Historical Hearts Romance Collection

by Sophia Wilson

  Heather blanched. What was he intending to do with her?

  Chapter Five

  Heather fell back in the bath, letting the steam from the hot water overwhelm her.

  She still couldn’t believe the speed of events. Only two days ago, she had been safe – if bored – in her Castle home, preparing herself for her upcoming nuptials. Now, she was in an unknown castle, in a part of the country she was completely unfamiliar with. An unknown man was claiming to be her new master!

  As the water lapped around her, Heather contemplated her situation. Whichever way she looked at it, she felt that she had somehow manifested it. It had only happened after she had decided to rebel, escape her life a bit by observing and perhaps joining in the Beltane celebrations. The Lord was punishing her for wanting to celebrate a pagan festival. She couldn’t help but feel that had she spent the night on her knees in the chapel praying to Our Lady for the repose of the soul of Aunt Iona, none of this would have happened.

  The door opened, and a servant appeared, carrying another pail of hot water.

  “Do you want me to wash your hair?” the girl asked.

  Heather nodded. Why not? It would bide her more time, even though she was so tired she felt her eyelids drooping dangerously. But she was more scared of what might happen once she left the bath.

  The girl poured more water over her hair, lathering it with a bar of handmade soap scented with rose.

  “You have the most beautiful hair,” the girl remarked, as she massaged Heather’s head.

  Heather closed her eyes, letting herself drift. “The church says that a woman’s hair is sinful,” she murmured.

  The girl stifled a laugh. “Do you believe that?”

  Heather opened her eyes. Was the girl laughing at her?

  “I believe that a woman should be modest and chaste, as Our Lord instructed.”

  The girl continued massaging. “Well, I say if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” she said. “You are such a beauty! Why should you be ashamed of that?”

  Heather frowned. She had never heard such views before. She had always been counselled in modesty. Father Duffy had spent hours instructing her. She had been taught that every woman was Eve, the temptress, but she must resist that and try to emulate the purity of Mary.

  “A woman’s purity is her greatest gift,” she said. “What is your name, girl?”

  “I am Grizel, Madam,” the girl replied.

  “Tell me, Grizel, where am I? Why have I been taken against my will?”

  Grizel’s hands stilled. “You are at Dunnottar Castle,” she replied. “I thought you knew.” She paused. “As to why you are here, I cannot say for sure. But I can guess. The Laird is aflame with desire for you, and wants you as his own.”

  Heather’s eyes flew open. “What does he intend to do with me?” she whispered.

  Grizel looked at her. “Do you not know anything of what goes on between a man and a woman?”

  Heather was saved a reply, for at that moment, the door opened.

  The Laird himself stood there.

  “Leave us,” he commanded.

  The girl stood quickly, curtseying, before she scurried from the room.

  Heather felt like dying of shame. The water barely covered her nakedness. She instinctively brought her arms over her body, curling inwards.

  Dougal’s eyebrows raised. “You don’t need to cover yourself,” he said. “Let me look.”

  He walked to the edge of the bath, peering down at her. His dark eyes burned.

  “My laird, please let me dress,” she whispered. “I must not appear so before any man.”

  Dougal laughed softly. “Ah, but I am not any man,” he hissed. “I am your master, now. And you must do as I bid. Take your arms away, and stand up.”

  What could she do? Reluctantly, she stood up.

  Dougal gasped. His face contorted with lust.

  “Step out of the bath,” he whispered.

  She stepped out, dripping water. Her hair fell down her back, a dead weight while damp.

  “You are the Jewel of the Highlands, indeed,” he breathed.

  He reached out, roughly pulling her into his arms.

  His hands felt cold against her bare skin. Then he tilted her head back, gazing down on her face. “I claim those lips as mine,” he whispered, before lowering his head and kissing her.

  Heather had never dreamed of such a thing! He forced her mouth open, deepening the kiss. She felt something stirring within her. Fire was starting to course through her veins.

