The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection

by J'nell Ciesielski

Her gaze wandered up the river, then swept slowly back to him. “I am sorry Abraham was killed. He did not deserve to die in such a way, but he did not stay long inside my heart.” She laid her free hand to her chest. “It does not sorrow in the way of yours.”

  When had he last dreamed of holding Moira? It used to be every night—even every day—but he had not dreamed of her since ... when? Not since before Nab’s arrival. Not since his fever sought to bring him to the grave. He gave a small shake of his head. “She is at rest, and ’tis time that I am as well.”

  A question flashed through her eyes, and Lachlan’s pulse jumped. He reached for her other wrist. His fingers trailed over her palm as he drew her hand into his until both were captured. He studied her face, from the smoothness of her brow to the dark lines arching her eyes. High cheekbones drew a line to a narrow chin, past full lips. There his gaze settled. Her lips parted slightly, and Lachlan tilted his head.

  Shutting off the sky and trees, they leaned together, and he brushed his lips across hers. He felt their shape with the barest graze. Then again, until he found their purchase. A blaze coursed through him, and he yielded to the taste of her. Their hands parted, and Wenonah’s slid around him. He stirred at the passion in her kiss. His hands slipped beneath her hair and tilted her face upward so that he might deepen the kiss in return.

  Hunger such as he’d forgotten—hunger of which his dreams were only a weak reminder—consumed him. He wanted more ... needed more ...

  And then Waaseyaa cried.

  Wenonah pulled back. In an instant, they separated, both breathless, but Lachlan’s need was unabated. Her hair was loose in its ties. She pushed a wisp off her flushed cheek as she withdrew.

  Lachlan watched her tend the infant, her footsteps light in their moccasins, her shape calling to his desire. He had to turn away. He leaned over the creek and again splashed water over his face and neck, repeating the ablutions until the heat inside settled and his racing heart calmed.

  “Wenonah ...” Her name was still an ache on his lips that sounded gruff to his ears. He faced her. She’d taken the baby from its bindings in the cradleboard and held her close, hushing her though there seemed no need. The bairn no longer cried.

  Wenonah’s expression had smoothed. She lifted her chin. “Lac-lan go back to Fort Pitt soon. No time for new woman. No place ...” Her eyes filled, and she shook her head, holding firm, though she trembled.

  Lachlan rose to his feet, his sore leg stiff from exertion. He limped to stand in front of her. She turned her face away, and he touched her chin, drawing it back. “No. I want ... I need ...” He dropped his chin to his chest. This was not what he meant to say. He looked at her again. He stroked her hair then grazed a finger over Waaseyaa’s downy cheek. “I will go to Fort Pitt when ’tis time, aye. But I want ye and Waaseyaa to go with me. There is a man there named Bouquet. He will bind us as one.” He swallowed down a ball of unexpected emotion that went deeper than desire. “I want ye for my wife, Wenonah.”

  Her eyes widened, glistening even fuller.

  “Do ye ken my meanin? Will ye marry me?”

  Tears sat on the fringe of her lashes, and she bent her head to dash them away.

  “Wenonah?”

  He cradled her cheek, and she leaned into his touch. He bent his head and kissed the baby’s crown. Waaseyaa stirred but slept on.

  Wenonah raised her head and whispered. “You want I belong to you?”

  “I want to be yer husband. I want”—he swallowed against the hunger returning—“I want to take care of ye and wee First Light of Dawn. I want to be her father. I want to love ye, Wenonah. I do love ye.”

  “I think ... I think I, too, love Lac-lan McRae.”

  The muscles in his body, in his face, relaxed. His heart filled up, and he grinned. “Ye love Lachlan McRea, do ye?”

  She nodded and smiled despite a tear escaping down her cheek.

  Lachlan moved closer over mother and child. “Ye love such a man as me, aye?” He spoke softly as his future opened before him with a surprising glory all its own.

  She nodded.

  “I do love ye, Wenonah.” He took the sides of her face in his hands once more, and this time when he kissed her, the urgency released, and all that had held him captive fled. Heaven smiled. The gates of his heart fell open and free.

  In acknowledgement and dedication to my Lord Jesus,

  Who opens doors when there seems to be no door.

