“Mother?” She asked, softly confused. There was something bothering her mother but she had not said anything and Magdalene wanted to know what it was.
“Hmm?”
“Is there…” she faltered. “Is there something bothering you?”
“There is,” her mother confirmed. “But I don’t know what yet. It is just an inkling.”
“Oh,” Magdalene surmised. “Well, goodnight to you then.”
There was a soft fire in the hearth and her nightclothes were laid out on the bed. She dressed quietly but a little numbly as the pain of her father’s death was still heavy in her chest. The memory of witnessing her father’s death sometimes presented itself as night terrors so she held out on sleeping for as long as she could, until sleep inevitably claimed her.
Dawns quickly bled into dusk and the hours felt like a blur to her, as they slipped into each other—hours turned to days and days into weeks. Sir Irgon had tried to approach her with soft greetings and casual conversation. The young man was undeniably very handsome, respectful and though she responded to his conversation kindly she was rather half-hearted about it as she was still out-of-sorts with grief.
She paid his compliments back with hers and once he had even offered to take her out riding but she felt no desire for company and regrettably refused him. He had taken her refusal with grace and she was thankful for that.
Each of those nights, Uncle John had the knight join them for supper. Magdalene could see the suspicions growing in her mother’s eyes just like hers. Why was her Uncle having this man there every night? Then, the fourth night, it all came crashing down.
“Magdalene,” the lord of the barony said proudly. Sir Irgon was standing beside him as a quiet shadow. “Come here, my beloved niece.”
Anxiously, she stood and went to her Uncle who took her hand and grasped it. He then smiled. “I have decided for you on the matters of your husband. Sir Irgon is who I have chosen.”
She felt stricken between the eyes, stunned to wordlessness, stinging with betrayal. Where was his vow to allow her until Michaelmas to marry and why did her Uncle just override his own words about Magdalene being able to give her voice into her choice of prospective husband? She had not even voiced an opinion on Sir Irgon.
Was that what it had been? Him approaching me about marriage?
Her mother was the first to react vocally. “Beg your pardon?”
Uncle John looked unfazed, “Sir Godfrey Irgon is Magdalene’s husband-to-be.”
“John!” Lady Larie snapped. “This is too sudden! You—”
“Finally decided for her,” Uncle John said calmly. “Time is slipping away. You must see that, Larie.”
Magdalene found her voice, “But you promised that I would choose too!” She launched herself out of her seat, outraged and dismayed. “You promised!”
“I did,” Uncle John agreed. “But this is your future, Magdalene, you need to be married to a man who has good standing and a future in this barony. You, too, were dragging your feet on this.”
“How could I have when I’m still grieving my father?” she cried. “I cannot just remove grief from my heart so suddenly to make room for a courtship, much less marriage! I cannot marry a man I don’t know!” Or love!
Uncle John’s face went flint-like, “And that was your fault. You shied away from all approaches Sir Irgon made to you for him to tell you himself. I thought it was only fitting to have it done and over with. Magdalene, we have already agreed on this. It is not up for discussion.”
The affairs of my heart are not up for discussion? How dare you?
Sir Gregory Irgon was about to speak but Magdalene had none of it. She turned and ran. She fled to her mother’s rooms, knowing that Uncle John did not have the bravery to breach her mother’s privacy and search for her.
Dropping to the seat there, she hunched over and held her face in her hands. What am I going to do? I cannot marry in this state? I’m not ready yet!
The soft buzzing of insects in the air got louder as the night deepened and time slipped away. She contemplated going back to her Uncle to apologize when her mother came in.
Her head snapped up, “Mother—”
“I was right! Gather your things, Magdalene,” her mother ordered. “John is pushing too much. You’re going to Scotland, tonight!”
Chapter 6
Edinburgh, Scotland
Four days of traveling southeast to Edinburg from his homeland had whispers of exhaustion flitting through Angus’ mind. Thankfully, years of training and days of travel over long distances had hardened him against the depletion others would have felt.
Traveling was not a trouble for him when all was well with the weather but when a sudden tempest had blown in and had swollen the lochs into breaking their banks and flooding the roads, not so much. Angus rode into the capital town damp and craving a deep bath, food, and a bed. Titan, however, had weathered the thigh-high waters in the road as if he were wading through a puddle.
He could not even think of going to fetter out who this woman was until he had some rest and good food. The first Inn he found was not one he was going to pass by in case of another. Angus paid a gold coin for a room, a bath, cooked food and stable room for his horse. He bathed droopily, ate mechanically while noting little more than that the warmth of the stew and then, sated, slept like a log.
Walking up after noonday felt strange to him but at least he was rested. Clean and fed, he left the inn with his thanks, guiding Titan to St. Cuthbert's kirk, a main church in the city. If she was a widow, as O’Hagan had said, chances were that she would have gotten married at the church or even had buried her husband there, so there would be a record of her name.
