Highlander's Cursed Bride: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  “It certainly won’t,” Marjorie got up to leave, having accomplished all she set out to.

  “Thank you, My Lady, for your kindness,” Neville said, as she was leaving.

  “Of course,” she smiled half a grin, and was gone from the hall.

  Chapter 3

  Hilda was outraged. All her life she had wanted to see France, and she had come so close, only to be ripped away from the privilege. And for what? Matchmaking with a Highlander? True, she had enjoyed Camden’s company well enough, but not near enough to marry him. She had never enjoyed anybody’s company to that extent.

  In fact, she often questioned the merit and importance of marriage, as she did now, knowing that it still made no difference in the path set out before her.

  She stood over the gates of Elmiron, watching her father ride out with Laird Innes and Sir Horseley, surrounded by all the typical horsemen and waving banners.

  It was a strange time in the British Isles, while open war still waged between the Scottish and the English, but there was no English army left. In a half-realized ceasefire, harrowing raids were launched again and again into Northern England, while scattered English sergeants struck back where they could.

  But still, in all the chaos, an English knight could ride beside a Scottish Laird and a Norman merchant.

  “Are you sad to be left behind?” Francis stood beside her, sword arm ever ready.

  “Of course I am,” she said bitterly.

  After she watched her father fade into a speck on the horizon, Hilda went back into the castle where she thought she might find a moment alone. Alas, Lady Innes seemed to be waiting for her.

  “There you are,” Marjorie came up beside her and slid her arm into Hilda’s. “Did you watch them ride out?”

  Hilda nodded and then said, “I’m not sure why. It’s the same sight every time.”

  “So it is,” Marjorie walked her down the hallway, stopping Francis in his tracks with a stern look. That brought a bit of life back into Hilda’s cheeks.

  “Earlier you mentioned your son, where is he now?” Hilda asked, curiosity always getting the better of her.

  “I wish I knew,” Marjorie responded wistfully. “He took a company of soldiers over the border to raid the farms around York, or at least that’s what he told me. I know not where he goes, but I have not yet heard word of his death or capture, so I must remain hopeful.”

  “So it is true, that the Scots still raid England,” Hilda had not wanted to believe her father’s dominating narrative about Scottish aggression, but it seemed to her that some of it had been founded in reality.

  “Dear girl,” Marjorie said plainly. “Everybody raids everybody all the time. It will never stop. King Robert the Bruce, after his decisive victory, what does he do? He marches his army to Ireland. They say his brother is King there, Edward Bruce of Ireland. I wonder how long it will last.”

  “You do not support the Bruce?” Hilda was stunned by Marjorie’s blatant speech, and yet she was impressed at the lady’s individuality.

  “I support my husband, as is my duty,” Marjorie replied. “As it will be your duty.”

  “It is not a duty I want,” Hilda confessed. “Truly. My father wishes to see me wed so dearly he has neglected my feelings entirely.”

  “Such is the way with us, dear girl,” Marjorie led them to a balcony overlooking the castle grounds. “But it seems to me that you have not realized your own position.”

  “My position is that I am property,” Hilda scoffed, but Marjorie broke out in a wicked smile.

  “Your position is much more than you know,” Marjorie began. “You are the only child of a wealthy man who has no brothers, which means his entire fortune will pass to whomever you marry after he is gone, be it hopefully long from now. Such a distinguished English lady as yourself brings a great deal of validity to a Laird’s hall. You would be well treated.”

  “But I do not care for my father’s fortune, nor for upkeeping my husband’s hall,” Hilda stressed. “How can I give myself to something that I cannot care for?”

  “You may find yourself to care for it, in time.”

  “I have heard that said before,” Hilda remarked with a grin. “Yet I still cannot believe it.”

  “What is it you do care for?”

  “Happiness, I suppose.”

  “Sweet girl,” Marjorie patted her hand. “I do hope you find it. I saw that you seemed disappointed that Camden had left for Troudel already.”