  Naomi is an award-winning author who crafts her stories from a deer farm in the pristine north woods of Wisconsin, where she and her husband Jeff live as epically as God allows near the families of their five adult children. She enjoys roaming around on the farm, snacking out of the garden, relaxing in her vintage camper, and loving on her passel of grandchildren. Naomi is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, the Wisconsin Writers’ Association, and the Lake Superior Writers. Though she has written in a variety of venues, her great love is historical fiction. Naomi would love to connect with you around the web. Visit her at:

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  Monthly Newsletter: News of the Northwoods

  Dedicated to my ancestors from the villages of Inverness and Tullochgorham, Scotland, and from Aghadowey, County Londonderry, Ireland.

  As a result of the famines, enclosures, and desire for a better future they sought a new life in a faraway land—America.

  CHAPTER 1

  1816

  COLD WIND BLEW OFF the loch as Grant Cummings headed toward Loch Ness Tavern, one of the inns in Fort Augustus that catered to the men working on the Highland’s Caledonian Canal. His stomach growled, and he wanted nothing more than to enjoy a warm meal and head upstairs to his room. Pulling his woolen coat tighter, he crossed the cobblestone street.

  “Cummings, ye goin in for tea?” Mac, a co-worker, ambled toward him.

  “Aye, Mrs. Finlay promised Cullen skink, my favorite soup. Come ’n share some.”

  They entered the dark tavern. Mrs. Finley smiled and waved as they sat at a table. “I’ve been expectin ye. Still cold as the dickens out there? Who’s yer friend?”

  “Hamish MacDonald. He works with me on the canal locks. I been braggin about yer Cullen skink.”

  “Aye, some for me too, sweetheart.” Mac’s eyebrows lifted, his grin appeared hopeful as Mrs. Finley walked away. “She’s a bonnie lass.”

  “And married, so mind yer Ps and Qs.”

  Mac tossed his cap beside him. “Workin every day leaves little time for courtin anyway.” He laughed. “Bet a fine strappin fella like yerself likely has no problem.”

  “Not lookin for a lass till I settle someplace.”

  Mrs. Finley brought two bowls of the thick Scottish soup. “Plenty of smoked haddock in it today.” She studied Mac as she set a plate of bannocks, Scottish oatcakes, in front of him. “Ye new?”

  “Aye.” Mac took one of the bannocks. “’Tis quite a project Telford’s got goin here. I worked on the Craigellachie Bridge couple of years back.”

  “So, what do ye think of the Caledonian Canal?” She wiped her hands on her stained apron.

  “I’m a stonemason, so this promises steady employment.”

  “Well, come back. We’ve got the best vittles.”

  Mac nodded. “Ta. Smells heavenly.”

  She wandered off just as a Royal Post driver came through the door carrying a thick bundle.

  Mac shoved the first spoonful in his mouth as he peered at the post driver. “Not received any posts from my family in weeks. Makes me wonder what is happenin in Inverness. Hae ye heard from yer family? Ye said they lived south of Inverness.”

  Grant nodded. “In Tullochgorum near the River Spey and Cairngorm Mountains. Pa passed. He worked in the linen mills. But Ma is a flax spinner an
d still a crofter of sorts. ’Tis a fickle business though and they live at the mercy of a finicky laird. ’Twas why I took up construction. I could do more with my life ’n not rely on the whims of others.”

  Mac broke one of the bannocks and dipped it in his soup. “With Napoleon no longer at our heels, I’m thinkin the military will not need the canal for passage.” He plopped the softened oatcake into his mouth.

  “’Tis sixty miles through the Great Glen.” Grant put down his spoon. “Travelers and cargo ships will use the canal even if the Royal Navy no longer does.”

  Mrs. Finley approached with what looked like mail. “’Tis for ye.” She dropped the post on the table by Grant’s bowl. “Ye wantin more soup?”

  “Nay, ’tis enough for me,” Grant opened the letter from home. He glanced at the bottom. ’Twas signed by a neighbor and dated late April, over a week ago.

  Molly MacGregor mashed a creamy mixture of cabbage, leeks, and potatoes just as Scott came through the cottage door. “Is something troubling ye?” Her seven-year-old brother’s red face was a stark contrast to his flaxen hair.

