Historical Hearts Romance Collection

by Sophia Wilson

  Dougal had tried to get close to her, but she was well protected. The only time she had looked at him, her eyes had slid away immediately.

  A haughty maid, thought Dougal darkly. He wasn’t used to indifference from women. But that didn’t stop him lusting after her, well after she had left the wedding.

  He had thought about her often, since then. He had thought of asking for her hand, when Knox pressed him about marriage. But he knew it was hopeless. She was promised to Malcolm, successor to the Lairdship of Glenorchy.

  But recently, the vision of her in her white gown, golden tresses flowing and amber eyes flashing, had been tormenting him anew. So much so, he was actively seeking blonde women for his one night conquests. Like Grizel, the buxom maid.

  He couldn’t wait to get Grizel in the chamber, grab her golden hair, reef her head backwards, have her beg for his touch…

  It would have to do. For now.

  Then he remembered. The Jewel of the Highlands had turned eighteen very recently, he had heard.

  He would have to act quickly, for her marriage day would not be far away.

  Sitting back, Dougal drained his cup. A plan was hatching in his head.

  Chapter Three

  Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…

  The soothing Latin of the Hail Mary washed over Heather as she rested her praying hands against the front of the pew.

  The little chapel at Caithness Castle had always been her sanctuary. As she mouthed the words to the prayer, she looked at the coffin at the altar. She could just see the patrician nose of her aunt jutting from the top of it from where she sat.

  Poor Aunt Iona. The illness had taken her quickly. Up until a week ago, she had been walking around, going about her business as usual, despite her advanced age. And now, she was dead. The last of the Leith line, except for herself, of course. Her father’s sister; gone like all of them.

  Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus…

  There were only a few people in the Chapel, going through the rosary before her aunt’s interment in the Leith vault. Everyone else was busy with Beltane, the festival welcoming the coming of May and summer. The church didn’t sanction it, as it was pagan. Heather was pious; she listened to the teachings. It wasn’t as if she could partake in the traditional celebrations, anyway. She had never been allowed.

  She watched the wraths of incense wafting over the coffin. It seemed sometimes that this is all she did – watch the people around her succumb to illness and die.

  It had started with her mother, not that she could remember her. The Lady Margaret had died from complications after delivering her into the world. It had broken her father’s heart, so legend had it.

  Heather often wondered what her life would have been like if her mother had lived.

  For starters, she probably would have had some brothers and sisters, instead of being the only child that she was. And secondly, she doubted very much that her father, Archibald Leith, Laird of Caithness, of the Clan Gunn, would have been so protective of her if she had had siblings to share his attention.

  Poor papa. He had loved her, sometimes too much. When she was little, he would stroke her hair and say how much she looked like her dead mother, with her golden hair and pale skin. Something had broken in him when the Lady Margaret had died. And so, he took the little girl who looked so much like her mother and hid her away from the world.

  Heather had never gone anywhere, as a child. Grand occasions and common festivities alike were deemed unsuitable for her. Her father seemed to think that any contact with the outside world might steal his precious daughter away from him.

  Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.

  The Rosary was over. Heather crossed herself, then stood and waited for everyone to leave the chapel. She wanted to look at her aunt one last time.

  Standing over the coffin, Heather looked down at the inert figure. Aunt Iona looked so much like her brother, Archibald, Heather’s father. And she remembered clearly, like it was yesterday, standing right here, staring down at her dead father…

  She had been twelve years old.

  She knew something was wrong, even though no one would tell her anything. But her father had not called for her or come to see her in her wing of the castle for over two weeks. Unusual, when the Laird of Caithness doted on his only daughter so much that he rarely went two days without seeing her.

  She found out later that he had been sick for months, but as was his nature, he never complained and was usually up and about. It was only in those last two weeks that Archibald Leith could no longer pretend that he wasn’t fatally ill.

  She never saw him alive again. They came and told her of his passing one day, then took her into this chapel, where his coffin lay, just as her aunt’s did now. She remembered walking up the aisle to it like in a dream she once had, where she needed to hurry – urgently! – but her legs wouldn’t obey.

  Finally, she got there. And stared down into the coffin. It was her father, but it wasn’t. The illness had stripped his face of flesh in those final weeks so that it was stretched tight and gaunt against his bones.

  His face was a skull.

  She staggered backwards, screaming…

  “Madam?”

  She turned at the voice, trying to dislodge the memory that clung to her like a cobweb. A portly man with thinning hair stood next to her. Father Duffy.

  “Madam, do not be full of sorrow. She is gone to sing with the angels, sitting alongside your dear father, God rest his soul.” The priest crossed himself.

  Heather smiled wanly. “I do know that, dear Father,” she replied. “They are all together. My parents, Aunt Iona…everyone.” She swallowed, painfully. “But I sometimes feel so alone.”

  Father Duffy looked at her. “You are never alone, Madam,” he assured her. “God is with you wherever you go. Never forget that.”

  Heather nodded. “Of course, Father. My consolation in this life is His love.” She turned, and squeezed the old man’s arm. “As are you. You have taught me well.”