  “Did I?” Hilda felt a bit of warmth in her cheeks, and she felt foolish for betraying a feeling she did not fully understand, through her body language.

  “Oh come, do not be shy,” Marjorie teased. “He is not one for feasts or company, I confess.”

  “Yes, I certainly got that impression,” Hilda let a small smile show.

  “Perhaps we should then pay him a visit,” Marjorie mulled. “It is but a long day’s journey on good horses. Do you like to ride?”

  “I do, My Lady, although my father does hate seeing me on a horse.”

  “Most men do,” Marjorie said. “Come, we shall leave on the morrow. Let us prepare.”

  Hilda knew that this visit was being done purely for the purpose of putting together Camden and herself, for Lady Innes did not go to any lengths to disguise her intentions.

  That sentiment disgusted Hilda, as it always had. She detested being shepherded around, showcased to various Lords who her father wanted to please. It made her feel inhuman. And yet, the thought of Camden’s young rugged figure still brought a strange jolt to her heart, enough to compel her forwards, not that she truly had a choice about any of it.

  “So be it, let us journey to Troudel.”

  Chapter 4

  “So ye say she’s pretty then?” the Scotsman beside Camden asked as they hiked the lonely Highland road.

  “Aye, that’s what I said, in’t?” Camden shot back. “She’s pretty.”

  “Pretty like how?” the Scotsman urged.

  “Not like ye,” Camden smiled.

  “Oh, come on man, give me somethin’ to go on! We’re all alone around here, in case ye dinnae notice.”

  “I haven’t,” Camden smirked. “But that dinnae sound like me issue.”

  “Bloody hell, Camden!” the Scotsman slapped his broad shoulders. “Good to have ye home.”

  “Aye, good to see ye, Donald.”

  The two Highlanders meandered along the road in the shadow of Troudel Castle, walking lazily to the gates. It was a modest keep, a single tower ringed by a small courtyard, atop a hill. But from the top of that tower, one had a view over all the lands to the horizon.

  Not being a married man, and not having parents or siblings, Camden had done what one might expect a young soldier to do with his very own keep. He had filled it with his friends and called it a day.

  The yard at Troudel was a rugged sight – gruff Highland men sharpening spears and swinging practice swords for the fights that would come. All happily welcomed their Laird back to his home, for before he was their landed Laird, he had been their comrade-in-arms – he had bled with them, and they would not soon forget it.

  “If ye marry her, we can go back to war,” Donald said.

  “Is there any news of Ireland?”

  “Nay, not a pinch. We did hear rumors of the English down over the border. Raidin’ parties.”

  “Aye, I heard them, too.”

  “So bloody marry her, and we can kill us some Englishmen!”

  The cry sent a cheer through the castle. Camden knew that all his men wanted was to avenge their fathers and brothers, just as he did. The longer he kept them here in the keep, the less of them would actually follow him to battle when the time came.

  It was a difficult game, to maintain a war party. It was a collection of brutish men that shared two common goals: wealth and violence. Those basic desires that drove them were held in check by their loyalty to their leader. Camden had his men’s loyalty, but he wasn’t sure how long he coul
d keep it, squirreled away here in Troudel.

  “Where are ye horses?” Donald asked. “And the other four men ye rode with to Elmiron?”

  “Ambushed by brigands,” Camden confessed. “The road isnae safe.”

  “They still alive?” Donald looked at him with a familiar grin.

  “I killed four of them but they killed me horse.”

  “Bugger that,” Donald shook his head. “Come on, let’s have a dram.”

  “Aye, let’s,” and the two walked into the keep to drink.

  The night passed as it often did at Troudel in those days—Camden and his soldiers drank long into the evening hours, making merry with song and dance, for it was around these common soldiers, these men who had stood in the pike line at Bannockburn, that Camden felt truly comfortable, able to be himself.

  Although it was a rude awakening, to say the least, when one of his soldiers roused him the following afternoon, while sprawled across a bench in the castle hall.

  “Me Lord,” the soldier said. “There’s trouble on the South road.”

