Awakening His Highland Soul (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Maddie MacKenna

  “Ye have me word that I will nae dae anything dishonorable, Jeames said. “O’ course, if ye’d like Ables to show ye tae yer quarters, I more than understand.”

  Beatrice looked over at the old kilted Highlander. The man looked genial enough, certainly, but Beatrice would not have trusted him to get himself up multiple flights of stairs, let alone help her hobble up.

  She looked back at Jeames: tall and muscular, looking strong enough to pull a carriage.

  “Very well,” she said. “I consent to be carried one more time.”

  The ghost of a smile flitted across Jeames’s face. “Very good, me Lady,” he said.

  Once more, the burly Highlander scooped her gently into his muscular arms and picked her up with as little difficulty as he might pick up a sack of cabbages.

  Beatrice’s head was swirling with amazement, disbelief, and shock–all alloyed with a throbbing pain that was building in her ankle and wrist. Even this whirling maelstrom of emotions and feelings, however, could not absolutely distract her from the feeling of Jeames Abernathy’s strong arms around and underneath her.

  I know many strongmen in the circus, but these are the muscles of a man who has become strong not as part of an act, but through riding and fighting and exploring, no doubt.

  The Scotsman carried Beatrice quickly through a vast entrance hall bedecked with antlers and tapestries, weapons and pennants and a few dark portraits. The walls were all built from rough-cut stone and there were torches set in iron brackets, which cast flickering, moving shadows across the walls. It was grander than any building Beatrice had set foot in, as if she had stepped into the setting of an old nursery story.

  The chambers that Beatrice had been allotted were spacious and luxuriously rustic in their decoration and furnishing. A huge four-poster bed sat in one corner of the chamber, its surface piled with quilts and blankets.

  What would Fritha and the other girls make of this, I wonder?

  A bright, merry fire flickered and danced in the hearth. The fireplace was constructed of river stone and seemed to take up most of one wall. There were three low, comfortable-looking chairs set around it and, in front of it, a large, shaggy cowhide rug – obviously procured from some unfortunate Highland cattle.

  Jeames set Beatrice down in one of the chairs. Despite her determination at staying cross with the Highland noble, she could not help but notice how tender the man was when he eased her into the chair.

  Just for a moment, as he released her, the two of them were so close that she felt his breath on her neck.

  “I’ll have the castle physician attend tae ye immediately, Miss Beatrice,” Jeames said, straightening.

  “Oh–yes,” Beatrice stammered, her heart fluttering oddly for a second or two. “Yes. Very good. My thanks.”

  * * *

  “I appreciate ye allowin’ the lass tae stay, Faither,” Jeames said later that evening.

  His father and he sat in the Laird’s study by the fire, whilst outside a fierce storm blew across the moorland. The shutters on the windows rattled, the gale whistling through the myriad chinks in the castle’s stone walls.

  “Oh, aye, think nothin’ of it, lad,” Andrew Abernathy said to his son. “What kind o’ Laird would I be if I didn’t allow me only son and heir tae bring injured circus performers back tae the castle, as he might’ve done a stray fox cub when he was a wee lad?” He regarded his son with his twinkling green eyes.

  “What’re ye getting’ at, Faither?” Jeames asked. Try as he might, he had a horrible feeling that a blush had crept up his neck and suffused his cheeks.

  “Well, it’s nae every faither who’d show such leniency when it comes tae the impulses of his son, is it?”

  When Jeames did not answer, the Laird laughed.

  “Ah, Jeames, I’ve kenned ye yer whole life! I ken when somethin’ snares yer attention and yer interest. I see it written across yer face as plain as day.”

  Jeames took a swig from his cup of wine and stared sulkily into the fire. He tried not to let his traitorous face give anything else away. He could feel his faither looking at him and smiling that knowing smile of his.

  I love the man, but damn me if he daenae chafe me sometimes!

  The two of them sat in silence in front of the fire for a minute more. Then the Laird said, “So, what have ye planned for our guest?”

  “Planned?”

  “Aye, lad. How are ye goin’ tae fill the lass’s time?”

  “Faither, I ken ye’re jestin’ wi’ me, but the lass is hurt, ye ken.”

  “Aye, I doubt it nae. But still, when she’s recovered…”

  Jeames took another draught of wine, swilling it about his mouth to buy himself some time.

  What indeed. Perhaps a ride around the best of the MacKenzie lands or a picnic or–

  “I hadnae thought about it,” he said.

  His father chuckled next to him.

  “O’ course ye havenae,” he said.

  “Besides,” Jeames replied. “Lady Margery will nae doubt require the bulk o’ my attention, seein’ as she too is stayin’ as our distinguished guest.”

  He kept his tone light and civil. As rough and able an outdoorsman as Jeames Abernathy was, he was nothing if not well-mannered. He, like his father, was a man who knew the importance of a kind word and a good deed. He had been raised by the Laird to know and respect just how much power words had on and over people.

