Highlander's Sinful Desire (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Maddie MacKenna

  Taran put a hand on his sister Elsbeth’s shoulder and said, “Ye’re welcome to stay here as long as ye want. Both of ye. After all, it’s yer home, too.”

  Elsbeth squeezed his hand. “Thank ye, Taran. But I’ve got to be getting’ back to Iona. God’s work never ends. But I am so glad that we have unburdened ourselves of this secret we’ve kept for so many years. I’ve missed seein’ ye.”

  “I hope ye’ll be back to visit again. Before twenty more years pass!” Taran said.

  Sister Prudence looked at Elsbeth and said, “Should ye tell them now?”

  “What? Tell us what, Fiona?” He asked.

  “Go ahead,” Elsbeth said to Sister Prudence.

  “I am goin’ to travel to Iona with Elsbeth. Mother Philomena, that is,” she corrected herself.

  Rowena drew a quick breath. “What are you saying, Sister?”

  “I’m sayin’ that I’m leavin’ St. Martha’s. I’m movin’ to the nunnery at St. Columba’s at Iona. I’ll be with Elsbeth for the rest of our lives. We’ll serve our Lord together.”

  Rowena clapped her hands. Taran exclaimed, “That is wonderful news!”

  Rowena said, “But what of St. Martha’s? Mother Lenora?”

  Sister Prudence said, “She approved it . . . with her blessings!”

  “That’s wonderful, Sister Prudence. I’m so happy for you! And for the sisters at St. Columba’s.” Rowena turned to Mother Philomena and added, “Once you sample her cooking, you will know how blessed you truly are!”

  Mother Philomena said, “We could nae be happier that she is joinin’ us. For me, it fills me heart with joy.”

  “When dae ye leave?” Taran asked.

  “We’ll be leavin’ on the morrow at first light,” Mother Philomena said.

  In the morning, Mother Philomena and Sister Prudence climbed into a carriage that would take them all the way to the west coast of Scotland. From there, they would board a boat to cross the water to the Isle of Munn. They would go on horseback to the other end of the island, and then cross to the secluded isle of Iona. Three of Taran’s men would escort them the entire journey.

  As they bid good-bye, Taran was overcome with emotion. He laughed wryly and said, “I finally see ye again after all this time, and now ye’re leavin’ me again!”

  Sister Prudence gave him a warm hug. “But this time, laddie, ye ken right where to find us.”

  “Aye,” he said, blinking back tears.

  She turned to Rowena and gave her a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug. “Now I can call ye ‘Sister’ and mean it in a whole new way!”

  Rowena laughed. “Who would have thought only one month ago that things would have turned out this way!”

  “Nae meself!” Sister Prudence exclaimed.

  Rowena pulled something out of her pocket and hid it behind her back. “I have something for you. I think you should have it.” She took Sister Prudence by the hand and laid something in it.

  “Och, by God’s grace! Wherever did ye get this? It was me mother’s!”

  Rowena glanced at Taran, then back at Sister Prudence. It was their mother’s crucifix. “Taran gave it to me the first day we met. When he thought you were gone forever. I think you should have it.”

  Sister Prudence eyes filled with tears. “Thank ye, Sister. This means more to me than ye can ken.” She gave Rowena another long embrace. “Welcome to our clan.”

  Mother Philomena said, “I hope ye’ve forgiven us for stayin’ away for so many years, me little brother.”

  “Aye, Elsbeth. I could never stay angry with ye.” He smiled. “But ye must promise us one thing.”

  Sister Prudence said, “Anythin’, Taran. We owe ye that. What is it?”

  He put an arm around Rowena affectionately. “Ye must promise us that ye’ll come back and celebrate Christmas with us.”

  Sister Prudence joked. “Ye’ll have to ask me boss!” She pointed to Mother Philomena.

  “Of course!” Mother Philomena exclaimed. “It will be our first Christmas together since we were wee little ones!”

