Aileana Chattan suffers a devastating loss, then discovers she is to wed neighbouring chief and baron, James MacIntosh—a man she despises and whose loyalty deprived her of the father she loved. Despite him and his traitorous clan, Aileana will do her duty, but she doesn't have to like it or him. But when the MacIntosh awakens something inside her so absolute and consuming, she is forced to question everything.
James MacIntosh is a nobleman torn between tradition and progress. He must make a sacrifice if he is to help Scotland move forward as a unified country. Forced to sign a marriage contract years earlier binding Lady Aileana to him, James must find a way to break it, or risk losing all—including his heart.
From the wild and rugged Highlands near Inverness to the dungeons of Edinburgh Castle, James and Aileana’s preconceptions of honour, duty and love are challenged at every adventurous turn.
BOUND TO THE HIGHLANDER
The Highland Chiefs Series
Kate Robbins
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2013 Kate Robbins
Covert Art: Amanda Stephanie
Editor: Maudeen Wachsmith
Proofreader: R.L. McCoy
MacIntosh Clan Crest brooch depicted on this cover is used with the kind permission of Gaelic Themes Ltd. Special thanks to Licensed to Kilt.
Photograph by Vanessa Noseworthy.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DEDICATION
For my muse, Bridgie, and my man-beasts. Always there.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Nancy and Lynn for enjoying PS I Love you so much that it inspired me to start writing Bound to the Highlander. Thank you to my crit partner, Melanie, my number one butt-kicker. Huge thanks to my editor, Maudeen, for holding my hand and talking me off the ledge many times. Thanks to Kemberlee of Tirgearr Publishing for her guidance and encouragement, and for always finding the right thing to say to make me laugh. Thanks to Paul Butler and Don McNair for their patience and fantabulous instruction. Thanks to the awesome writers in the RWAC loop and to my Scribe Wenches for your support. Thanks to the following for reading (sometimes more than once) and providing feedback: Nancy B, Melanie, Paul, Michelle O, Andrea, Karen D, Christine, Norma, Neil, Linda, Lynn, Amy, Karen E, Tina F, Jodi, Vanessa, Karen S, Kellie, Kelly Jean, Leona, Jean, Stephanie P, Vicki M, Diane, Nancy H, Myra, Jayla, Michelle H, Jenn, Sharon, Yolanda, Valerie, Vicki B, Lesleyanne, Rati, Libby, Necie, Jacqui, Steph, Maxine, and Earl.
Super-duper special thanks to my husband, Dave, and my two amazing boys, Nicholas and Daniel, for giving me the space and time I need to explore this writing habit I’ve acquired. Hey, it’s healthier than smoking, right? You make me want to work hard every day.
If I’ve missed anyone, my sincerest apologies.
I hope you all enjoy reading Bound to the Highlander as much as I enjoyed writing it. There’s something magical about Scotland. My recent travels there have only increased my fascination for the history and the culture.
BOUND TO THE HIGHLANDER
The Highland Chiefs Series
Kate Robbins
Chapter One
Near Inverness, Scotland, April 1430
A horse’s scream pierced the air sending a chill down her spine. Brèagha. Aileana Chattan quit pacing and dashed to the window. Thank God. They were home at last.
She strained toward the eerie quiet below just as the procession crested the hill beyond the gatehouse. She was right, it was her uncle’s horse Brèagha, but the poor beast hobbled as three men grasped his leather reins and struggled to keep the distressed animal in check. Bile rose in her throat when she spied the body face down across its back.
She tore through the hallway, down the winding stairs, and raced out into the courtyard. Cold mud soaked her feet and her heart pummeled as the somber hunters approached. She looked to Andrews, her steward, to confirm her fear.
“I’m sorry, lass.” He shifted his weight, but did not look up.
Her gaze returned to the body—his fiery red hair hung in tangles and his pale, limp hands were red-streaked. Shivers coursed through her as she beheld his unmoving form.
Her uncle, their chief, was dead.
A soundless ‘No’ faltered on her lips. Men and horses spun around her, threatening her balance. She reached out to cling to something. Anything. Air slipped through her fingers as she stumbled forward. Andrews caught her the moment her knees buckled.
“I’ve got you, Lady Aileana. Come, we must get him inside.”
He placed one strong arm around her shoulder and kept her moving forward, her feet skimming the ground.
No one spoke as they entered the large stone and wooden stable. The huntsmen pulled her uncle’s body from the horse and laid him at her feet. She dropped to the ground beside him. The foul stench of manure filled her nostrils and she fought the urge to retch.
“Why did you bring him in here?” The stable was no place for their chief.
“He ordered us. We had no other way to get the laird’s body home and he wanted us to save Brèagha for you,” Andrews said.
Her gaze shifted between her uncle’s body and the horse’s wild eyes. She swallowed the thick knot lodged in her throat.
“What happened?”
“We were tracking deer when something spooked him.” Andrews’s voice was low and grim. “Your uncle’s sword was drawn. They were both injured when they fell.”
