Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

C.S. Lewis first captivated B. J.'s imagination in the fourth grade, and her desire to write sprang from there. Following a career in nursing and child and youth work, B.J. married her knight-in-shining-armor, and he whisked her away to his castle by the sea. In reality, they share their century-old home in a small Canadian town on the shore of Lake Erie with our dogs and a cat. When she is not working at her childcare job, on her small business, or writing, you will find her reading, camping, or antique hunting.

  To find more books by B.J. Scott visit her Amazon author page

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  The Captive

  Book One of The Clan

  By

  Parris Afton Bonds

  Published by Paradise Publishing

  Copyright 2013 by Parris Afton, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction and a product of the author’s imagination. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This e-book may not be resold or given away. Any resemblance to characters living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Author’s Note

  Four generations ago, a woman emigrated to the United States from Scotland and raved to her neighbor about the beauty of the Afton River in the Scottish Lowlands. That neighbor, fascinated by the Afton River, named her daughter Afton. Her daughter named her daughter Afton, and so on.

  Having five sons, I had no daughters to whom I could pass on the Afton name. Running short on boys’ names by the time the last son was born, I bestowed on him the name Ted Afton. I would like to continue this Afton legacy with the story of The Captive, a product of my overly vivid imagination.

  Dedication

  For Mary Afton Burns ~ I love you, Mother

  “Flow Gently, Sweet Afton”

  Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes;

  Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;

  My Mary’s asleep by the murmuring stream,

  Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

  ~ Robert Burns

  Celtic tradition has it that the soul of one who dies in battle will take the low, or easy, road

  to the place of his clan. Thus:

  Ye’ll take the high road,

  And I’ll take the low road,

  And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.

  For me and my true love will never meet again

  On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond

  Chapter 1

  “It looks as though Enya isn’t going to be a beauty.”

  Incredibly, Enya awoke without a thought of her wedding in mind. Without anything beyond a feeling of general good will and buoyancy. Not until old Elspeth parted the pale green bedhangings embroidered with gold did the phrase from childhood leap to the forefront with a force that cut short Enya’s languorous stretch.

  "Guid mornin’, M'lady Lazybones," the nearly toothless woman said and draped Enya’s morning gown of green gauze across the foot of the bed. “Tis late awakening you are for such a day of import.”

  "Tis no’ a day of jubilation for me. For my people, aye, but not for me.”

  She had reached the advanced age of three and twenty without bending her head to the rights and privileges of a husband. If any man came close to claiming the rights of her heart, it would be Duncan Fraser.

  Dared her childhood friend come to her wedding?

  She shrugged, took up her morning gown, and headed for her bath. Her serving maid, a short, plump farm girl, took her satin robe from her. "G’morning, m’lady! T’day’s finally come! Yer wedding day!”

  Along with Elspeth, Mary Laurie was to accompany her to her new home in the Highlands. “I should be so eager, Mary Laurie.” Enya tried to maintain a good humor about this, of all mornings. But it was the end of all she had known and the beginning of the unknown.

  The bath was still in a state of chaos. With a little smirk mixed with deep love, Enya felt this was just like her mother. Kathryn could rule the Afton clan benevolently, but she was a riot on running a house. Enya’s very controlled and very controlling mother didn’t suffer fools lightly, but, dear God, when would her mother ever finish the house?

  Blue tiles were stacked in a wooden box, awaiting a mason from Italy. A washbasin of speckled marble quarried in Connemara, Ireland, had yet to be inset in the wall. Glazed windows served until leaded ones arrived.

  “You are starting earlier than is your wont, daughter. The first light of day has not silvered the sea."

  Enya half turned in the marble tub. Kathryn stood in the doorway. A mauve-patterned morning wrapper covered her trim figure. At forty-five, her mother was still as beautiful as the day Enya’s father, the Black Lion, had captured Kathryn’s father in battle and demanded her as ransom. Her wealth of black hair, caught in a loose braid at her nape, was streaked with gray. Lines of laughter and time girded her mouth, now curved in a wistful smile.