  “Trouble?” Camden winked himself awake, craning his back out of the horrid position he had slept in. “What d’ye mean?”

  “There’s a procession held up at the second pass.”

  “What?” Camden sprung to his feet, looking rapidly around the hall. “Whose procession?”

  “Dunno, me laird,” the soldier bowed his head. “But it looks to be a fight, or the makings of one.”

  “Cudder,” Camden cursed himself, seeing the poor state the previous evening had left his hall. Then he stumbled onwards, into the day, shouting for Donald to raise twenty men as fast as he could.

  Marjorie and Hilda were sitting in the discomfort of a traveling wagon. Although it was one of the most expensive wagons one could buy, it still made for a bumpy and unpleasant journey over rutted Scottish roads.

  “How do you find the country, dear?” Marjorie asked. Hilda had been staring out of the wagon absently.

  “It is beautiful,” Hilda began. “In its own way.”

  “You will learn to enjoy it. Though perhaps you would only summer in Scotland, for your father owns an estate in Kent, does he not?”

  “He does, a rather large one,” Hilda said absently. How little she cared for landed wealth could not be overstated.

  “Kent is beautiful. I often visited it as a girl. I’m originally from London, you see.”

  “How did a lady of London end up all the way up here?” Hilda’s eyes grew a bit wider. She had come to enjoy Marjorie’s company over the past two days, but still felt resentment towards her for literally carting her from suitor to suitor.

  “It’s not the happiest of tales,” Marjorie feigned a smile. “Look, you see the stone bridge?”

  “Yes,” Hilda looked forward to the small river crossing.

  “That’s where Camden’s land begins, on the Southern side, anyway. Then it goes on for twenty miles.”

  “Impressive,” Hilda pretended to care, looking over the soldiers that marched around the wagon, and Francis at the front. “Do you always travel with so many guardsmen?”

  “The Highland roads can be treacherous, especially for a wagon such as this,” Marjorie lamented. “There is no law in the land, not with the Bruce away on campaign. Kings, it seems, will never learn not to leave their country unprotected.”

  “But you are Scottish nobility now,” Hilda said. “Surely nobody would dare.”

  “I’m an Englishwoman,” Marjorie corrected. “With English guardsmen, flying a Scottish banner. I have found in the past it is better to be prepared than not.”

  “There is so much strangeness here,” Hilda spoke and bit her lip.

  They continued their journey for an hour or two, and Hilda passed the time absentmindedly until Francis rode up beside her.

  “My ladies,” he bowed his head from horseback. “We have an unsafe situation.”

  “What?” Hilda “What sort of situation?”

  “There is a cart up ahead with a broken wheel. It’s blocking the whole road, My Lady.”

  “Surely they need assistance,” Hilda offered. If she was going to spend this much time in this strange rebellious country, then she would not spend it idly. A broken wheel sounded like a perfect place to start.

  “Ride ahead with ten men, Francis, and clear them off the road,” Marjorie ordered, and Hilda could not believe what she had heard.

  “Right away, My Lady,” Francis began to spur onward.

  “Wait!” Hilda cried, and Francis immediately wheeled about.

  “My lady?”

  “What do you mean, to clear them off the road? They likely require our assistance.”

  “They are likely part of a trap, dear girl,” Marjorie said.

  “She’s right,” Francis agreed. “This road is barely trafficked, and this wagon is a roast chicken to a starving man. The safest course of action would be to run them down.”

  “You will not,” Hilda commanded, her voice taking on a tone it rarely did. So rare, in fact, that Hilda forgot herself capable of such authority.

  “As you command,” Francis bowed his head, frowning, but Hilda knew he was far too in love with her ever to disobey one of her orders.

  “This is a mistake,” Marjorie said, disgruntled.

  “How can the common man trust the nobility if we run down peasants we find on the road?” Hilda argued. “I will not be a part of it. These are your nephew’s people, are they not?”

