Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  John watched, astonished, unable to comprehend her erratic behaviour. Then she turned, her face glowing with joy, her eyes so clear and green that they seemed lit by an inner light.

  Tripping over the uneven ground, she came back to him and threw her arms about his neck.

  "My lord," she said, "I love ye so much."

  Only then, as the ache of tears rose in his throat, did he realize he had thought never to hear those words. "And ye aren't afraid, are ye?"

  Muriella threw her head back, smiling and weeping both together. "Never again," she said. She felt dizzy with a happiness that left her trembling, a joy so intense she thought her legs might collapse beneath her. "I realize now 'twas no' my death I saw. And 'twas no' ye I feared" she added when she could speak through her tears. "'Twas no' ever ye, but only my feelings for ye." Her husband shook his head, uncomprehending "They're too strong, ye see. I thought I couldn't bear them. I thought, if I let them take me, they would destroy me in the end. But I was wrong."

  John took her chin between his thumb and forefinger forcing her to meet his eyes. "Are ye telling me ye nearly drove us both to madness because ye were afraid—? That I loved ye too much?"

  He stared at her in disbelief. Could they have suffered so much for so little?

  "But today," Muriella whispered before he could find his voice, "the demons are gone. Now there is only ye and me." She was smiling and he found he could not escape the glow of her elation. It was as powerful as her fear had once been, and as irresistible. Her body quivered, her lips parted, and without a word she drew him with her toward the river—toward the bright, jubilant cascade of glimmering liquid light.

  "Johnnie? Do ye think ye can ever forgive me?" When he did not answer at once, she moved closer, reaching out to touch his cheek. "I love ye so much that I ache with it," she said. "But 'tis a sweet pain, and one I don't wish to live without."

  He drew her hand away from his face, holding it in his open palm. Her eyes were deep green, like the sea in the heart of a storm, and there were fresh tears on her cheeks.

  Like the sea her eyes swept over him, catching him up in the storm of her own creation. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the remaining half of her little finger.

  Muriella leaned toward him and his arms closed around her. In that moment, as their bodies came together, his breathing matched the murmur of her pulse, and of the wind that dipped, sighing, through the woods and across the rippling water.

  Afterword

  Although Child of Awe is a work of fiction, it is based in historical fact. John and Muriella were the founders of the Clan Campbell of Cawdor and their names are carved into the stone mantel at Cawdor Castle. I have seen and examined that mantel. I have stood in the tower, looking through the high embrasure at the canopy of trees that hide the rushing water. I have walked the sloping path from the base of the tower to the river. But even before my trip to the Scottish Highlands, this book had become more than simply a story I wanted to tell; it had become an obsession.

  My fascination with Child of Awe began in 1976 when, from dozens of books on Scottish castles, I jotted down three separate stories that interested me as the possible basis for my first novel. Only when I began serious research did I discover that the stories—an account of Muriella's abduction, an account of Elizabeth's brutalization, and the legend of the making of Loch Awe—were intricately intertwined, the three strong threads which became the fabric of Child of Awe.

  I have taken certain liberties with the dates and ages, and the events did not always occur in the order presented here. The scarcity of historical records from this period makes it difficult to describe specific events for which there is often conflicting evidence. For example, the story of the kidnapping has several versions in Scottish tradition. Some claim it was Muriella's grandmother who "marked" her by branding her on the hip with a red-hot key. There are also many popular traditional accounts of Maclean's ill-treatment of Elizabeth; there is a rock in the channel between the Isle of Mull and the shore that is called, to this day, Lady's Rock. There is even a song about the manner in which John killed Lachlan Maclean, entitled "Take Up Maclean and Prick Him in a Blanket."

  The story of John and Muriella is only one segment in the dramatic and often bloody history of Cawdor Castle and the two families—Calder and Campbell—who have held it since its construction in the fourteenth century. According to The Book of the Thanes of Cawdor, Muriella and John lived the rest of their lives at Cawdor, where they had many children and a happy marriage.

  From the beginning, the writing of Child of Awe has not been easy—just as Muriella's life itself was never easy. In many ways, it has seemed like the long and painful birth of a child, lasting for nearly 20 years. I have rewritten the novel again and again, reshaped it repeatedly with loving care, "finished" it more times than I can count. Most recently, after several years of working on other projects, I returned again to Child of Awe. Encouraged by the enthusiasm and faith of some of my friends who are also authors, I looked at the novel with new and more mature eyes. I saw things which have always been there, but which had eluded me until now, and which have transformed the book of my heart once more. I will not say, this time, that it is finished. Child of Awe will never be finished. It will haunt me always.

  About Kathryn Lynn Davis

  I have always loved both writing and history. My grandfather was a writer, as was my mother. With a Masters in History, I have written ten historical novels, including the New York Times bestselling Too Deep for Tears series, and am currently at work on a mystery and a psychological thriller. I live in California with my husband, photographer Michael J. Elderman.

  Written many years ago, Child of Awe is a story that has come back to haunt me again and again. It is a rewritten and reedited version of the British edition, so it’s grown since it was first published. I’m very excited to bring it to life again.