  “Aye, that she will, lad,” the Laird of the MacKenzie clan agreed. “Remiss o’ me tae forget that Lady Brùn was here.” He stroked carefully at the luxuriant moustache that adorned his upper lip. “O’ course, it comes to me ears that Lady Brùn returned to the castle this evenin’– not long after yerself, come tae think of it–feelin’ slightly out o’ sorts.”

  Jeames raised a cautious eyebrow at the Laird. “Out o’ sorts?” he asked.

  “Aye, taken ill she was…or so the physician tells me.”

  “Nothin’ serious?”

  “Nay, nay,” the Laird said. “She came in complainin’ of hot flashes and the like. The physician sent her tae bed wi’ a bowl o’ soup and a crust o’ bread.”

  Jeames’s father tweaked his moustache again in an overly casual fashion.

  “The physician tells me she’ll be abed for a few days at least.”

  A few days! A few days o’ freedom–o’ time tae meself, I should say.

  “That’s a cryin’ shame,” Jeames said.

  “Aye, poor lass.”

  The fire popped and crackled in the grate, the pine logs shifting. The Laird’s study was one of Jeames’s favorite rooms in the castle. It had always been so, ever since he was a boy. It was a place of quiet and safety, of reflection.

  “There was much I wanted tae show Lady Margery of our home. Of the land and the castle.”

  “Very commendable of ye. Still, I’d like ye not tae waste those carefully prepared plans o’ yers. I think it’d be a fine and generous act if ye were to use those plans fer the benefit of our new guest.”

  “Ye wouldnae mind, Faither?” Jeames asked, looking sideways at the Laird.

  “Nay, lad. O’ course I wouldnae. Scottish hospitality demands it.”

  Is the old fellow laughin’ at me? I swear that’s a grin runnin’ ‘round the corners of his mouth.

  The Laird poured himself another measure of wine. He offered the jug to his son. Jeames held out his cup and his father poured him another drink. The sound of the jug against the edge of the cup and the rain outside lashing against the castle walls made for a very comfortable atmosphere.

  “If Lady Margery were to ken of it…”

  “She’ll be in bed, lad. Asides, she’s a fair woman. Surely, she’d nae grudge the heir to this land proudly showin’ one of our English cousins ‘round the place?”

  Jeames nodded his head slowly. “Nay,” he said. “Nay I s’pose nae.”

  The two men sat in companionable silence for a while longer. Then Jeames got to his feet, stretched and sighe
d.

  “Ah, well, I’ll be headin’ off tae take me rest now, Faither. Goodnight tae ye.”

  As he walked out of the study and closed the door softly behind him, Jeames heard his father chuckle softly to himself again and say, “Aye, goodnight tae ye, lad. Have yerself some fair dreams.”

  6

  The following morning dawned as fair and as fresh as any painter could have dreamed. The storm that had howled through the rowan trees and swept like an ocean over the tors had blown itself out. The sky was a rain-washed blue and there was an invigorating, crisp bite in the air.

  Beatrice opened her eyes. For a moment the memory of the previous evening eluded her. She stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling –stone, not canvas–and a ripple of panic raced through her innards.

  What the–Where am I?

  Then her memories flooded back.

  I’m in a castle…In a fancy bedroom in a castle!

  She lay back, savoring the sensation. Never in her life had she lain in such a bed as this. She pressed at the mattress with her hand, marveling at its softness.

  That surely is not straw or horsehair or wool. Those are feathers!

  She closed her eyes, reveling in the soft give under her.

  Ballantine had never starved his performers; he had always provided them with food and a dry place to lay their heads. He paid them what little he could, when he was able, but most of the time his circus troupe worked because the circus was their home and their fellow performers were their family. Comforts of this sort were rare to them; heard of, but never seen.

  So lifted were Beatrice’s spirits by her situation, that she forgot what it was that had caused her to wake in this strange room. She flipped back the blankets and gave a strangled yelp. Too late she remembered her wrist.

  Foolish woman! It was not because you became a princess or a great lady that you ended up sleeping the night away in this fine room. Your own clumsiness landed you here.

  The memory of falling off the back of a horse for the first time in her life as a performer came a face swimming into her mind’s eye.

  Jeames Abernathy, heir to the MacKenzie lairdship…

  Clutching at her bandaged wrist, Beatrice gingerly swung her legs out of bed, remembering her ankle this time. Carefully, she put weight on her hurt foot. She winced, gritted her teeth, and tried again. It was, as the physician had told her the previous evening, quite badly sprained. However, a life on horseback in a circus does not allow for self-pity, nor does it leave one without a certain toughness.

  Make it to the chair, Beatrice. And get dressed.

  Beatrice managed to hobble to one of the comfortable armchairs by the still smoldering fire. Her circus clothes were draped over the back of it. With more than a little difficulty, and many gasps of pain, she managed to dress herself. She then collapsed into the chair with a great sigh.

  Well done, but where do I go from here?