  “We shall soon discover, shall we not?” Marjorie was clearly rebuffed by Hilda’s assertion, but she did nothing to sway the decision. The procession rolled onward until it came to a halt before the upturned cart. A wide cluster of root vegetables was scattered about its base.

  No sooner had the wagon come to a halt than two score of Highlanders emerged on the hilltops surrounding them. The peasants at the cart reached into the crops and pulled forth short blades meant for stabbing. The trap had been sprung.

  “We’ll have whatever ye got,” their leader smiled as he made his proclamation, standing proudly between the travelers and their escape route.

  “Over my corpse you will!” Francis shouted back, drawing his long arming sword and rearing his horse. “Bugger off before we show you steel!”

  “Show us then!” the Scotsman challenged back. “For we have more of it!”

  “Form ranks! Protect the wagon!” Francis ordered, waving his sword at the nervous guardsmen. As Hilda watched, she saw that there was something inside Francis, something that enabled him to form these scared soldiers into ranks.

  It was a quality of natural leadership, and as he shouted orders, Hilda believed for a moment that they would be fine. All their guards must have felt that as well, for they snapped to and formed a defensive ring around the wagon, their spears braced at the ready.

  “Ye cannae win, Englishman!” the Scot yelled out. “We only want ye gold! And all ye English heads!”

  “Stand now!” Francis screamed to the English guards. “Stand for your lady! For England! For the King!”

  “For Scotland!” the Highlander cheered, and onwards the Scottish came.

  Hilda felt Marjorie grab hold of her hand, and she squeezed it tightly. Hilda knew Marjorie was afraid, and that was not a feeling that suited the Lady. Hilda, too, was afraid, her heart pounding.

  The Highlanders cheered and rushed the defensive line.

  “Stand now! With me!” Francis cried once more, and the violence began.

  It was short lived, but horrid, and Hilda screamed out as Francis cut a man down. All around them, it seemed Hell itself has risen up, but then it so suddenly subsided as the Highlanders, seeing the line too strong to overwhelm, pulled back.

  “Ye cannae win!” the Scotsman yelled yet again. “One at a time, lads!”

  And so began the horrifying process. The Highlanders came sporadically in pairs, and one at a time a guardsman was felled from the line, and so it grew smaller and tighter. Hilda felt her other hand
going to Marjorie’s as she watched the violence around her.

  “Are we going to die?” she asked, her voice shaking, but Marjorie did not answer. She only looked firmly on, as if she were constantly calculating their odds of survival.

  Camden’s band ran over the mountain road, sprinting the distance in their light armor, their tartans flapping proudly on their kilts as they moved. The afternoon winds blew at their red and brown heads of hair as they went, covering three miles in an astounding time, and soon they located the aforementioned trouble.

  It was certainly a procession. There was a grand wagon in the center, flanked by baggage carts and men at arms. Ringing the travelers was a band of Highlanders, their weapons drawn, and Camden could see several bodies in the dirt between the Highlanders and the soldiers.

  To make matters worse, Camden saw the bright banner of House Innes flying atop the wagon, and he knew he had to intervene. Camden’s band took up hilltop positions, ready to charge downward on the unsuspecting Highlanders should the need arise, but that was the last thing Camden wanted to do.

  Camden stood atop the crest, looking down the slope at the confrontation, and bellowed, “MacLeod! Ye’re on me land!”

  The leader of the Highland raiding party spun, clearly surprised at Camden’s appearance.

  “Aragain!” MacLeod shouted back. “Come to join the plunder?”

  “There’ll be no plunder here, MacLeod,” Camden continued, pacing down the hill slowly. “Ye best be away before more blood be spilled for nothin.”

  “Nay plunder, Aragain?” MacLeod spat back. “Who are ye to say so? Cannae ye see they’re Englishmen?”

  “I can see they’re flyin’ the banner of me Uncle, Laird Innes, English or nae. What is be more, ye and yer folk are on me land. I have made me judgment, MacLeod, now be off!”

  “Our country bleeds, Aragain!” MacLeod would not back down. “We need the gold.”