  Father Duffy smiled slightly. “You have been a wonderful student,” he replied. “So studious and pious! If you had been born a boy, I think you would have joined the monks, translating all the holy texts.”

  “If I was born a boy, I would be laird by now,” Heather replied quickly. “And there would be no burden on my clan!” She blinked back tears.

  “Speaking of which, I have been sent to bring you to the main hall,” Father said. “Your guardian has great news to impart.”

  He steered Heather away from the coffin.

  The vision of her father’s skull slowly started to melt away, like an icicle when the sun hit it.

  Outside, she could hear revelry starting for the May celebrations.

  It felt very far away, and a world removed from her life.

  ***

  The door closed behind Heather. She managed to walk normally for a while, before she collapsed against a wall. Her legs could barely support her.

  It was shock, of course.

  She had just left the meeting with her guardian, Brodie, who had been entrusted with all administrative tasks of the lairdship since her father had died.

  She had entered the hall walking beside Father Duffy. Brodie had been leaning against the fireplace, but turned when she entered.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear.” He approached her. “A rider just arrived, from the Clan Glenorchy. They have finally agreed to our terms. You shall be married by winter!”

  Heather paled. “So soon?”

  Brodie looked at her. “The sooner the better, you know that! We have been negotiating with Glenorchy for years now. The sooner you are wed, the sooner you shall start breeding. We need a laird for Caithness.”

  Heather hung her head. “Aye, I know.” She swallowed. “It is all I have heard since my father passed!”

  Father Duffy spoke. “It is great in the eyes
of the Lord when a woman does her duty, Madam.”

  Heather nodded, but inside she was conflicted.

  She knew she had to do her duty, provide her clan with a laird. But she thought of the only time she had met Malcolm, the successor to the lairdship of Glenorchy - her betrothed.

  He had been reclining on a chaise lounge, covered by a plaid blanket. Coughing delicately into a lace handkerchief, he had the complexion of candle wax. She had never laid eyes on a more delicate, sickly man. And this was to be her husband?

  She rested her head on the stone in the wall, trying to cool her suddenly hot brow. There was no other way. She would have to marry an invalid, if she was ever to provide the heir Clan Gunn so desperately needed. She tried to imagine lying next to Malcolm, as she had been told men and women needed to do to conceive a babe. It was impossible. She couldn’t imagine it – the thought of touching his waxy skin repulsed her. She shuddered.

  She shouldn’t be thinking of such things. It was against the church’s teachings.

  A shout came from outside. Heather turned to a window, looking out. Girls were giggling, gathering up yellow flowers and fashioning garlands out of them. She knew the flowers would be strewn over every door way and window. Beltane was beginning.

  Suddenly, she had a yearning to see it. She knew the church had decreed it a pagan festival. She knew she would never be allowed to go – she was strictly watched.

  But oh, wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing, to be free, on the day celebrating summer’s arrival? Before she became Malcolm’s wife? Her life seemed to stretch before her, the same humdrum day playing out over and over again. Why couldn’t she have some fun?

  Resolved, she made her way to her chamber.

  ***

  It had taken some work, but she was free.

  She had waited until her maid, Agnes, had retired for the night. She had managed to find a plain gown so that she could pass for a serving girl. She borrowed one of Agnes’s shawls to cover her head so that she wouldn’t be recognized.

  She liked covering her hair, anyway. It always drew so much attention. People would go into raptures over her beauty, and especially her golden hair. It had always made her feel uncomfortable. She hated people staring at her.

  She shuddered as she remembered the awful wedding she was forced to attend, two years ago.

  They had dressed her up like a princess, all in white, and then paraded her in front of everyone. She could still remember every eye in the place drawn to her. She had wanted to shrivel into the ground in shame. Didn’t the church teach that a woman should be humble and plain?

  She had heard what they called her – the Jewel of the Highlands. It made her blush, even thinking of it. Why had she been cursed with beauty, when she would have been happiest taking the veil, spending her life in seclusion chanting hymns in a nunnery? Or better yet - a monk, working every day transcribing sacred texts?

  If only she hadn’t been born a laird’s daughter. If only she had been born a boy.

  The shawl was in place now. She ran down the back stairs and into the court yard. No one saw her.

  There were people everywhere. Men and women were dancing, drinking ale and feasting. She could see on the hillside, in the distance, the bonfire starting. People were throwing logs onto it, building it up. She had been told that they ran through it, then gathered the cattle and herded them around it. The fire was supposed to have protective powers, and symbolized the return of life with summer starting.

  She had heard other things, too. That young men and women roamed the hillside, going “a maying.” That young lovers spent the night in the forest together. Heather blushed, uncomfortable at the thought. Why would men and women want to do that? Wasn’t the union of a man and a woman only to conceive a child?

  The flames were burning higher, leaping into the air like dancers at a Highland gig. Heather felt herself mesmerized by the sight. It was drawing her nearer, nearer…

  Suddenly, the cries of merriment turned to screams of alarm. People were running - but away from the fire, not toward it. What was happening?