  “Aye, that I am, Mother. Tis a deed that must be done anon, and the sooner I begin the better.

  With a nod, Kathryn dismissed Mary Laurie and settled onto the low stool beside the tub. Dampening a face cloth in the heated water, she began washing Enya’s freckled shoulders.

  "I empathize with your struggle, daughter, but 'tis a good match I have made for you. Wife of the Lord Lieutenant of the Western Highlands is an honor not to be dismissed lightly. I understand Simon Murdock is good to look upon as well as ambitious. What’s more, he is young enough at two and thirty to comfort you in your old age.”

  Neither woman voiced her thoughts of Malcolm Afton. Fifteen years older than Kathryn, her husband was now confined to a separate bedroom. Few ventured beyond those doors. Even the maid servants scurried in and out, heads averted, breath held.

  "Alas, this marriage is more to Murdock’s liking than mine. With it comes a bride with no brothers to inherit a barony's estates.” Its fertile, rolling crofting land and lucrative fishing port of Ayr were worth a King’s ransom.

  Kathryn’s hand paused. Enya looked up over her shoulder at her mother. Those wise eyes had misted over like the fog that rolled in off the sea. “Andrew and Gordon should have been giving you away today in your father’s stead."

  "Which is the reason for the marriage, is it not?" she reminded Kathryn softly, repenting her reference to her brothers. Both had been killed in the service of His Majesty King George II of Great Britain.

  ‘"Tis true," her mother said, rising. "Your marriage assures the Clan Afton and its estates continual security—and the opportunity to foster peace with those barbarous Highlanders. Is peace such a bad thing?”

  Enya couldn’t hold her tongue. “At the price of one’s values, Mother? Aye. Ye would trade Scottish blood for English.”

  "Ye are a product of your father as well as me, Enya. Roman-British blood flowed through his ancestor’s veins before that of the Scots. He sorely misses the wearing of the kilt and plaid, but he wisely chose peace with the British. Ye will go to him before the wedding for his blessing?"

  With a sigh, she rose from the now-cool water and accepted the warmed towel her mother passed her. "Aye, that I will.”

  Elspeth alone was allowed to assist her that morning with her clothes. The old woman had been maidservant to Kathryn when the Black Lion and his men had stormed Sweetheart Abbey, where she had taken refuge. Alistair, Elspeth’s twin brother, was the family steward and master of the household.

  Over camisole and stays and hoops, white silk stockings and garters, stomacher and quilted petticoat, was draped the wedding dress of satin. The virginal gown was trimmed with silver lace and seeded with pearls.

  Only then did Enya don the dusting cloth and submit her angry red hair to the powder dredger. Her rebellious curls needed no waving, as was the latest court fashion. Slowly the fiery sheen
whitened with the sifted powder. A blessed thing on her wedding day, since redheads were considered unlucky.

  The mask she held over her face muffled her voice. "Has anyone heard news of Duncan?"

  "Nae, m'lady." Elspeth frowned, adding more wrinkles to the accumulation already furrowing the bridge of her large nose. ‘"Tis best you forget that one. Nothing but a common smuggler.”

  “Arrant nonsense, Elspeth! Duncan is a Free Trader." She slid a foot into one of the silver embroidered slippers with high French heels. She was already tall for a woman. Tall and big-boned, she nevertheless moved with an untutored grace – or, at least, so said her mother.

  Was she taller than her English bridegroom?

  "Bah,” Elspeth muttered. She stooped to slide the other slipper onto her mistress’s foot. "Duncan and his likes are avoidin’ the tax on malt and wool by operating’ out of Ayr. The gallows will hoist the smuggler ahigh one day, mark me words. An auld woman like meself knows these things."

  Enya lowered the mask. The heritage of superstition that could be traced back into the mists of time prompted her to ask in words almost inaudible, "What else do you know? The Lord Lieutenant—will he make of himself a goodly husband?”