  He took a breast in his hands, kneading it roughly. She gasped.

  “Lay down on the bed, Madam,” he ordered.

  She walked to the bed, conscious that his eyes were watching her the whole way. She turned. He was upon her, pushing her back onto the mattress.

  Then he straightened. He slowly undressed, unbuckling his scabbard. His kilt fell to the floor, as did his shirt.

  She didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t resist.

  She had never seen a naked man before.

  What was happening to him? His manhood stood proud and erect. Her eyes widened in shock.

  Then he was upon her. Mother of God, she prayed. Why had no one ever told her?

  ***

  Heather opened her eyes slowly, stretching as she did so.

  Where was she?

  Slowly, the events of the day and night slid into her mind. Riding across the plains and hills of Scotland, abducted by unknown men. Arriving at Dunnottar Castle. Meeting the Laird – the man who had commanded his men to take her. Then…then…

  Heather blushed furiously. What on earth had he done to her? She had never had any inclination that such things happened, between a man and a woman. She remembered desire throbbing through her, as he touched and caressed her. Then there was the pain of when he took her. Pain and pleasure intermingled.

  She sat up, her hair streaming behind her. It was still damp – he hadn’t even let her dry it before he had brought her to his bed. She couldn’t remember when he had left the chamber. She was so exhausted; she must have succumbed to sleep straight away. As soon as it ended.

  Shame washed over her. What had passed between them, even she knew was only supposed to happen when you were legally wed. She was damned. She must get up, immediately, and go to the chapel. Hopefully, a series of prayers on her rosary would calm her mind and still her nerves.

  She got up. At that moment, Grizel, the servant who had bathed her the night before, came into the room. She was carrying a bright blue gown over her arm.

  “Lord, what are you doing, madam? Stay still, and I will come and dress you.”

  Grizel laid the dress on the bed. Heather looked at it. There was little decoration on it, but there was no mistaking the quality of the garment.

  “Where did this come from?” she asked, caressing it. “It is a fine gown.” She frowned. “But it is rather old, is it not? I remember my Aunt Iona wearing this style when I was a lass.”

  “Aye,” said Grizel. “It is a gown from the chest of the laird’s late mother, the Lady Edana.”

  Heather pondered. “Why would he want me to wear a gown of his late mother’s?”

  Grizel shrugged. “Tis the only fine gowns for you to wear, now. We have no other fine ladies living in the castle. The dressmaker from Aberdeen is coming to fit you for new ones’ tomorrow, ye ken.”

  Heather felt tears prickling behind her eyes. The gravity of her situation struck her anew. If he was planning to make her a wardrobe of new gowns, then he intended for her to stay here.

  For a long, long time, by the look of it.

  She thought of her castle, and her people. The only home that she had ever known. Clan Gunn had no laird, and no hope for one with her absent.

  She had been lulled by the laird. Laid waste by the power of his touch. Even now, she could feel his hands upon her, twisting her to a pool of longing at his feet…

  But it had to stop. She must return to Castle Caithness – even if it m
eant she died in the attempt.

  Chapter Six

  Dougal stood at the fireplace, looking up at the portrait which hung above it.

  It was a fine painting of Buchanan Innes, his father. Dougal studied it, as he had done a thousand times before. His father looked stern, but wise. Dougal had often wondered what it would have been like if he had lived. To have had a father to guide him. Oh, Knox had done a good job with him; there was no doubt of that. He had raised him to be a strong warrior.

  He glanced at the portrait on the other side of the wall. His mother, the Lady Edana. She had been a beauty; there was no doubt of that. The painter had captured her pearly skin, and her fine black eyes. Her hair had been a lustrous black, just like his own. He frowned. Sometimes, he thought he had a memory of being held in loving arms, with a knot of black hair falling over his face. It would fill him with warmth…

  Dougal shook the memory away. It was fanciful, and it did no good. He was who he was – a warrior. Knox had made sure of that. He had no time for sentiment. It made a man weak.