  And then, Heather saw. From further up on the hill, war cries were being carried by the wind. Men were running down the hill, swords drawn. They wore an unfamiliar tartan.

  Heather turned, crashing into panicked people. She had to get back to her chamber, before anyone knew she was missing. Before she was killed in this rampage.

  Caithness Castle was being invaded.

  But by who?

  Chapter Four

  Knox surveyed the carnage from atop his horse.

  It had gone well. The castle walls had been poorly guarded, as they had predicted. With the celebrations for Beltane in full swing, Caithness Castle had been lax. It was the perfect time to strike.

  He watched as his men secured the perimeter. There had been minimal bloodshed. The people of Caithness were dazed and drunk. He was a man of honor in fighting – if he battled against warriors, he would kill as well as the rest. But he always resisted slaughtering common folk, if he could help it. The men’s orders were to secure, but not massacre.

  He cantered into the courtyard. The good folk of Caithness had been herded together, and were whimpering in shock and distress.

  “Good people of Caithness,” he shouted above the din. “If you are obedient, you will not be hurt. Tell me - where is the Maid of Caithness?”

  The people were silent. Knox shook his head.

  “I want to be fair,” he continued. “But I must warn you. I shall drag a man at a time to the dungeon here and strap him to the rack. I ask again - where is the Maid of Caithness?”

  “I am she.” A woman emerged from the group, walking toward him.

  “You?” Knox glanced down at her. “You are dressed like a serving wench!”

  “Don’t touch her!” A man yelled from the crowd, struggling to get to the front. “By all that is holy, you shall be struck down if you dare lay a hand on the Maid!”

  Knox turned to look at the stout man. A priest. He shrugged contemptuously. He had little time for the servants of God.

  “Take her,” he ordered.

  Two Clan Kerr men rushed in, grabbing Heather.

  In the struggle, the shawl covering her head fell, revealing her bright golden hair.

  “Aye,” said Knox. “It is the Jewel of the Highlands, indeed! Well, Madam, prepare yourself for a long ride.”

  ***

  Heather felt herself slipping backwards on the horse as sleep threatened to overwhelm her. She dug her fingernails into her arms. She must stay alert.

  The men had taken her swiftly, riding out of Caithness and heading south. After a day of riding, the flat plains of her home had given way to vast mountains. They had skirted lochs, where fields bloomed with wild primroses and hawthorn. It was beautiful; she had rarely left Caithness, and the scenery made her catch her breath in wonder. If only the journey were under different circumstances.

  She still didn’t know who they were, or why they had taken her. No one spoke to her. They had tied her, then the leader had bundled her in front of him on his horse. They had been riding like the wind for two days now.

  “Keep faith, Madam!” Father Duffy had called, when they were departing. “The Lord will protect you!”

  She was trying to keep a brave face. She didn’t want them to know how frightened she was.

  They skirted a large town, then headed further south, before turning toward the coast.

  She saw the castle looming in the distance. It was perched on the very edge of a cliff, standing sentinel over the ocean. They rode through the gates, before bringing the horses to a halt.

  “Well, Madam.” The voice of the man on the horse pierced her thoughts. “Welcome to Dunnottar Castle. Your new home.”

  ***

  He dragged her straight to the main hall.

  Her wrists were so sore. The rope they had used to tie them together had rubbed, leaving red welts in her skin. She could feel her hair knotted around her face
, tangled from the wind as they rode. The gown that she wore – the simple dress, which she had donned on the night of Beltane – had mud all over it, kicked up from the horses’ hooves as they had ridden through marshlands.

  She was thirsty, and hungry. And bone tired.

  She was angry. Who were these people? How dare they treat her so shoddily? Invade her castle, scare her people half to death, and then drag her half way across the countryside?

  The man pulled her further. She started writhing in distress.

  “Hush, Madam,” the man whispered.

  A tall man walked into the hall. He was dressed finely, in full kilt. He came up to her. She was struck by how handsome he was. His fine dark hair rested on his shoulders; his face was chiselled, with dark eyes. She could see the marks of a warrior on him, but there was gentleness – for the moment, anyway – in his eyes.

  She was writhing again in the man’s arms, overcome with fear.

  “Knox,” the tall man said. “Let her go.”

  The man did so, stepping back. The tall man approached her slowly, coming very close to her face. He slowly reached out to wipe away the tears that were falling down her cheeks. He was studying her intently.

  “The Jewel of the Highlands,” he whispered softly. “You are as ravishing as I remember! Even if you are a little worse for wear from your journey.” He looked down at the mud stained dress.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he continued. “I am Dougal, the Laird of Aberdeenshire.”

  Heather’s amber eyes flashed. “What is the meaning of this affront, my laird?” she demanded. “You have dragged me from my home, without my consent, or the consent of those who guard me! I demand that you take me back to Caithness Castle, immediately.”

  Dougal smiled. “You are tired, Madam. And hungry, no doubt. You also need to bathe.” He looked down at her dress again. “I think we can find you a better gown, ye ken!”

  He turned and walked away. Heather could hear him ordering food and drink, and a bath to be drawn. In his chamber.