A Highlander Forged in Fire
They thought they were strangers… Their lives were connected by a secret…
Kenna Kendrick
Contents
Thank you
About the book
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
But there’s more…
Afterword
Do you want more Romance?
Fighting for a Highland Lass
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Thank you
About the Author
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About the book
Two children cursed by birth, blood feuds and a secret that will change their lives forever...
Isla Armstrong lost her parents when English enemies, the Musgraves, destroyed their land. But fate was kind to the little girl. The childless Laird of the Elliot clan adopted her and raised her as his daughter. Growing up, Isla desired above all else to avenge the blood of her family and make her adopted father proud. One day, she meets a handsome blacksmith who will wake her passions and compromise everything she worked hard for.
Fraser McGinn was not an ordinary blacksmith. Blessed with impeccable craftsmanship but also with a mysterious birthmark at his hands, he was inspiring admiration and fear amongst his kinsmen. When he meets the daughter of the Laird, Fraser finds it impossible to resist the desire he feels for her. Unbeknownst to him, his efforts to approach her will bring to light secrets that would be best to stay hidden.
Will Fraser find the strength to fight for her? And what is the secret that threatens to tear their lives apart?
They thought they were strangers… their lives were connected by a secret…
* * *
Prologue
Scottish Borders 1525
The border country, that no man’s land between the kingdoms of England and Scotland, was a wild and lawless place, the home of bandits and outlaws; a place which travelers feared and honest men were loath to tread, where forces loyal to the crown on both sides found themselves at odds with those who owed loyalty only to themselves. A place in which no man wished to linger, except for those who called it home.
The border clans kept an uneasy peace between themselves, a state of perpetual war existing with their southern neighbors. Theirs was a rule of law, which used the sword first and words second. Such had been the order of things these many centuries past. They knew only violence, raised to be warriors in that unforgiving world. A world of raids and skirmishes, death and disease, and the constant threat of attack.
It was a hard place, and those who lived upon the moors and marches of that lonely border were hardened men with little to cheer their souls. One such man was my father, Alistair Elliott, laird and master of the old castle at Kirklinton, a large imposing fortification, once a farmhouse, which had grown to be a formidable defense against the English threat, He was a good man, but with a secret, one which took many years for me to discover, and caused much heartache in the process. Kirklinton was a wild place amidst the heathers, commanding a fine view across the English marshlands to the south and the Scottish hills to the north.
At this time, my father was thirty-two years old, though his browbeaten appearance and battle-scarred face made him appear much older. His wife, Ailsa, my mother, at least that is what I referred to her as, had born him no children, and with no heir to call his own, he had lost hope of seeing the name of Elliott continue after he was gone. My father was a warrior at heart, unforgiving, and hard upon his men. He was happiest when riding out to war, and it was often said that the Laird preferred the company of his sword to that of his wife. My mother was a hard woman, little given over to emotion, though I loved her dearly. After all, she was the only mother I had. But my father was angry with her for not bearing him a son, and when, for the fourth time, she failed to deliver the promised child, he flew into a rage and neglected the vows of his wedding day.
In the castle, which was more a fortified farmhouse than a keep, was employed a young lass by the name of Lena McGowan. I did not know her until much later, but she worked hard, her mother having died when she was very young. She was a pretty wee thing, with black hair and soft, white skin, quite different from the other servants. Her large blue eyes and pretty face offered an attraction to any man, not least one who feels his wife has failed him and is seeking solace elsewhere.
It was my father who approached her first, seeing the young servant as a possession for his own pleasure, though as she later told me, she did little to resist. He had been drinking heavily with the other clansmen, toasting a raid across the border on the home of the Musgrave family, sworn enemies of our family, and with whom a long blood feud had been endured.
“Ye’re looking very pretty tonight, lass,” he said as he found her at her work, scrubbing the steps which led up to the hall above, where the dogs would lie at night before the embers of the fire and many a whiskey was consumed in honor of this or that victory or raid, such things being my father’s chief occupation. It was quiet, the rest of the clan having gone to their rest, while Lena saw to the unending list of chores which my mother had commanded her to undertake.