  Alistair’s spinster sister cackled. "Not for the likes of ye. A firebrand, ye are.”

  With none of her mother’s serenity. Nor her beauty, Enya mentally lamented.

  When she was growing up she didn’t like to see her mother work in the garden. Her hair would be in disarray and dirt smeared across her cheeks. Enya wanted her mother always to be dressed in bejeweled gowns. She loved her mother most at dinner, when, after a glass of wine, the color was high on her cheeks and she’d be laughing.

  Her mother didn’t laugh much anymore.

  "Ye are a bonnie bride, m’lady,” Elspeth said. “Take a look.”

  Enya took the silver-backed looking glass the old hag held for her approval. Intelligent eyes of an ordinary hazel color stared back at her in the looking glass. Stared beyond her reflection, so singular and richly imprinted with her life’s experiences as a homely child, and a daughter at that. There she found a profile so strong that it had virtually compelled her to develop a character to match.

  With Enya’s coming of age there had also been a coming to terms with her unconventional looks. It had paralleled her emergence from the shadows of her mother and father and brothers.

  For years, she had refused to look at her reflection, to see her nose, though patrician, too large for her face. Her distinctly square jaw with her cleft chin was too severe to ever be considered feminine.

  Now she saw that her face had grown into proportion to her nose. That, while not beautiful, the young woman staring back at her with that unnerving direct scrutiny possessed uncommonly striking good looks.

  Her old litany, "I might not have the physical perfection, but I’m going to think myself into being beautiful," had come to pass.

  ~ * ~

  Her father’s room was normally kept dark; bright light hurt his eyes. Today, the heavy dusky pink velvet drapes had been drawn open. August’s warming sunlight revealed the room’s book-paneled walls. French doors that opened onto a flagstone terrace were flung wide. Far beyond, carriages could be seen approaching down the winding, oak-shaded drive.

  Fresh air and floral fragrances from well-tended gardens whisked away the prevailing sour smell of rot. The tinkling sound of the terrace fountain reached the room. It was a place of perpetual banishment and slow, agonizing death. A place of no hope.

  Enya bent over her father’s chair and kissed his forehead, made even more high by the lack of hair on his brow and crown. "You slept well, Father?”

  "Humph! I’ll never die in me sleep. I sleep too well.”

  She had to smile at his attempt at humor in the face of his malady. Rotting stumps moved in agony where once the valiant soldier had scaled fortress walls and wielded a heavy claymore. Leprosy was eating away at the Black Lion.

  Malcolm had contacted the ravaging disease while serving in France with the Black Watch troops of King George. Upon Malcolm’s return, her parents’ joy at being reunited gradually was blighted.

  At first, there had only been the thickened facial skin to indicate something was amiss. Next came the eruption of a few sores between fingers and toes, then the hobbling about the old castle on feet that had no toes. And, at last, the disease had progressed so far that her father could do little more than sit and await his fate, a most difficult task for a man accustomed to action.

  Her mother had assumed the mantle of authority, ruling the Afton clan and its estates with the justice and wisdom of her ancestral Pictish princesses. Her court was rapidly becoming the hub for men of Enlightment; it was the Athens of Scotland.

  Kathryn had summoned numerous learned doctors from Edinburgh Medical School, the best in Europe, to attend her husband, to no avail. Most shook their head and took their leave. Some suggested remedies that worked no magic. Old Elspeth’s vile-tasting concoctions at least seemed to soothe Malcolm’s tormented soul.

  At first, Enya felt shamed by the revulsion she felt; increasingly, the enforced company of her father disclosed a man she had never known. Beneath the formidable manner was a man with sentiment. Behind the hideous mask was a man of dry humor. He loved her mother above all else and wanted to set her free with his death.

  This, her mother would not allow.

  Kathryn, dressed in a court gown of green watered silk, entered Malcolm’s room by way of the terrace. Behind her followed a tall man in a peasant’s jacket of Yorkshire serge and a red handkerchief around his neck.