  “Aye. Pa is grumpy again … and he is heading this way.”

  “Don’t worry, lad. I can soften him up with the colcannon I’m mashing. Wash and get the bowls out, please.”

  “Just dinna want him to skelp me for not helping him in the fields.” His eyes darted first to the door and back to her.

  “Ye know Pa is more bluster than action.”

  “Molly, where are ye, lass?” Pa’s voice carried through the open window.

  “In here, Pa, fixing yer favorite supper.” She wiped her hands on her apron and placed the large bowl and spoons on the table.

  She squared her shoulders, ready for whatever Pa would blow up about this time. Had it been an argument at the mill with one of the other weavers or some other irritant?

  Rory MacGregor came through the door. Jaw set, he slammed his hat on the table. His hacking cough had returned, piercing the quiet of the small stone cottage. He grabbed the damp dish rag to wipe his hands. “We need to go to America. Yer brother was right. There’s no future here.”

  She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Pa, don’t go getting yer Irish up. We have been over this before. Just because Ewan left doesn’t mean we must go. Ye have weaving work at the mill, an acre to tend, and I have the spinning. I just picked up another dress-making job for the landowner’s housekeeper.”

  “Everything is changing.” He continued coughing and having more trouble catching his breath than usual.

  “I’ll make ye some sow thistle tea with a bit of honey. ’Twill make it less bitter and soothe yer throat.” She bit her lip. If he could breathe easier, he wouldn’t be so hot-tempered.

  Molly spooned the colcannon into bowls and passed them around. “Pa, yer favorite.”

  “Ta.” He took a bite of the savory dish, then looked up. “Lad, we need to get to planting when we’re done. ’Tis sure to warm up soon. Coldest May I can remember in many a year.”

  “Aye, Pa.” Scott shot her a piercing look. Even a seven-year-old could see Pa was not up to planting flax.

  She nodded at her brother. “Take a nap, Pa, and let us do it. I can do the spinning later.”

  Pa’s eyes narrowed. “Hmph. Did I mention Séamus Macaulay is coming by to see ye?”

  “Nay, ye didna.” Molly put down her spoon and pushed the bowl away. “I have asked ye not to encourage him.”

  “Well, somebody needs to do the encouraging. Yer twenty-two years old. Ye should be married. The fellow not only works the mill but earns extra as an undertaker.”

  At that, rolling her eyes was unavoidable. She motioned to Scott when Pa started a bad coughing fit. “Help me get him to his pallet.” She took one arm while Scott came and took the other. “I’m not marrying Séamus Macaulay, so ye can get that out of yer head.”

  CHAPTER 2

  GRANT STARED AT THE letter on the table in front of him.

  Grant,

  Yer ma has taken ill, and I think ye needs to come home as soon as ye can.

  I’m caring for her and Keith.

  Lena Simpson

  His stomach knotted. Ma sick? She was as strong as an ox. His job on the canal would now be in jeopardy. He needed to let the foreman know he would be returning to Tullochgorum.

  Mac cocked his head. “Somethin wrong?”

  “’Tis news of home an I’m needin to leave.”

  An hour later, Grant had packed his belongings and settled his accounts at Loch Ness Tavern. He needed to find the foreman at the lock construction site to give notice. At least temporarily. Three or four days of travel through rugged and mostly uninhabited terrain was ahead. And still so cold for May.

  How was Keith handling Ma’s distress? Poor lad, only eight and still dealing with the loss of Pa but a year ago.

  Grant reached Tullochgoram and the family’s stone cottage after three long days of riding through rain-soaked bogs, rivers, and cold mountainous country. No one was at the cottage, a bad sign. A bitter taste rose in his throat. Perhaps Mrs. Simpson had taken Ma and Keith to their place. He rode the short distance to their nearest neighbor.

  Lena Simpson opened the door and welcomed him into the cottage. The pungent smell of peat and heat from the fire was as much a relief as seeing his brother huddled on the dirt floor. Keith’s eyes widened as he ran to him and buried his face in his side. Keith’s arms wrapped around his waist.

  He patted the back of his brother’s head as he glanced about the room. His and Lena’s eyes met. Only the low rumble of the peat fire broke the silence.