  If you care to leave a review, I would be delighted. You can contact me at:

  https://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=lf

  https://www.amazon.com/author/kathrynlynndavis

  https://www.kathrynlynndavis.com

  The Devil in Plaid

  By

  Lily Baldwin

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. Any actual locations mentioned in this book are used fictitiously.

  All rights are retained by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Copyright 2018 by Lily Baldwin

  www.duncurra.com

  Dedication

  For my mama

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you so much to my Duncurra Family!

  Susan, I love you to the moon and back.

  Kathryn, you are my beloved.

  Jennifer, I adore you. You bring so much energy and joy to my writing world.

  Thank you to Jean. You saved the day!

  Thank you to my husband, the love of my life, and my amazing daughter. You are my everything.

  Thank you, Mama. I NEVER could have done this without your talent, your tireless support, and love.

  Prologue

  Ranulf MacKenzie eyed the band of riders he passed on the road to his family’s stronghold. He counted fifteen warriors clad in the colors of the MacDonnell, plus two women, a lady and her maid.

 
“My lady,” Ranulf said, bowing his head as he passed the beauty. Waves of black hair skimmed her waist. Eyes as blue as the summer’s sky met his. She smiled modestly in greeting and dipped her head, before returning her gaze forward.

  Ranulf shifted in his saddle and watched her go, admiring her slender curves from behind. When her entourage of warriors impeded his view of her round derriere gently rocking in the saddle, he shifted his gaze forward. In the distance, he beheld another beauty—the MacKenzie stronghold.

  Ten years had passed since he left home, a decade spent amassing a small fortune as a hired sword, not to mention building an army of warriors loyal only to him.

  “What is yer business?” the guard said when he approached the gate.

  Ranulf straightened in his saddle and narrowed his eyes on the man.

  The guard sighed impatiently. “If ye don’t want to state yer business, ye can just turn yer horse around and—” Then he froze. He looked hard at Ranulf. An instant later, his eyes widened. “Sir...Sir…” he stammered before dropping to one knee. “Sir Ranulf, forgive me. Welcome home.”

  Ranulf pursed his lips. Then he shifted his gaze forward and held out his hand. “Water.”

  The guard rushed into the gate house, returning moments later, placing an opened costrel in Ranulf’s hand. He took a big swig and swooshed the water around his mouth. Then he leaned over and spat it out, hitting his mark—the guard’s boot. The man knew better than to react.

  Ranulf let the pouch fall from his fingertips to the ground. “Run along and announce my return to yer laird.”

  As if the very devil licked at his heels, the guard sprinted ahead.

  Ranulf gave his horse a nudge. Ten warriors followed, their horses’ hooves clomping rhythmically on the soft earth behind him.

  When they arrived in the bailey, he swung down from his mount and turned to face his men. Each wore a black leather jerkin with Ranulf’s coat of arms on his back. Another fifty men, ruthless swordfighters all, remained hidden in the forest beyond the outskirts of the village.

  “Kenric,” Ranulf said, motioning to his second in command.

  A man of towering height with cropped blonde hair; narrow, hard eyes; and powerful shoulders swung down from his horse and bowed. “Aye, Sir Ranulf.”

  Ranulf withdrew the sword he had strapped to his back and gave it to Kenric for safe keeping. “Stay here with the men. If I were to march through the keep with nigh a dozen of my own warriors, my brother might worry my business here is not friendly.”

  “We wouldn’t want that,” Kenric said, keeping his head bowed.

  “Nay, we wouldn’t.” Ranulf smirked. “Watch the men. I do not want any trouble…yet.”

  Kenric glanced up, a knowing smile curving his lips. “Understood.”

  Ranulf sought out his son among his mighty warriors. “Fergus, ye come with me, but stay quiet. The rest of ye remain here and keep alert.”

  Before he could give his men leave to enter the MacKenzie stronghold, there was the matter of obtaining the laird’s approval. But Ranulf wasn’t worried. He could be very persuasive and knew, in the end, he would have his way.

  “Welcome home, Sir Ranulf,” one of the guards said as he opened the door leading to the great hall.

  Ranulf scanned the room, expecting to see his brother, but the hall was empty. His expression remained passive, despite the laird’s dismissive treatment of his homecoming. “No matter,” he mumbled to himself before he addressed the guard. “Where is my brother?”

  “He is in his study with yer nephew.”

  “See that my men are fed and our horses groomed.”

  “Aye, Sir Ranulf,” the guard replied.

  Ranulf headed toward the wide, stone stairwell. He glanced back to ensure Fergus followed close behind. Shifting his gaze forward, he thundered up the stairs, not taking the time to appreciate the familiar surroundings. Before he enjoyed the pleasure of being home, he had old business to settle.

  When he reached the study, he turned to Fergus. “Stay quiet. Keep out of the way.” Then he swung open the door without knocking and locked eyes with his brother, Laird Donald MacKenzie.

  Donald paused and looked up from the bread he was buttering. “The prodigal son returns,” he said dryly.