“Thank ye,” she replied, blushing as my father sat himself down next to her on the step.
“And a pretty lass like ye should not be working so hard when everyone else is in their beds,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and running it down her arm as he smiled at her, tilting his head on one side.
Once again, she blushed but had no qualms in allowing his hand to run farther over her breast. My father was a handsome man in his youth, and it was well known among the servants that his eyes often strayed where perhaps they should not.
It was wrong, and they both knew it, but the combination of drink and lust was strong, and the two gave in to their desires there and then. Th
at night, as a storm blew up around the castle, their passions were aroused, and when my mother awoke in the night, she found her husband absent from their bed.
It was not long before it became clear that young Lena, the pretty servant girl, was with child, and much rumor and speculation circulated as to who the father might be. She was unmarried, and it was said she offered her favors to anyone who wished it. Young lasses like that are always falling foul of such rumors, and when they are too old to be attractive, the second accusation is witchcraft, which has seen many an innocent woman to her death. An unmarried girl in such a state was a thing to be reviled, and it was only due to my father’s benevolence that she was not thrown out immediately, a fact that caused even more rumors to spread.
Was his kindness the result of guilt? Others had seen him watching her, just as he did the other servant girls who came and went. But Lena was different; she was pretty, and the labors of her work had not yet taken their toll upon her. My mother had her suspicions, and she questioned my father repeatedly as to why he would not cast young Lena out for her wicked, whoring ways. When I was younger, I used to wonder why there seemed an unspoken animosity between them. But now that I know the truth, I can see that her heart must have broken so fervently at his betrayal, I know mine would, as well.
But my father dismissed her murmurings, and still, Lena remained, seeing to her duties in the castle, as the day of the child’s birth approached. She had no one to see to her needs, except for a kindly old maid who worked in the kitchens, who herself had born five children in her long life, and it was she who guided Lena through that most difficult time.
Nine months after that encounter on that stormy night, Lena gave birth to a boy. It was then that the answer to his lineage became clear. The baby was healthy, kicking and screaming its way into the world as Lena lay back in exhaustion on a bed of hay in the stables, the only place that my mother would allow her to birth. The old maid, who had held her hand throughout, passed the baby to its mother, and let out a deep sigh, as she shook her head.
“There is nae doubtin’ who the father is, lass,” she said as they looked down at the baby, now at its mother’s breast.
The little baby, lying peacefully in its mother’s arms, was possessed of a fine head of hair, black and thick just like my father’s. On his right hand was a birthmark, running from his little finger along to the wrist, and he had a face quite like his mother’s, even at this most tender age.
Lena sighed and cradled him in her arms, the birth had been long and difficult, and she felt exhausted. What might happen next was of little concern, all that mattered now was that the baby was safe, and she had him in her arms.
“What might ye call the wee lad?” the maiden asked her, gently stroking the baby’s head.
“Fraser,” she replied, “after my father.”
Chapter One
Later that day, my father heard of the baby’s birth, and he visited Lena in secret to see the child and check upon her condition. When he saw the baby, he shook his head and sighed, unwilling to even take wee Fraser in his arms.
“He is yer bairn, too,” Lena said as he turned away from her.
“‘Tis nae bairn of mine,” he replied, and from that moment onward, he had nothing to do with the child or Lena, a fact for which I cannot forgive him, though perhaps I understand why.
But my mother was even more unforgiving. Rumor soon went around of the baby’s black hair and the birthmark upon its hand, which some said was a sign of Lena’s indiscretions in the child’s lineage. It was clear that Fraser was the son of an Elliott, and my mother flew into a rage, demanding that my father throw her out, else she would do so herself.
My father had no choice; he was master of his clan, a noble man, at least that is what he liked to think. But my mother had spoken, and reluctantly, he sent Lena away, the child taken from her and given to the old kitchen maid, who assured the young lass she would take good care of him.