  Then his thoughts drifted to the night before, when he had taken the Jewel of the Highlands and made her his own.

  It had been worth it. Her beauty was overwhelming; he had been sick with desire for her. He felt proud that he had taken her maidenhead, although it had been the first time he had done so. He was used to women who knew their way around a bed. But then, he could teach her, couldn’t he?

  Knox had been reluctant to kidnap her, but once he had seen how determined Dougal was, he had acceded.

  “I remember what it was like to be a young man, afire for a lassie,” he had said. “But I will lead the men. I don’t want you coming. We will tell the men we are going to rustle some cattle from Clan Gunn, nothing more. If word gets out what our intentions are, they will move her away. She is protected like a princess.”

  And Knox had succeeded, as Dougal knew he would.

  The Maid of Caithness. The Jewel of the Highlands. She was his, forever. Like a trinket in a jewelry box, he would take her out and play with her, but guard her well when he wasn’t.

  Knox entered the room. “McGregor is here to see you, laird,” he said.

  A man walked into the room, twisting his hat in his hands. His eyes darted from side to side.

  “Well, man, what was so urgent that you had to see me straight away?”

  McGregor drew a deep breath. “Laird, I must request some more time to pay the rent this month. My youngest has been sickly, and couldn’t help me with the harvest. I didn’t get as much as I usually do.”

  Dougal looked at him. “What concern is that of mine? You know the terms. Have the rent by the end of the day, as agreed, or I will turn your family out within the month.”

  McGregor blanched. “Lord, I beg of you, just a little more time!”

  But Dougal had turned away.

  McGregor looked at Knox beseechingly. Knox shook his head at the man.

  Knox must be seen to agree with his laird. But inside, he was disappointed.

  He looked at the portrait of Buchanan Innes, who had been like a brother to him. He had promised the man when he was dying that he would protect his son.

  He had brought up the lad to be a warrior, but had he prepared him for being a laird? Where was his sense of fairness, and where was his compassion for his people? Buchanan would never have turned one of his people off their land for being a bit late with the rent.

  And then there was the matter of the Maid of Caithness. He didn’t think Buchanan would have condoned that, either. It troubled him. He knew that Dougal’s desire for the lass must be slaked, but he could see no good coming of it. No good at all.

  Dougal had the strength of a warrior, but did he have the heart of a laird?

  ***

  Heather kneeled in the dusty pew, staring up at the lone statue of Our Lady.

  She was appalled at the state of the chapel. At Caithness, the chapel was lovingly tended, with fresh flowers daily. Candles illuminated it always. The statues were dusted and maintained. Father Duffy made sure of that.

  But here, it was neglected. Grizel told her it was rarely used. The laird and his men were not pious.

  She stared at Mary. Although magnificent, the statue was old and chipped. She could see layers of dust in the folds of the gown and veil.

  It made her angry.

  Who were these godless people? She thought of Dougal, the laird, who had taken her last night with such determination.

  She had enjoyed it, she couldn’t deny it. Dougal was a handsome man, and his touch set her aflame. He obviously had known what he was doing, for he had been quite gentle with her when the time had come.

  Grizel had assured her it was normal to bleed a little after the first time with a man. Heather had thought she had suddenly got her courses at the wrong time. There was so much she didn’t know about lying with a man.

  But who was he? He had barely talked to her. She knew nothing of him. When she had pressed Grizel for information, the servant had set her lips. They had all obviously been told to tell her nothing.

  He scared her, as much as he enflamed her.

  Grizel had been reluctant to even bring her to the chapel. “He won’t like it,” she had said. But Heather had cried, and the servant had taken pity on her.

  That didn’t mean she had been allowed to wander on her own. Oh, no. Two guards were stationed outside the chapel, watching her. It was quite distracting, when she was trying to have a private moment of contemplation and prayer.