  Today, Brother Archibald was disguised as an itinerant scribe with his knapsack of inkhorn, ledger, quill, and paper. His own unruly red locks, grizzled with gray, declared him as much a renegade as Enya in his own way. A gentle renegade, albeit an inveterate one.

  When most of Scotland was of Protestant persuasion, he appeared like a will-o’-the-wisp first in a medieval burgh, next a seaport, then a mountain village. Was he an itinerant preacher, a mendicant friar? Enya had never been sure. His mission appeared to be to restore the free-and-easy climate of the old Scottish Catholic Church—when the more rabid Protestant Coventers weren’t hot on his heels.

  The Catholic Church had been replaced by the strict teachings of Calvinist Protestantism. The result was as if a red-hot iron had been plunged into a staved barrel of icy water. For the Calvinists, there was no straightforward confession of sins: If a person repented on his deathbed, it was too late. You either lived a good life or you roasted in hell for all eternity.

  This teaching did not cure the Scots of sin, but left them with an abiding sense that punishment automatically went hand in hand with most kinds of enjoyment.

  Enya distinctly recalled as a child the rickety boned kirk minister Reverend Macives chastising her after he had caught her swimming down at Loch Doon. His wrinkle-puckered mouth had compressed into a stringent line. "Ye’ve had the pleasure long enough to suffer.”

  On the following Sunday, the eve of Samhain – the Celtic lord of death, a neep-o-lantern was found on the kirk’s pulpit. Some said it was the displeasure of the Auld Folk at the banishment of music from the church services. A smug Enya knew better.

  Perhaps that was why she enjoyed Brother Archibald. In his mid-forties, the lean, lazy priest possessed the ability to make people laugh regardless of the dire situation. "Ye ready for your blessing, lass?” he asked her. "Marriage is a tricky affair. Soon you’ll swear to love, then later you’ll love to swear.”

  She grinned. "Just bless me, Brother Archibald, before I set the good Reverend Macives on you.”

  "Ach, lassie, but ye have a tongue of nettle.”

  Kathryn knelt at Malcolm’s bedside and took hold of his hand, which was missing three fingers. With a grim countenance, she examined it. "Ye have a new weeping sore. I’ll tend to it after the blessing, dear one.”

  Malcolm tugged his hand from his wife’s grasp. "Let’s get on with this
foolery. I tire.”

  Enya lowered her head, as much to avoid her father’s mortified expression as to receive Brother Archibald’s blessing. She understood the reason for her father’s brusqueness and could do nothing to alleviate his heart’s pain. Going down on her knees, she said, "Bless me, for I have sinned.”

  "Not nearly enough, I think." The priest placed his spindly fingers atop her powdered coiffure with its net of pearls. His lantern jaw lost its wry smile, and his nimble lips took on a serious cast. "The greatest sin is to abstain from the passions of life. Passions teach us lessons about compassion, joy, love, and finally self-surrender. I charge you to seek these as the knight seeks the Holy Grail."

  His hand on her shoulder signaled her to rise. “Go with God, Enya.”

  She dipped a curtsy and, with her mother, left the room. They sought out the immense salon with its cream-colored walls, reminiscent of London’s Assembly Rooms. Their heels clicked hollowly on the inlaid mahogany floor. Each woman was silent with her own thoughts.

  Kathryn was a private person; no one ever knew her feelings. Enya’s thoughts centered, quite naturally, on the imminent wedding. Her intended was detained at Westminster and would join her at his Highland headquarters, Fort William.

  As a direct result of the Rebellion of '45 and the battle at Culloden, a nervous London government had ordered its recent reconstruction, still in progress. She could only imagine the disorder of sawdust and hammering she would preside over as wife of the Lord Lieutenant.

  For the wedding ceremony, Simon Murdock was to be represented by proxy. Enya could not pick out his proxy from the multitude of guests assembled in the salon, which with its coffered ceiling was the full height of the two-story mansion. Sunlight poured though the big orangery windows. The double row of marbled pilasters, reflected tenfold in the gilt-framed mirrors.