The horse snorted and bobbed his head up and down. Aileana stood to view his injuries better. A deep gash oozed jagged crimson lines down his flank, pooling at his hoof. She moved to Brèagha’s side and buried her fingers in his mane. His coat was covered with a sheen of sweat.
“Dear God, you won’t see week’s end.” She must save him. “Andrews?”
“Get Argyle’s surgeon,” Andrews said. The stable boy fled to do his bidding.
There wasn’t much she could do for the faithful beast, but she had to try. Uncle Iain had wanted it. Aileana returned to kneel by her uncle’s side and brushed a lock of red, matted hair from his brow. She gathered his limp hand into hers and searched for any remaining hint of life, but there was none. Aileana closed her eyes, tears spilling onto her cheeks.
She pictured the two of them walking through the glen with the heather—splashed mountains all around. She had loved his tales of legends and victories and could feel warm air caressing her skin and fluttering her skirts. He smiled, giving her all the comfort she needed.
Brèagha’s grunt brought her back to the present and her eyes flew open. In this story, there was no victory. Her velvet gown was no protection from the cold, uncaring earth beneath her. The image of Uncle Iain and the colourful mountains faded to gray.
The men, her men, encircled her. They waited for her signal to move the body to his room for cleansing. Blood pounded in her ears as she struggled to do what she must, though she hated to release his hands. She cried out when she tried to fold them across his breast, but they slipped to the ground.
“Let me help, m’lady.” Andrews’ strong, weathered fingers covered hers and together they laid her uncle’s hands across his chest. Andrews pulled her up and held her close. His strong arms tightened around her, reassuring her as she tried to con
tain her grief.
“Move him,” Andrews said. “Now.”
Thank God for Andrews. He didn’t want his chief laying in filth any more than she did. The men nodded and encircled him.
“What’s this?” The familiar voice boomed from the doorway. “What’s happened?”
Gawain Chattan scanned the stable until his gaze landed on the body. His tall, thin frame was a silhouette against the gray sky and his expression was masked, even as he lifted his eyes to meet hers.
“The laird is dead,” Andrews said.
His words pierced her. This was really happening.
“No!” Father Addison emerged from behind Gawain and rushed to Aileana’s side. “No, it cannot be! When?” The priest smoothed Aileana’s hair, tears forming in his crinkled eyes.
It all seemed like a hazy dream. Less than a sennight ago, they had spoken of travelling to France. Now he was a body deplete of life on the putrid stable floor.
“Yesterday,” Andrews said.
Gawain turned to the men. “Deliver his body to his room and find the gravedigger.”
She gasped. How could he be so unmoved? Cold seeped into her belly.
“For pity sake man, give the lass a moment.” Andrews stepped forward, still holding her tight as if she needed protection from Gawain.
Their words echoed through her. She broke free from Andrews’s embrace and moved to Gawain’s side, her fingers itching to touch his. She hoped he would comfort her, as Andrews had, but Gawain never would. Instead, his brows knit as he examined her. Did it just occur to him she was present?
“Of course. Father Addison, please escort Lady Aileana to her room and see that her maids attend her. These distasteful details are not a lady’s concern.”
His voice was too calm, as if he was unaffected. She barely kept from collapsing, yet Gawain stood aloof with the countenance of someone reviewing the crofters’ rents. She forced a weak smile, for inside he must be just as devastated as she. How she longed for some of his strength.
Father Addison ushered her from the stable. Above them, gloomy clouds parted and one brief shaft of sunlight shone through, reminding her of a recent sermon on Christ’s ascension. Aileana clutched her chest. Her uncle was gone forever.
Father Addison wrapped his arms around her and guided her up the stone steps to the castle keep. Her ever-faithful maid, Gwen, met them as they entered. Once in her chamber, Gwen draped a thick quilt over Aileana’s legs while she stared into the hearth, lulled by the dancing flames.
“My lady, would you care for some heather mead?” Gwen asked.
Aileana stirred. “Thank you, no.” Numbing emptiness nipped at her heart. Gwen produced a pouch of dried valerian and sprinkled some into the mead, passing it to her anyway.
Aileana held up her hand. “No, Gwen, I don’t want anything to help me sleep.”
“Come my lady, you will need this tonight.”
Aileana placed the goblet on the side table. Her uncle’s warm smile was the comfort she needed. “I fear nothing will help just yet.” Her voice cracked. “So much must be done.”
“There’s nothing that cannot wait until the morn. And your uncle would want you to take care of yourself.”
She sighed as fresh tears flowed, giving in to the ache in her chest.
Gwen placed loving arms around her. “’Twill be all right.”
Aileana drew a deep breath. As much as she would like to bury herself in her grief, there were responsibilities which fell to her. Much would change with her uncle gone. For starters, she would have to marry. Was she ready for this? Her hands shook as she reached for the sweet draught. Perhaps it would help.
She sipped. The normally fragrant drink was tasteless.
She recognized the worry on Gwen’s face. Aileana was fortunate to have such a woman for a lady’s maid. Gwen should have had her own maid instead of serving others. Still, she endured her demotion in status with grace.