If he did not get it there, he would go to St. Giles. And if not there, he would go to St Margaret’s Chapel, despite it being private to the royal family. Whatever it took, he was not leaving Edinburgh without knowing who this witch was.
Alighting at the entrance of the dark-brick kirk, Angus crossed himself quickly before going to the open doors and slipping inside. Churches always had a singular smell to him. There was always a peculiar mix of incense, old wood, candle wax, and dampness. Luckily, he had arrived between masses and found a priest, shoulders bent while tending to a candle at the altar.
“Faither?” He asked, hesitatingly.
The robed man turned, revealing himself to be grey-haired with brown eyes. He bowed with a smile. “Bartholomew Buchanan at yer service. Welcome, son. How may I help ye?”
Angus’ eyes ran over the room, skipping from the altar to the carving of David and Goliath up ahead and the simple wooden pulpit, before going back to the priest. “I need to find a woman, Faither, and I am hoping ye can help me. Let’s sit.”
“What about this woman is troubling ye?” he asked.
Angus did not want to shock the man but the priest was a man of the cloth. Surely, he knew something about this—there were witches in the bible after all. “Me name is Angus Williamson, Laird Williamson of Ratagan. My home has a witch and I need to get rid of her.”
Thin eyebrows lifted. “A witch?”
Angus’ lips thinned as he clarified. “A fire witch, Faither. She uses fire to maim and kill those around her. I cannae have me people in danger much more. I have to send her to the grave meself, Faither. Forgive me for saying such in this holy place but I’ve had enough of her black deeds. I’ve been told that she is from here and that she is a widow. She came to Seabhag Crag after her husband died and left her a home there. Dae ye ken anyone rich enough who might have left his wife a home there?”
“Do you know when this husband died?”
“Roughly over five years ago,” Angus said, hoping the priest would remember. “I dinnae ken if she might have done something to make ye remember because I imagine that there would be a number of men who died in that time. She would have left Edina soon after.”
His thin brows furrowed and his brown eyes went vacant in memory before they sharpened. “I reme
mber. It was Lord Fenton and his wife Lady Perse. I remember because she was nae the normal grieving widow, she was… cold. Her husband had died after his mistress had killed him and she had even mentioned that her husband had left her because he had told her she was too old for him. She even spat in his coffin.”
Now, it was Angus’ time to be shocked. “On a dead man?”
“Aye,” the man’s lips twisted. “Shows how much she loved the man innit? She left the parish the very next day, saying there was nothing there for her.”
The Laird blinked once, then twice, and whistled lowly. “And yer sure this is her.”
“If anyone would have the chance to become a witch, I would lay me head on the cornerstone of this kirk that it would be her,” the priest added with a nod.
Angus nodded. “Aye, I ken it would be. Thank ye, Faither Buchanan.”
It was drawing close to the evening when he got back on Titan and walked him back towards the Inn. He had allowed the horse to amble down the road as he was thinking deeply and was not concentrating enough to ride. It was only when a tinny scream, suddenly cut off with a yelp, got his attention and by reflex he reached for his sword, sheathed at the side of the saddle.
Immediately reeling Titan in, Angus looked around for where the scream had come from. A flicker of something caught his eyes in the nearby bushes and he saw the flick of a horse’s tail before it was yanked away. The high-pitched neigh told him what he had seen was right. Jumping off Titan, Angus hefted the broadsword and used the point to part the thick foliage.
A few steps in he saw a scene that made his blood boil. A man had a woman up against a tree while another had hold of a horse’s reins. Both were leering at the defenseless woman and Angus snarled, “Let the lass go!”
His interruption did not take well to the two who spun to him, enraged that they had been disrupted. The one holding the horse growled, “Get out of here. This is none of yer business!”
“The lass there says it is,” Angus said tightly, grimacing at the large blue-purple bruise growing on the lass’ face. “Now, ye can leave with all yer body in one piece or ye can hobble off with one or two fewer limbs, pick yer choice.”
One man’s face flared with rage and he lurched at him with one fist raised. Angus easily ducked under the wild strike and spun around to slam the hilt of his sword in the middle of the man’s back, earning him a pained cry. The second, holding the horse’s reins, lurched, too, and Angus landed his fist in the middle of that one’s face. He felt the bone under his fist snap in half. The horse nickered in fright and bolted off.
The first man grabbed him from behind but Angus dropped to a knee and flung the man over his shoulder. Quickly, he darted up, slammed his heavily booted foot into the middle of the man’s chest, not caring about the choked huff coming from him, and held the point of his sword an inch away from the man’s heaving throat.
His eyes glared cold as ice chips. “Move and ye will die.”
The second one began to lurch to him but the sword swung to him, the light from the sun glinting ominously on it. “Ye too.”
Fear in the man’s eyes was so palpable that his skin went ash white. Slowly, he stepped back, the blood from his broken nose still dripping down his face, and then turned tail and ran. Angus turned his eyes back to the one under his boot. He lifted his foot and glared, “Run.”