  “I’m holdin’ ye to it!” Taran said, and closed the door to the carriage. He signaled the driver to move off.

  Rowena and Taran stood and watched the carriage until it disappeared around the bend. Taran studied his clan’s signet ring he now wore on his finger. Rowena took his hand, kissed it, and pressed it against her cheek. He smiled his beautiful smile, happier than he ever thought he could be.

  They turned together to go back to the castle. Behind them, the sun had risen above the horizon; its light shimmered across the Loch Lomond. It was going to be an unusually bright day for late September in the Highlands.

  The End?

  Extended Epilogue

  Would you like to learn how Rowena and Taran’s relationship evolved? Then enjoy this complimentary short story featuring our favorite couple!

  Simply TAP HERE to read it now for FREE! or use this link: http://maddiemackenna.com/j48d directly in your browser.

  Trust me, you’ll love it ♥

  But before you go, turn the page for an extra sexy and wild Scottish treat from me…

  More steamy historical romance

  Turn on to the next page to read the first chapters of Highlander’s Hidden Destiny, one of my best stories so far!

  Highlander’s Hidden Destiny

  About the Book

  She found him both dismaying and utterly attractive, in an enticing yet forbidden way...

  Trapped in an engagement she never wanted, Amelia Barton, daughter of the Earl of Workington, feels her life is finally over. Until the day true love comes knocking on her door in the face of a dashing Highlander...

  Orphaned by his mother since birth, Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira, travels to France to stop the Jacobite cause. When called upon by the Royal Court, the most beautiful lass he has ever seen enters his life like a bolt of lightning.

  When Amelia gets kidnapped, Feargan is accused of the crime. Determined to prove his innocence, he will stop at nothing to find her.

  Amidst this desperate hunt, love and lust are not the only things that come to light. Feargan has been living a lie and the truth about his parentage lies in an old handkerchief that everybody thought lost.

  1

  That day the snow lay thick upon the road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye and the carriage was stuck fast in the mud churned up by its own wheels. The horses were cold, stomping their feet, their long plumes of breath rising into the icy air like a mist on water, as the driver patted their manes.

  “Zi horses are cold, monsieur,” he said, casting a nervous glance at his patron, who was pacing up and down beside the carriage.

  “Ye assured me that this carriage would make the road from Paris, even in the snow. It will be nightfall soon and I daenae wish to be stranded out here at the mercy of thieves and robbers. Is there nae way to move it?” the man replied.

  The driver muttered something inaudible in French and retreated around to the rear of the stranded carriage. Feebly, he pushed at the wheels, which were already beginning to freeze in the mud, twilight descending around them.

  “I cannae have further delays. Is there nae way ye can move it tonight?” the man said, his voice rising in exasperation at the man, whose promises in Paris had come to nothing.

  “There iz an inn nearby, monsieur, just along zi track. They would give you a bed for zi night and tomorrow we may dig zi carriage out,” the driver replied, shaking his head, as he pushed hopelessly once more at the wheels.

  “Aye, so be it then. It daenae seem like we shall have any luck tonight. If ye need help in the morning, then come and find me at the inn,” the man said, as he clambered into the carriage to retrieve his bags.

  “I am sorry monsieur, I cannot help zi weather. I, too, am stranded ‘ere for zi night, my wife shall worry, and my children go hungry,” the driver said, looking mournfully at the man, who now threw a thick cloak about himself and turned along the road.

  “Make
ye bed at the inn, too, and tell the innkeeper to charge it to me. As for yer wife, she shall have to sleep in a cold bed tonight, just as ye and I will,” the man replied, and without looking again at the driver he strode purposefully down the track, as a fresh flurry of snow began to fall.

  The road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye was rough and ready at the best of times. Unlike the court of Versailles, the exiled Stuarts had not the luxury of fine, carriage-worthy boulevards, to connect them with the French capital. The court of the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, was somewhat hidden away, lying at the end of a long road, west of Paris.