Lena was distraught, and she begged to be allowed to stay and to keep the child. But my mother would not hear of such a thing, and it was she who ensured that Lena was put out of the house, without so much as a crust of bread. She could be cruel as well as kind, and perhaps it was her own inability to give birth, which so soured her against the poor servant girl.
“Ye are nothin’ but a wee whore,” she cried, as she slammed the door of the castle, leaving Lena alone in the cold and damp of that bleak winter morning.
A young lass, alone, and without the support of a man has little choice but to seek refuge wherever she can. The borders are a dangerous place for anyone, not least a poor servant girl fleeing in disgrace. Lena took to the road and somehow found her way south across the border and into England. She begged at the pitiful hovels of the peasants and sought refuge in the stables of an inn for the night. The landlord took pity upon her and allowed her to scrub pots and sweep out the hearths for a few pennies. But he had no permanent employment for her, and besides, his was a respectable establishment. While he could be kind, he had no wish to associate himself with a young lass such as Lena, a disgraced and unwanted thing, unloved by anyone.
She went on her way, dejected and mournful, as she lamented the loss of Fraser, and found herself at the gates of Musgrave castle. The Musgraves were a noble English family, who kept the King’s order on the borders, sworn enemies of our clan, and no friend to any Scot. I have been unfortunate enough to have many dealings with this family, and I can say with surety that they are among the cruelest and most unpleasant of people who inhabit the lowlands between England and Scotland.
“What do you want here, girl?” the guard on the gate said, looking her up and down with disdain, “be gone, Sir Percy does not allow such things as you to cross his threshold.”
“Please, I have nothin’ I beg ye for a bed, somethin’ to eat, please,” she replied, clasping her hands together, the wind biting coldly around her as she shivered before him.
The guard laughed.
“A Scot, a wee lass, we do not give charity to such as you. Return to your own people and be thankful I do not give you a kicking,” the guard replied, turning away in disgust, as Lena began to cry.
But at that moment, Sir Percy Musgrave himself arrived at the gates of the castle. He had been out hunting and was returning with his retinue, riding up to the gates with the spoils of the hunt. He was a politician, an English nobleman, a man who considered himself principled while being entirely not so. He considered the Scots to be barbarians, a danger to the civility of Englishman to the south, a threat to be countered, and he hated my father.
“Open the gates, man, what are you waiting for?” he cried to the guard, who hurried to do his master’s bidding, “and what is this, a peasant girl begging, be gone now.”
But Lena knelt before him and begged to be given somewhere to rest.
“Please, sir, I have nothin’ and have been banished by my mistress, I was in service, but my master mistreated me.”
Sir Percy waved his hand at her in dismissal, but what she said next caused him to turn with surprise, a smile playing across his face.
“It was Alistair, Laird of the Elliott’s, who used me so badly, sir, I bore his child, but he would have nothin’ to dae with the bairn, which has now been snatched from me. I am beggin’ ye, sir, please help me,” Lena said, kneeling in the mud of the castle gateway.
“Alistair Elliott, you say. What a terrible thing to do, and doesn’t this prove just how cruel these vicious Scots can be,” Sir Percy said, turning to his men, who nodded. “Very well, girl, you shall have your bed, and you may work too, though you shall work hard. But you shall also tell me everything you know about Alistair Elliott and everything you know about that clan. Do you hear me?”
Lena nodded, relieved to simply have found a place to lay her head, and Sir Percy had her taken in. His own wife had just given birth to a son named Howard, and Lena was given the responsibility for caring for him as nursemaid. It was a poor substitute for her own we
e Fraser, but Lena did her best, watching the child grow big and strong.
There was little she could tell Sir Percy about my father. Only that he was a man hardened by war who would not yield easily to English advances. As the years went by, the two men fought skirmishes amidst the marshlands and mounted raids back and forth across the border. That was how I came to be my father’s daughter, in a manner of speaking, but it was that happy fact that also led to my encounter with Sir Percy and all that followed hence.
A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Page 1