be a man of honour with a generous heart. While on a secret mission to spy on the English at his father’s commands, he gets mesmerised by a pair of the most beautiful green eyes he has ever seen…
In a world full of war and hate, their love becomes a beacon of hope...
But when Joan's father appears determined to bring her back at all costs, she is forced to make a heart-breaking decision. With a well-kept secret buried for years, she finally comes face to face with the shocking truth that there is a reason her father has been keeping her locked up all those years.
Scottish Brogue Glossary
Here is a very useful glossary my good friend and editor Gail Kiogima sent to me, that will help you better understand the Scottish Brogue used:
aboot - about
ach - oh
afore - before
an' - and
anythin - anything
a'side - beside
askin' - asking
a'tween - between
auld - old
aye - yes
bampot - a jerk
bare bannock- a type of biscuit
bearin' - bearing
beddin' - bedding or sleeping with
bellend - a vulgar slang word
blethering - blabbing
blootered - drunk
bonnie - beautiful or pretty
bonniest - prettiest
cannae - cannot
chargin' - charging
cheesin' - happy
clocked - noticed
c'mon- come on
couldn'ae - couldn't
coupla - couple of
crivens - hell
cuddie - idiot
dae - do
dinin' - dining
dinnae - didn't or don't
disnae - doesn't
dobber - idiot
doesn'ae - doesn't
dolton - idiot
doon - down
dram - a measure of whiskey
efter - after
eh' - right
'ere - here
fer - for
frein - friend
fey - from
gae - get or give
git - a contemptible person
gonnae - going to
greetin' - dying
hae - have
hald - hold
haven'ae - haven't
heed - head
heedstart - head start
hid - had
hoovered - gobbled
intoxicated - drunk
kip - rest
lass - young girl
leavin - leaving
legless - drunk
me - my
nae - not
no' - not
noo - now
nothin' - nothing,
oan - on
o' - of
Och - an Olympian spirit who rules the sun
oot- out
packin- packing
pished - drunk
scooby - clue
scran - food
shite - shit
sittin' - sitting
so's - so as
somethin' - something
soonds ' sounds
stonking - stinking
tae - to
teasin' - teasing
thrawn - perverse, ill-tempered
tryin' - trying
wallops - idiot
wee -small
wheest - talking
whit's - what's
wi'- with
wid - would
wisnae - was not
withoot - without
wouldnae - wouldn't
ya - you
ye - you
yea - yes
ye'll - you'll
yer - your
yerself - yourself
ye're - you're
ye've - you've
Prologue
It was the year 1604; England had emerged victorious over Ireland in war. The war was triggered by the assassination of the old king of England. His successor, King Henry VII, had been livid and appointed a war lord, Matthew Hale, to lead the Englishmen to war with the Irishmen, knowing full well that the Irish would not be able to withstand any attack launched.
Matthew Hale, the Viscount of Tyrill, had won just as King Henry predicted. A few months into the war, the Irish raised a white flag indicating their surrender. The King was overjoyed on hearing the news of their victory and ordered a feast to be set up in his castle for the surviving men as well as a hefty reward to Lord Tyrill.
It was hours into the feast when Lord Tyrill felt his eyes droop as he brought another goblet of wine to his lips. The newly-crowned king, Henry VII, lifted his cup to the men seated before him and they cheered wildly. “We feast,” the King screamed and they raised their glasses. The Lord mumbled drunkenly to himself and shook his head to clear his eyes, but it only made him drowsier. His groin ached against his breeches. He wanted a release, but none of the women here interested him.
Lord Tyrill threw his head back and swallowed the contents of his cup in one gulp. He pushed himself to his feet, staggering a little. He avoided falling by leaning on a man who was seated beside him. He belched as he snatched a wine bottle from the man and staggered away from his table, often bumping into people until he got to the entrance of the castle yard where he collapsed to his knees.
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The sounds of retching filled the air, followed by his heavy pants. His clothes and hands were splattered with vomit but he didn't seem to notice. He got back on his feet using a nearby wall for support. Ηe shook his head, running a hand down his face as the smell of wine and sick filled his nostrils. His vision was less blurry but he still latched on to the walls, making his way out of the castle into the streets.
He made his way down the empty roads; the street lanterns were the only guide he had to get himself home. The night was quiet; he could hear the stray cats in a corner and the hooting of an owl. The cold air wrapped around him and he shivered.
Sudden laughter from drunken men spiked his curiosity. Diverting away from the path to his home, he dragged himself to the source of the laughter. It was an inn, a small, battered inn. It looked more like a tavern to him. He shrugged at its unkempt state and pushed open the door. The smell of barley, tobacco, sweat, and sex hit him but he brushed it off.
It is an inn, after all.
He staggered to a nearby booth where a woman was seated with a big mug of steaming liquid in her hands. Lord Tyrill noticed her deathly-pale skin and long dark hair, which fell over her shoulders in curls, complementing her small face and sharp angles. Her attention was on the steamy hot liquid until her eyes flickered over to him. Her thin lips pulled up into a sneer and her coal eyes fixed a mean glare on him.
“Never seen a woman before?” she spat at him but in his drunken mind, he didn't hear the annoyance laced in her words.
“You are a pretty little thing, are you not?” he slurred as he shifted closer to her and her frown deepened. He draped a heavy arm over her shoulders and forced her hand to his groin. “How much do I have to pay to have you for the night?”
She let out a strangled sound and pushed him back. She picked up her mug and tossed the contents on him, earning a hiss of pain from the Lord as the hot liquid scalded him.
“I am no whore!” she spat, gathering her dress as she left. He was stunned.