  As if in answer to her thoughts, there was a tentative knock at the door.

  “Um, yes?”

  “May I come in, Miss Beatrice?”

  A spark of resentment kindled in Beatrice’s breast at the sound of Jeames’s voice.

  It’s his fault that I fell from the horse. His fault that I hurt myself.

  “Yes. You may enter,” she said, stiffly.

  The door swung open and the Highlander strode boldly into the room. There could be no uncertainty; the man had a commanding presence.

  And why would he not? This is his house after all.

  “Good morning, Miss Beatrice,” Jeames greeted her. He was dressed in the usual practical but fetching Highland ensemble that he had been wearing the day before, and a broad smile lit his handsome face. The dark brown eyes were sparkling with a sort of boyish enthusiasm that Beatrice could not help but be attracted to.

  For a reason that was fast becoming less and less reasonable, even to herself, Beatrice refused to be drawn into overly friendly talk with the Laird’s son.

  “You know,” she said. “I’m a merely a commoner, like so many of the people that you and your father preside over. It would be fine if you were to just call me Beatrice. Everyone else does.”

  To her private delight, the Highlander went slightly pink.

  “As ye wish, Miss–I mean, Beatrice.”

  “And, should I call you ‘your Lairdship’ or ‘Master Abernathy’ or…?”

  The smile reappeared on Jeames’s face. He laughed. “Nay, nay, nay, please whatever ye do, daenae call me that! Firstly, me faither is the Laird, secondly, I daenae carry meself with such airs. Jeames will be more than fine, if that’s alright wi’ ye, Beatrice.”

  Beatrice nodded. She was very aware that the corners of her mouth seemed to be intent on turning upwards in a foolish smile.

  She and Jeames looked at each other for a long moment in silence, both seemingly unsure of what to say now that the business of what to call each other had been cleared up.

  You never fell from a mount before this man showed his face. It was his fault that you let William down!

  Beatrice looked away from the young Scotsman’s pleasant face. She let her eyes wander about the room in aloof sort of way.

  Was it his fault, though? He was just sitting there as a spectator. He did nothing. Well, that’s not true. He was the first to come to your aid after you had fallen.

  Beatrice’s eyes moved back to Jeames’s handsome face. He was still standing by the door.

  “What can I do for you, Jeames?” she asked, in a soft voice that surprised even herself. She cleared her throat and added, “And please remember, I’ve had my fill of being carried everywhere.”

  “Well, I was wonderin’ whether ye’d do me the honor of lettin’ me escort ye about the castle and grounds? I’d enjoy showin’ ye a few of me favorite places.”

  Beatrice felt her heart swell slightly in her chest.

  “In truth,” she said, “I would like that very much. However, I only just made it to this chair from the bed. I fear that walking anywhere will prove to be quite difficult, if not impossible.”

  Jeames’s face fell at her words. Beatrice found herself enjoying the fact that the young man’s emotions were written plain on his face, unashamedly out for all of the world to see. It was an honest face. A face that inspired trust.

  “O’ course,” he said, shaking his head. “How daft o’ me.”

  His brow furrowed and his head bowed as if in deep thought, Jeames walked into the room and flopped comfortably down into the chair opposite Beatrice.

  Having been raised, to all intents and purposes, in an enormous tent shared by about fifty other people, Beatrice never really spared a thought for impropriety. However, in this setting, something inside of her rather thought that Jeames should have asked permission before sitting down.

  But it is his home. His castle.

  “It’s a shame that ye’re hurt so,” he said, more to himself than. “Ye sit a horse better than I’ve ever seen anyone ride before in me life.”

  “You wanted to take me riding?” Beatrice asked.

  “Aye. There’s some beautiful country in these parts, and me faither has some wonderful horses made for runnin’ through the heather.”

  “That sounds–that sounds lovely,” Beatrice said. “I’m sorry about this.” She gestured at her bandaged foot and wrist.

  “Ye’ve nothin’ to be sorry fer, lass,” the young man said, smiling again. “It was a joy tae watch ye.”

  Beatrice grinned sheepishly. “Until I fell?”

  Jeames laughed softly, his eyes shining. “Aye, until ye took yer tumble–but even that, ye did with grace aplenty.”

  He’s teasing me!

  This time it was Beatrice’s turn to laugh and blush.

  The silence stretched again. Beatrice realized that she was smiling at the floor. She tried to gain control of her face, but it was hard. There was something about this Scotsman, something that simply invited smiles.

  “So, now that we’ve agreed upon my ill
-suiting to any sort of physical activity, how do you propose to entertain me, Jeames?” Beatrice asked. She said the words boldly–far more boldly than she, in fact, felt. But, if the circus had taught her anything, it was how to be confident and put on an act.

  Jeames’s deep brown eyes turned to hers from where he had been gazing thoughtfully at the floor.

  “Well,” he said slowly. “I’ll nae lie tae ye, it does somewhat stymie mostly all the plans I’d considered to impress ye.”