The man scrambled up and ran in the opposite direction of the first one. With the weapon down to his side, Angus neared the trembling woman cowering against the rough bark of the oak tree. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt and sweat and her cheek was getting darker as the bruise was settling in. She was clutching at her torn bodice and fear was rife in her green eyes.
“Easy lass,” he said, approaching her like he would approach an injured foal. “I’m nae going to harm ye.”
Her eyes flickered to the sword and then back again to his eyes. He stopped the instinctive need to reach out and touch her. She was injured, fearful, and distrustful, he could see that.
“Let me help ye, lassie,” he cajoled softly. “I will nae harm ye, I swear on me name.”
“How-how can I trust you?” Her words were deeply distrustful but her accent was English.
What in the name of God is a Sassenach doing here?
“I swear on me honor, I only want to help ye,” Angus reiterated. “Will ye let me help ye?”
Her breath was shuddery but she then nodded. All of a sudden, she sighed and her knees buckled under her. Grabbing at her, the very touch of her skin to his had a tremble running through him from the point contact to the tips of his toes.
Angus stood there, holding the woman against his chest with one hand, mystified about the shiver he had just felt. He juggled the sword around so it would not cut her and he had enough space to hoist her into his arms.
Poor thing, the terror did her in.
He carried her back to his horse and settled her there, grimacing at the cuts on the lass’ feet and ankles. Clearly, she had run out of her shoes when those men had attacked her.
With her seated, he managed to swing up on the saddle behind her. Her head was resting on his shoulder and it felt lovely to have her slender form in his arms. She slotted into his body, fitting perfectly into the crook of his arm like she had been made for that space. He softly kicked Titan into a walk, wrapping his cloak around her to shield her from peering eyes. His nose brushed against her ear quickly before focusing on the road.
The inn that he had stayed at was the only safe haven he could think of to go to, so that was where he went. He asked the proprietor for a room, bath water, soap, towels, and for two bowls of soup to be ready when he called for it. The man’s eyes were curious on the bundled woman lying in his arms and though he did not ask, the question was in his eyes.
“Aye, Laird Williamson,” was his answer. “Ye’ll have a room just down the corridor.”
Thankful for the man’s consideration, Angus took his precious burden to the room and rested her on the bed. Her head lolled to the side and the outline of the bruise, the size of a man’s palm on her neck, was getting darker. Sitting on the only chair, Angus deliberated.
This lady’s skin was so tender that she bruised easily and her feet, though bare and dirty, were soft instead of callused. There was no mistaking it, she lived a privileged life. He brushed a tendril of her blonde hair from over her eye and reflected on the enchanting green eyes he had seen there.
What’s yer name? Where did a bonnie lass like ye come from?
The knock on the door roused him and he opened it to allow the servants to fill the wooden bathtub behind a screen. He thanked the servant girls and let them out. The water would be warm for a while and he went back to the woman’s side to wake her.
One firm touch had her gasping awake and then scuttling back up to the headboard with her knees to her chin. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, and frightened, and she was panting hard.
“Hush, lassie,” Angus soothed with a hand up in a placating gesture. “It’s me. I saved ye from those men. I willnae hurt ye.”
She shivered and when she spoke, Angus swore he heard the voice of an angel. “Who are you?”
“Angus Williamson,” he said quietly. “I’m the Laird of Ratagan.”
“Magdalene Crompton,” she replied hesitantly, in that musical voice. “I was sent here to find my aunt.”
“Alone?” Angus asked askance. “Why would ye come here alone?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” she said weakly. “It was that or…” She shook her head and her lips went thin and her cheeks a bit pale.
Angus felt the circumstances that had forced her to run from England to Scotland were dire so he did not push her to tell him more. “Yer lucky, Magdalene, I was almost on me way back home when I came across ye. Did those men dae…anything else to ye?”
She shook her head, “No. They yanked me off my horse—wait! My horse! Where is Mary?”
Mary had to be the chestnut horse the first attacker
had been holding. “Sorry lass, the horse ran off and I had to take care of ye first.”
Magdalene sighed, “Oh well, someone will find her.” She cleared her throat. “They yanked me off my horse and I fell to the ground. I… I tried to run but they grabbed me and yanked me back. I tried to fight them but I was no match. One slapped me across my face, the other grabbed me by my arm and ripped my gown. I managed to get away again and ran but they caught up to me again. If it wasn’t for you…”
Her swallow was audible and Angus felt the same rage bubble back into his chest as he remembered the vile looks on the men’s faces. Angus cleared his throat, “Lass, I sent for bath water for ye, if ye would want to take a bath. I can run out and get ye another gown if ye’d want, otherwise, I only have a third set of clothes. A pair of trousers and a shirt but I doubt ye’d want—”
The Highlander's Fiery Bride: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 5