The maid squeezed her shoulders. “Please, my lady. Drink up, ’twill help.”
“Thank you, no. I cannot drink it.” She clattered the goblet onto the table and pushed it away.
“I wish there was something I could do for you,” Gwen said.
“There is nothing anyone can do. I’m an orphan, one of means, but an orphan just the same.”
The word conjured demons from the past as piercing as winter’s north wind.
Aileana never knew her mother. Regarding her father, Uncle always said, “Do not seek revenge. Seek meaning.” Despite these tragedies, she might not be the person she was today without them. Still, losing parents when one is so young is nothing compared to losing them when one is older with a lifetime of memories to lament. Uncle Iain was the one parent she’d had for most of her life.
“I feel helpless,” Gwen said.
Aileana reached for her hand as more tears flowed. “I will come through this, Gwen. I just need some time to accept what has passed and what must occur.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gawain and I will marry.”
Gwen’s jaw dropped a fraction. “My lady, your uncle—”
“Uncle and I never discussed it. Nevertheless, as he is my cousin, he is the most logical choice to keep the Chattan line going. A new chief must be established right away. As you know, these matters are never left to sit. For the clan’s sake, the wedding will be arranged soon enough, but our betrothal must occur within the next few days.”
Her insides fluttered. It was necessary, but her life was changing faster than she ever thought possible. Entering into this new stage without her uncle to guide and encourage her was unfathomable, but it was her duty. “I shall marry Sir Gawain and he will be our new chief. I am certain ’tis what Uncle intended.”
Gwen’s grip on Aileana’s hand tightened.
“Gwen, what is it? You realize that while he and I are not yet betrothed, the ceremony would no doubt have occurred after my birthday.”
“But Gawain—”
“Must I always remind you? He is a knight and deserves our respect.” Aileana retrieved her hand from Gwen’s grasp. “We do so by addressing him as he is due. I’m uncertain why you find that impossible to remember.” Why did Gwen react so? She trusted the woman’s judgment under normal circumstances. On the subject of Gawain, their opinions differed.
Aileana had known Gawain most of her life and considered him a decent man, even if his thoughts and feelings were a mystery. Six months ago he’d arrived at Chattan Castle, newly knighted and, at her uncle’s bidding, took up the constable’s post. It was beneath his status as her intended, but they were shorthanded and Uncle Iain posted him because he required someone he could trust. Who better than family? Gawain had endured the post without complaint.
Since his return, Gwen had treated him with a bare minimum of respect to his face and expressed her dislike in private. Her primary objection was his reserved demeanour. Suspicious, she called it. Aileana had no clue how his countenance could be considered criminal.
Gwen inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. “My lady—” A soft knock at the door interrupted her. Gwen’s expression was apologetic as she crossed the room. A moment later, Father Addison entered.
Despite his years at Chattan Castle, this marked the first occasion he’d ever entered Aileana’s private domain. He scanned her room, almost bold in his perusal. She watched his gaze trail over the crimson velvet curtains accenting her canopied bed. Similar draperies hung above the shuttered windows, illuminating the winding staircase to the right. He lingered on this detail. It led to the east tower and overlooked the loch. Why would he care about that?
“Lady Aileana, how do you fare? Is there anything I may do for you?” Father Addison wrung his hands together. His brow was drawn tight and his gaze flicked around the room instead of looking at her. What did he seek?
“Has my uncle been blessed?”
“Aye, m’lady, he has. Andrews can speak with you about the arrangements if you wish.”
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“Can that not wait until the morn?” Gwen asked.
“Aye, of course.” His gaze rested on Aileana at last. He smiled; his expression full of the warmth she was used to. Curious.
“Father, might I have a word with you?” Gwen asked. She crossed her arms and grazed her fingers along her sleeves.
“Is something amiss, Gwen?” Aileana asked.
“Not at all. Just a question I have about tomorrow’s service, my lady.”
Aileana was so tired and her bed held the promise of respite from the horrific day behind her. The one ahead would be no easier, but rest would help. “I’ll see myself to bed, Gwen. You may leave with Father Addison.”
She just had the words out when Gwen ushered the priest through the door.
Aileana removed her girdle, the one her uncle had ordered from Edinburgh last year. She folded the gold stitched piece and placed it on the edge of her bed. She untied the sleeves and sides of her gown and scooped the thick garment over her head, laying it across a chair.
Her limbs were heavy and her head pounded. She blew out the candles and crawled into her down-filled bed. The quilt’s weight was more effective than Gwen’s valeria, soothing her body and pulling her toward sweet slumber.
Aileana arose at sunrise the next morning, climbed the stairs to the tower, and gazed out beyond the palisades to the loch beyond. On a morning like this, Uncle Iain would point out the mirror image of the mountains and water. She closed her eyes and drank in the fresh air, willing her anguish to settle.
Many clansmen would come to mourn today. She must face these men her uncle was honour bound to protect for they were more than that to him—they were brothers. She linked her fingers together. Before this day was over, her grief would surely coil around her heart and consume her. She breathed in the cool air as deep as she could, as if that one act alone would give her the courage she needed.
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