  She was obviously a prisoner, and they were treating her as such.

  But she had taken note of the layout of the castle as they led her to the chapel. The more she knew, the better she could plan for her escape.

  She mustn’t be distracted from her purpose. She had to leave this godless place and return to her rightful home. She had to do her duty.

  ***

  Heather was quiet as Grizel brushed her long, golden hair that night.

  Would he come again? A part of her longed for him, kept jumping at every sound outside the chamber door. Another part longed for him to leave her be so she could plot her escape in peace.

  The door knob turned. Grizel stopped brushing.

  He was there.

  The servant turned and left without a word.

  He came up to her slowly, putting his hands on her shoulders.

  “Get into bed,” he commanded, curtly.

  She looked at him. His eyes were cold; she couldn’t see a skerrick of the gentleness that had been in them the night before.

  He pulled her nightgown off as soon as she was on the bed. The night air shriveled her skin, making her gasp.

  His hands were rough, urgently caressing her. Then without a word, he turned her over, grasping her hair in his hands so tightly that her head involuntarily tilted back.

  He didn’t wait. He took her with a frenzy, grasping her hair the whole time.

  He shuddered, then suddenly let go of her hair. She fell to the bed.

  She felt him move off the bed. She turned her head to watch him. He was dressing!

  “Where are you going?” Heather was puzzled. He had not said one word to her during the whole exchange.

  “That, Madam, is none of your concern.” He finished dressing, looked at her, and then left the chamber.

  Heather sat up, bewildered. She didn’t understand anything.

  The night before, he had been passionate, but tender. Tonight, he seemed angry as he had roughly satisfied his needs.

  Who was the Laird of Aberdeenshire? And why did he seem to be two men, behaving differently as it pleased him?

  Chapter Seven

  Heather stood at the window to the chamber, looking out at the courtyard. She could see the plains beyond the castle, and could glimpse the sea crashing against the rocks.

  Dunnottar Castle. She had been here a month. A strange and foreboding place, perched so far on the edge of the earth that it seemed like it might fall into the ocean en
tirely. The people who lived here were strange, too. They didn’t observe the Church’s teachings, or the rituals. And none were so strange as the Laird himself.

  Dougal. Heather rolled his name over in her mind. Not that she had ever called him by it. Even though they were as intimate as two people could be in the bed, he was a stranger to her beyond it. Sometimes he was gentle with her; other times he was angry, and rough. She desired him regardless – she would die again in his arms every night that he ravished her. But she still couldn’t figure out how it was supposed to work.

  There he was. She watched him in the courtyard. His groom brought his horse to him. He mounted it, and then rode out the gates as if the devil himself was on his tail. She knew she wouldn’t see him for two days, at least.

  This was his pattern – attentive to her in the chamber when he was in residence, then he would leave the castle for days. She didn’t know where he was, or what he was doing. Only that when he returned, he would have a gift for her: gowns, flowers, sometimes jewels.

  She watched him go. Then she turned to Grizel, who was sitting, hemming a gown.

  “Grizel,” she said, carefully. “Where does my laird go, when he disappears for days like he does?”

  Grizel looked at her. “Well, he battles a lot,” she said. “Other than that, I do not know.” The servant bit her lip, and then lowered her head.

  Heather knew that Grizel was lying. But why?

  ***

  Dougal watched the woman parade in front of him.

  Her long, red hair spilled down her back. She swung her hips as she walked, tossing her hair. The corset she wore pushed up her breasts so much that he could see the nipples bursting to escape.

  “My laird, this is Flora,” an older woman said, who was standing to the side. “She is very good. Can wrap a man up in her flaming red hair!”

  The woman named Flora did a little curtsey in front of Dougal, giggling at him.

  Dougal assessed her. She was pretty, in a common sort of way. But when she smiled, he could see that her teeth were blackening. He shook his head. “Next one, Mistress Finley.”