  Ranulf ground his teeth as he met his brother’s disapproving gaze. “Ye needn’t look so overjoyed,” he said coolly, although he could feel his blood begin to boil just standing in his smug brother’s presence. Ranulf turned away before his expression betrayed his disdain, looking to where his nephew sat scribbling in a ledger at a small desk on the other side of the room. Ranulf’s lips twitched, wanting to curl in disgust. Instead, he rolled his eyes. The boy was now eight and ten, a man grown. Golden whiskers covered his chin, but he was as soft as a maid and just as slender.

  “Welcome home, Uncle,” the lad said, looking up with wide, innocent eyes.

  Pasting a smile on his face, Ranulf turned and looked pointedly at his brother. “At least someone appears happy to see me.”

  Donald did not look up. “I will not feign affection. Yer return brings me no joy, just as yer choices gave our father nothing but heartache.”

  Ranulf fisted his hands, resisting the urge to reach out and slam his brother’s head onto the table. “Our father lacked vision.”

  Donald jerked his head up, meeting Ranulf’s gaze. “Our father was a man of compassion and sensibility.”

  Ranulf shrugged, his gaze scanning the room for guards. “I live by my own creed now.” He swallowed the laughter that rushed up his throat when he realized they were alone. His brother was still a trusting fool.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Donald replied, not bothering to hide his contempt. “One that I’m sure puts yerself first, even before God.”

  Ranulf sighed, already bored. His brother hadn’t changed. He sat in the chair across from Donald. Again, he considered the study, but this time he imaged how he would change the room when he was laird. What it needed were some furs by the hearth and a naked wench or two to see to his needs. He closed his eyes as shining black hair and crystal blue eyes came to the fore of his mind. Donald wasn’t good for much, but he could tell him about the beauty who had caught his eye on the way to the castle. “I passed a rather large party from Clan MacDonnell just now when I arrived. What business did they have here?”

  His brother shrugged. “Of late, we’ve enjoyed several visits from Clan MacDonnell.”

  Ranulf grabbed a piece of bread. “Ye’re still as evasive as ever.”

  “And ye’re as self-serving as ever,” Donald replied before setting down the knife and taking a bite of his bread.

  Ranulf took up the knife and swept it through the butter.

  “Help yerself,” Donald said, his tone revealing his displeasure.

  Ranulf smiled at him. “I intend to.”

  Donald’s face reddened. He set his bread down and interlaced his fingers, giving Ranulf a hard, assessing look. “Why did ye come back?”

  Ranulf leaned forward, gripping the knife in one hand and his bread is the other. “I’ve come to take my land.”

  Donald shook his head. “If ye’re talking about the land ye formerly coveted, then let me remind ye those lands are already owned. And I do not think the clans MacDonnell or MacLeod are going to just give it to ye.”

  “I didn’t plan on asking them, brother,” Ranulf said, his voice deadly soft. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, they’re so busy fighting each other, they’d never even see us coming.”

  Donald sighed, shaking his head. He sat back in his seat. “Ye should know that the MacDonnell and I have made an alliance. His daughter is betrothed to Adam. Isn’t that right, Adam?”

  Ranulf’s nephew looked up from the table at which he sat and nodded. Ranulf’s thoughts once more returned to the raven-haired beauty. The idea of his bookish nephew taking Lady MacDonnell into his spindly arms turned his stomach.

  “He isn’t fit to marry Lady MacDonnell,” Ranulf hissed, unable to h
ide his rancor. “Just as he is not fit to be laird. Look at him,” he scoffed, gesturing toward Adam. “A sword should be clutched in his fist, like my own son…not a blasted quill.” Ranulf turned then and motioned to Fergus who obediently remained by the door.

  Donald’s eyes showed his surprise. “I did not know ye had a son.”

  “Neither did I,” Ranulf answered dryly as he sat back in his chair. “I had a romp or two with a barmaid when I lived in Edinburgh. I didn’t believe her when she sought me out to tell me. But when she brought the lad to me, I could not deny his obvious parentage.” Ranulf glanced at his son who was a year younger than Adam and twice as broad. Fergus had inherited Ranulf’s black waves, dark eyes, and long, thin nose. “He’s a worthless bastard and half peasant stock, but I’d wager he’s more of a man than Adam will ever be.”

  Donald scowled at Ranulf. “Yer goading will not unravel my control. Yer measure of a man’s greatness is a pathway to Hell.”

  Ranulf glowered back. “Adam is soft, like ye. And that is why ye make alliances rather than taking what should rightfully be yers.”

  Donald slammed his fist on the table. “And by what right should another clan’s land belong to me?”

  The same old argument met Ranulf’s ear, but Ranulf was not the same man who, in the past, had to swallow his brother’s refusals. Now, he had wealth and power and was more determined than ever. “MacKenzie land surrounds theirs. Ye’ve more men and far greater wealth. Ye’re a fool for not taking what ye could have.” Ranulf stood up, still clutching the knife in one hand and squishing his piece of bread in the other. “Ye were never man enough, but I am. Had ye only given me an army when I asked for it ten years ago, the clans MacDonnell and MacLeod would have surrendered long since.”