  They were sojourners in a foreign land, awaiting that glorious day when the line would be restored, and a Stuart monarch would once again sit upon the thrones of England and Scotland. At the Château de Saint Germain-en-Laye, they bided their time, playing host to countless visitors and well-wishers who made the bumpy journey from Paris to pay homage to the man they believed was rightly King across the channel.

  It was for just such a reason that Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira, in the far north amongst the Scottish hills, had come to Paris two weeks ago. The journey south had been long and treacherous, and he had already been away from home for several months. He was tired, and now that the château was almost in sight, his frustration at this latest setback was clear. He stomped along the darkening track, his bags slung over his shoulder, cursing the weather on that treacherous night.

  The snow was falling thickly now, and as he approached the lighted inn he shook off his cloak and stamped his boots. The lights were a welcome reprieve from the darkness of the track.

  “Another foreign bed,” Feargan muttered to himself, as he pushed open the door and was met by a rabble of rousing voices and the sounds of singing and merrymaking.

  * * *

  Inside, the inn was brightly lit by oil lamps, a large fire burning merrily in the grate, and all manner of people sat around in varying states of array. Several eyed the newcomer with suspicion, but quickly returned to their drinks as Feargan cast a contemptuous look around him.

  He was a man of noble blood, who had little time for sensuous pleasures, nor the inclination to associate with those who frequented places such as this. The proprietor of the inn spoke rapidly to him in French, a language which, thanks to his dear departed mother, he knew well.

  “You wish for some food, monsieur? A bed for zi night, or just a drink to warm you on zis cold night?” he said, laying his hands on the bar and smiling a toothless grin at Feargan.

  “Aye, a bed, and some food if ye have it, and a drink, too,” Feargan replied, glancing around the room again.

  “You are travelling to zi château, monsieur?” the proprietor said, as he ladled a sludgy brown stew into a bowl from a steaming pan set above the fire.

  “Me business is me own,” Feargan replied, looking with some disgust at the meal now set before him.

  “We have a lot of travelers along zi road, monsieur. Even zi young Prince himself has graced zis humble abode,” the proprietor said proudly, and he poured a glass of wine for Feargan, looking at him with interest as he ate.

  Feargan made no reply, and after taking a few spoonsful from the foul-looking concoction, he pushed it aside.

  “Zis is just a humble inn, monsieur, I am sorry if we cannot satisfy your tastes.”

  “Just bring me somethin’ drinkable and leave me alone,” Feargan replied, pushing the glass and dish across the bar.

  The proprietor went off, tutting to himself, emptying the half-eaten bowl of stew back into the pan from whence it came and wiping his hands across his greasy apron, an act which caused Feargan to look away in disgust. He was about to forgo another drink, and demand his bed, when a voice at his side caused him to turn.

  “Ye are a traveler in these parts like meself, aren’t ye, lad?” the man said, setting down a glass of wine at Feargan’s side.

  “And who might ye be?” Feargan said, eyeing the man with suspicion.

  His accent betrayed his heritage and his face had all the hallmarks of one who has been raised amidst the hills and glens of Scotland, weather-beaten and furrowed. He was old, and slightly hunched over, but his eyes were keen, as though behind them lay a mind which was sharp and active. He smiled again at Feargan and extended a gnarled hand.

  “Hamish McBride, a tutor at the royal court. I am returning from Paris, where I have just heard Voltaire speak. The snow has caused me to take refuge here, but in the morning I shall go to Saint Germain-en-Laye. Is that yer destination, too?” he said, fixing his eyes on Feargan.

  “Feargan Galbreth, I go to speak with our Regent at the château,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand and relaxing a little in the company of one who claimed to be a friend.

  The young Laird had learned to distrust men over the years, and ever since his father’s death he had found his own counsel to be of advantage to that of others. His mother had died when he was young and he had few remaining memories of her.