He grinned drunkenly and wiped the tea off his face and headed after the raven-haired woman as she marched up the staircase with her curls bouncing with every step she took. He followed her to her door and he shoved her in the room, making her fall to the floor.
“You can't be in here!” she cried as she scrambled away from him. He grabbed her by her curly locks and slammed her into the wall.
“Unhand me this instant!” she shouted and he placed a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries. She struggled in his arms as he started to raise her dress, but he easily overpowered her and held both her hands above her head.
“Don't be so fussy. It will be over before you even know it,” he chuckled as he undid his breeches. “I shall try to make it pleasurable for you.” He ignored her pleas and cries as he had his way with her. The woman mustered up her strength and fought him off her, shoving him into a nearby stool. He let out a painful screech as he hit his head. She dashed for her bed and pulled out an extravagantly-designed dagger from under her pillow. She raised it to him as he slowly got to his feet. Livid, she launched herself at him with a cry.
He raised his hands to his face to defend himself but the woman was not trying to kill him. As quickly as she could, she sliced him three times on his left wrist and stepped back. She looked out the window at the full moon in the sky with a satisfying look in her eyes.
“Your arrogance has made you blind! You are not in control of anyone other than your own life, Matthew Hale! You cannot change what is destined to be! These wounds will heal soon but they will open again and black blood will come pouring through! I have suffered in your hands and you will suffer in mine! You will meet three great despairs in your life and this is my curse!”
She gave him one last glare before rolling his weak body out of her room. The sound of the slamming door almost deafened him. The Lord was still slightly drunk as he took a look at his left wrist where she had cut him and his eyes widened in surprise. The wounds were gone leaving just three straight scars.
Chapter 1
“Wake up, Father. The sun is already high in the sky,” Joan chirped as she flung the curtains open, allowing the sunlight to illuminate the room. “You promised to get up ages ago, father, but you have not even opened your eyes yet.” She dragged the bed cover off the man in the bed. "Wake up now, father!”
“Oh, child, leave me be. Old bones need rest.”
“Father!” Joan shook her father by the shoulders, earning a tired grunt from the man. “Lord Tyrill! Wake up! Your duties await!”
“All right! All right! I am awake now!”
She beamed at him as he sat up from the bed.
“Stay awake, Father. I will go get your tea.” She tucked her brown hair behind her ear and turned to leave the room when she caught her father's reflection through the mirror. He was dozing off with his back resting on the headboard. “Father!”
“Yes! I wasn't asleep child,” the man mumbled to himself as Joan stifled a giggle and went to get her father's tea.
“Good morning, Miss Hale,” a maidservant greeted Joan as she entered her father's study.
“Good morning, Sophia,” she replied with a smile.
Her father was always waist deep in a book by the time the sun was high in the sky. Only a few hours had passed since she woke him up.
“I will be leaving now,” Joan said to her busy father. The man nodded, not looking away from his book. “Do I have to take the escorts with me?”
“Yes, Joan. We have talked about this.” Her face fell when her father didn't look up from the book.
“I will only be out for a few hours, father.” Her father shook his head at her and she scoffed. “Fine. I will take the guards but as it is already midday, can I stay out until sunset?”
“You have a curfew, child. You only have two hours, and you know I am being generous. I do not want to have to send Sebastian after you,” Lord Tyrill warned.
Joan clenched her hands together and bit her lip to avoid talking back at her father. Her head dropped upon realizing there was no need to argue, she was lucky to be allowed outside that day. She turned on her heels and left his study, slamming the door behind her.
Lord Tyrill let out a sigh of frustration as his daughter left. He knew she dreamed of exploration and he only wished he could grant her such freedom. But due to his past mistakes, he could not. His thoughts drifted into his painful past.
He had hoped it was all a figment of his imagination or the alcohol playing with his memory.
“I must have hit my head too hard. The scars must have been from the war. No scar can heal up within minutes.” He had tried to convince himself for so many years now, but he was not certain, as it felt too real.
He had been paranoid since that night. His wife noticed and always questioned him about his scars but he always dismissed the topic. He wished he had shared his worries with his wife before she died from childbirth, which was the first curse.
Could this be the first curse?
As he began to mourn his wife again, he felt a strange pain in his left wrist. One of the scars was bleeding for no reason. In that moment, he knew.
What have I done now?
As his situation became clearer to him, he had tried to muster a plan to avert the other curses. His first course of action was to find the witch, he had his soldiers on the lookout for any woman fitting the witch's description. When all efforts to locate her failed to produce any useful results, he resorted to confiding in his friend, Sebastian, and being more careful to prevent any harm from happening to his family.
Despite his caution, he lost his fighting arm in an unfortunate fight with a troop of Scotts, marking the second curse. After losing his fighting arm, he became furious.
What is a warrior if he cannot fight? I am useless now!
He had concluded that he was worthless without his arms since he couldn’t defend himself nor his country.
If I found her now, I won’t ask her for forgiveness, I will end h
er without mercy.
In his anger, he had realized that the only valuable thing to him was his young daughter, he feared the last curse might take her away from him and permanently destroy him.
No harm will come to her. I’ll protect her even if it kills me.
He had concluded that she would not be safe outside the walls of his estate so he tried to keep her inside as much as he could but, alas, he had a very stubborn daughter. She was very obedient when it came to other things, but an argument always ensued between them when she wanted to go outside. He only wanted her to be safe, but she always made it difficult for him.
The chair beneath him creaked and he jerked back to the present. Even now, she still sneaks away from her guards and wanders around the unfamiliar town. She is still his only worry, her age did not change that.
Highlander's Cursed Bride: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 1