  “Have a seat. I will git ye a cup of tea to take the chill off.” As the small, slender woman moved toward the hearth, Grant lifted Keith’s chin. Tears filled the lad’s eyes.

  Dread swept through him. “’Tis good to see ye, brother. Come and sit.”

  Lena poured them each a cup and sat at the only other chair around the small table. “Angus is off herdin sheep. Will not be back till tomorrow.”

  “Sheep? What’s a crofter doin herdin sheep?”

  “With the cold ’n the heavy rains, we fear an ill flax harvest … the laird is evictin his tenants ‘n shiftin toward sheep raisin. We are lucky. Angus knew shepherdin, so the laird kept him on.”

  Grant took a sip of the tea. “And Ma?”

  “Isabella was failin for a while. She passed a week back, so we buried her side yer pa.”

  He swallowed hard. Tears would only make it harder for Keith, now staring at the tea in front of him. “Ta, Lena.”

  She stood and went to a shelf. “Yer ma left ye a note before she passed. Had the pastor write it.” She handed it to him.

  I’m sorry I could not see ye again. Ye were a good son. ’Tis time now for ye to care for Keith. The Cummings have been crofters in Tullochgorum, Invernesshire, for decades, but those days are bygone. Ye were right to find a different way, somethin better. Take Keith to Ireland where my sister Katherine Grant lives in Aghadowey, County Londonderry. There, ye can find buildin work, and my sister will help ye with Keith. Ye has an adventurous spirit, son. It may be God’s plan for ye. Brighter days are ahead for ye there.

  Remember, to keep God in yer heart ’n let Him guide yer steps. He works in ways ye canna ken.

  Grant sniffled and wiped the tears he had fought to keep at bay. Ireland? So many Scots had migrated to Ulster over the past seventy years. She might as well have told him to sail to America where cousin Gavin had gone.

  He was too weary to think straight.

  Lena poured more tea. “I was with Isabella when she spoke those words to the pastor. We had talked about it before. Yer ma was fond ’n trusted Katherine. Yer aunt says work and life is better there in Ulster.”

  “Please take me with ye wherever ye go.” Keith’s eyes were full of pain.

  “Dinna fret, lad. I’ll not leave ye.” He smiled at Lena. “I think we need to get home.”

  She packed a basket with bread and a couple of potatoes, on
ions, and turnips and handed it to him. “There is peat at yer home. Take some burnin peat with ye to get it started.” She shoveled some of the hot bricks from her own fire into a tin bucket.

  Grant took her hand. “Thank ye for takin care of Ma ’n Keith. Ye hae been a true friend.”

  “Dinna mention it.”

  Grant picked up the basket and bucket while Keith gathered his things. The lad hugged Lena before following him outside.

  Grant held the horse steady. “Ye ride. I can walk. ’Tis not far.” How was he to properly care for his brother and work? The lad was too young to leave alone.

  The only sound now from Pa was a rattle in his chest. Molly sat on a stool by his pallet with Scott next to her on another stool. She reached for Pa’s hand, and with her other hand, she held tight to Scott’s. “We’re right here, Pa.” Could he hear her or was he too far gone this side of heaven?

  Scott’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Pa’s not coughing anymore.” The lad’s free hand rested on Pa’s blanket.

  “’Tis because he hasn’t much time left here, dearie. He’ll be with Ma soon.” She let go of Scott’s hand. Struggling for a smile, she ran her fingers through his flaxen hair and caressed his damp cheek. “’Twill be all right.”

  The front door opened, and Katherine Grant came in carrying a kettle. “I came to spell ye if ye need a break.” She set the kettle down on the table and went to the hearth. “Brought soup and I can pour us some tea.”

  “Yer a treasure.” Molly offered as much a smile as she could muster.

  “Pa!” Scott called out.

  Pa’s eyes flew open, and his hand tightened on hers—for just a few seconds. Then his eyes closed, and his hand went limp. The rattle stopped.

  The air went out of her. Lips quivering, she reached over and kissed Pa’s forehead. “He’s gone.”

  Scott stood shaking beside her. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight before he pulled away. Scott bent down and kissed Pa.

  Molly took a deep breath. “Ye can go home with the angels now, Pa.” Her voice cracked. She and Scott stood, looking up, each with an arm around the other’s waist.