  The absence of a mother had left a void in him, such that the fairer sex remained something of a mystery. As a child he had been a loner, and despised the woman his father married just a year after his own mother’s death. He had grown up forced to call her Mama, an act he resented to this day.

  The life which Feargan had led was a lonely one and despite his inheritance, he had few men to call his friends. That is, except for his Godfather, Alexander Galbreth, with whom he had trusted his Scottish estates whilst he made the journey to France, and who this old man resembled remarkably.

  “The Regent? He has little time for anyone now,” the old man said, taking a seat at the bar, and signaling to the proprietor for more drinks. “What is it ye wish to speak with him about?”

  “That is a matter between the two of us,” Feargan replied, as the proprietor presented them with a bottle of wine that appeared to have better pedigree to it than the muck he had served before.

  “I am nae interested in yer business, lad, but I ken the Regent and I ken the court, too. I have been tutoring there these many years past. I was the Regent’s tutor in philosophy when he was but a wee lad,” Hamish said, looking with interest at Feargan who sighed, realizing he was going to get no peace that night until he explained his business and took the man into his confidence.

  “What dae ye ken of the Regent’s plans for a rising in England and Scotland to the Stuart cause?” Feargan asked, laying out his cards.

  The old tutor looked surprised for a moment, as though he, too, were weighing up the consequences of betraying what he had heard whispered in the corridors of the Château de Saint Germain-en-Laye.

  “Now I must ask ye if ye are a spy,” Hamish replied, smiling nervously at Feargan, who laughed.

  “Dae ye ken who ye are addressing, old man?” he said, shaking his head. “I am Laird of Loch Beira and as loyal to the Stuart cause as any man on either side of the border. A spy, indeed, what nonsense. And if I were, would I tell ye so blatantly?”

  The man’s face changed, and he visibly relaxed at Feargan’s words, smiling and laughing to himself, as he agreed that no, the Laird would not tell him if he were a Hanoverian spy.

  “I can only apologize for my suspicions, Galbreth, but there are many who would wish to ken the Regent’s secrets, and many who would wish to see him dead,” Hamish said.

  “And I am not one of them. What dae ye ken of the Regent’s plans?” Feargan repeated.

  “Not a lot, only that the château is filled with exiled Stuarts, eager to return to their homeland, and many visitors loyal to the cause who bring news of Hanoverian insult from across the channel. Ye must be well connected, and I need not tell ye of such things, ye will nay doubt ken many of those who reside there from time to time.”

  “Ye shall meet the Marquess of Torbay, betrothed to Lady Amelia Barton, the daughter of the Earl of Workington. I tutor her in Latin and philosophy, she is a most able student; and the Duke of Rothsay; alongside Lady Peal of Northumberland,” the man replied, warming to hi
s subject.

  “I have no interest in acquainting myself to others,” Feargan said, cutting the man short mid-speech. “My purpose is to speak with the Regent on the matter in hand. I am not interested in English aristocrats and ladies.”

  His quest lay with the Regent and once more he questioned the elderly tutor as to Charles Edward Stuart’s plans for England and Scotland.

  “The Regent has every intention of regaining the throne, there is nay question of that, but why are ye so interested in such matters? Surely ye should have remained in Scotland to see to yer estates,” Hamish said, pouring another drink for Feargan. “Or does the Laird of Loch Beira have a lackey to see to his crofters?”

  “Never mind me own affairs. I have come to tell the Regent that such actions are foolish and that any uprising will surely fail. The Hanoverians have the land in an iron grip and if the Regent makes a move then they will only increase their oppression of the people still loyal to the Stuart cause,” Feargan replied.

  It had long been his fear that any uprising would cause far more harm than good. There was simply not the popular support needed for the Regent to take control. He could rely upon a few loyal Highland families and the peasantry who still clung to the old religion, but the Hanoverian army were well equipped and prepared to deal with any insurrection.