Highland Destiny

by Hunsaker, Laura

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  "What's the difference between what I'm wearing, stays is it? And a corset?"

  Bronwyn's forehead creased, "I'm not sure what yer meanin' by 'corset,' my Lady. Is it that what the French are wearin' nowadays?"

  "I guess so." She'd made a mistake in asking, but she wanted to know what they were called. Bronwyn didn't seem to have as many articles of clothing on; a simple dress to her ankles, and the unavoidable stays, plus an apron, with a cap the same color. Hmm... must be the whole people dressing according to their stations type of thing. "And what is this?"

  Mackenzie lifted part of the heavy puffy skirt.

  "Yer petticoats, my Lady?" Bronwyn was giving her a look as if she were crazy.

  "Ah, yes, of course. I'm sorry, it's just my father had new gowns made for my trip here, and I'm not used to such confining garments." Mackenzie lied with an aura of distraction, as if it didn't matter to her, hoping Bronwyn would let it drop.

  "Well, yer father must have spent a pretty penny to have these dresses made for ye. I have never seen their equal in material or design." She fingered the fabric almost reverently.

  "They must be the latest fashion from London."

  Mackenzie had no idea, so she let Bronwyn assume what she wanted. This gown was a little more difficult to get on, and a little more uncomfortable than the grey wool gown from the night before. It had a bodice that laced in back and front, and the square neckline smooshed her breasts up under her chin. One deep breath and Mackenzie thought she might fall 104

  out! Between the heavy skirts and tight stays (Bronwyn pulled them so tight Mackenzie had trouble breathing!) Mackenzie felt bulky and confined. The shoes, however were a different story altogether; for a shoe-a-holic, Mackenzie felt like Cinderella in her glass slippers. They were matching lavender satin, with little shimmery beads all over them, and they reminded her of the most beautiful ballet slippers she'd ever seen. Both she and Bronwyn gasped aloud as they admired the matching shoes.

  "Oh my, these are quite lovely, my Lady, quite lovely."

  Bronwyn's whispered statement was understandable to Mackenzie.

  "Wow," she agreed.

  Bronwyn straitened up and was all business again, "Let me plait your hair before I leave ye to yer morning meal. Oh, and the Laird asked me to see if there might be anything ye'll be needin'? Are there any foods ye'd like?"

  "Do you have any coffee here?" It was a long shot, but she'd try anyways. Coffee had to have been exported from South America by now, right?

  "Aye, m'Lady, I've got a small pot on yer tray here. With cream and sugar?" Bronwyn actually went over to the tray and poured the cup for Mackenzie.

  "Oh, here I can do that. You don't have to serve me."

  Mackenzie felt guilty for even asking.

  "No trouble at all dearie, here we are."

  Mackenzie took the beautiful teacup that reminded her of her grandmother's good china with a thank you, and inhaled the fragrance. It was much stronger than she was used to.

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  But she knew it was exactly what her caffeine-deprived system needed. Plus, it smelled like it would be a better eye-opener than walking into a cafe early in the morning. One sip and she was right! Wow! This didn't taste anything like her normal skinny vanilla latte. But it was good in its own right.

  Bronwyn told Mackenzie that the library was on the first floor, if she wanted, and that if she needed anything else, she would be in the Hall dusting. She then ducked her head and opened the door to leave.

  "Wait, please don't go just yet!" Mackenzie called out to her, and bit her lip. She didn't know if this was proper protocol or not, but she really wanted the company. "Would you mind keeping me company for a while? I'm still a little confused as to my..." she wanted to say role but settled for

  "position here. I mean, everyone must know who I am and how I got here, right?" At Bronwyn's wide-eyed nod, Mackenzie continued, "What am I supposed to do here?"

  "My Lady, there are many books in the library, or I am sure I could find some needlepoint for ye if ye prefer..."

  Bronwyn was unsure of what Mackenzie wanted, she could tell, but she didn't want to be alone just yet; the fear and panic might come back.

  "Would it be alright if we just chatted? Talked, I mean."

  "What would ye like to talk about my Lady?" Bronwyn still sounded unsure, but she came back into Mackenzie's room and sat in a chair by the fire.

  Mackenzie sat across from her, and started, "Well, maybe you could tell me why everyone hates me so much."

  Mackenzie looked down at her beautiful shoes as she asked.

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  Bronwyn waited so long to answer that Mackenzie looked up and met her brown eyes. They were full of sympathy, which was both encouraging that Bronwyn at least didn't hate her, and a little disheartening that she was right; everyone else did.

  "Well, m'Lady, ye are engaged to the Campbell. That doesn't put ye in the good graces of many here."

  It was exactly as Mackenzie had thought. "But I didn't choose him! It was an arranged marriage!"

  "I ken that dearie, but not all of our people are as sympathetic." Bronwyn patted her knee. "The Campbell is a cruel mon who has brought nothing good to this land. Most feel that anything that the Campbell has touched should be destroyed. Ye are his betrothed, and he'll be wantin' ye back.

  That means retaliation, and it means that a lot more of our men will die. The women doona like to think of their men dyin'. While the men are itchin' for a fight, they doona like the idea of defendin' ye...they'd rather kill ye along with the Campbell." At Mackenzie's strangled gasp, Bronwyn squeezed her hand and said, "Now doona fash yerself, dearie, the laird of this keep is a good mon, and he won't let any harm come to ye. He is an honorable mon." Mackenzie could hear the pride she took in that last phrase.

  "Thank you for being straight with me, um I mean, I thank you for your honesty, Bronwyn," she amended. "I don't like feeling confused."

  "Of course not, dearie. If 'tisn't too bold, might I ask ye a question?" At Mackenzie's nod, she continued, "They say that ye were reared abroad?" Bronwyn's question was timid, at 107

  odds with her bold explanation of her clan's dislike for Mackenzie.

  "Yes." She forced a smile, expecting her to ask about her accent, her strange behavior, her lack of seemingly common knowledge.

  "Where have ye travelled?"

  "I've been around Europe; Germany, France, Spain, Italy,"

  she didn't even have to lie; she and Jenna had backpacked through Europe after high school. "And then more recently I've been living in America." A real smile touched her lips and she glanced at her new friend.

  "Oh my, the Americas! Is it true that they are a savage place with a savage population of natives?"

  Mackenzie laughed, "No, no more savage than you or your clan" Mackenzie quickly searched her mind for what she remembered from her American History class. How much to share? "It only seems uncivilized because it is different. New England and the East Coast are fairly similar to London, and people are constantly exploring towards the west. Eventually it will all become like what you know."

  "Oh, well, mayhap one day I might travel to the Americas." Bronwyn stood and said, "If ye'll excuse me, m'Lady, I've chores that need to be done."

  "Oh, of course, I didn't mean to keep you. And thank you, truly." She paused and called out, "Oh, wait, one more thing.

  What does it say above the door downstairs?

  " As long as a MacRae is in, a Fraser will never be out. It is from before the MacRaes came to Kintail. In return, the 108

  Fraser stronghold states As long as a Fraser lives within, let not a MacRae remain without. "

  "Thank you." She pondered that and figured that the MacRaes and Frasers must be friends. Once again, she wished she knew more Scottish history.

  Bronwyn nodded and bustled out the door.

  Mackenzie finished her coffee and thought maybe she could go explore the castle, but the Fates had other plan
s.

  She turned at the sound of something sliding under the door.

  It was a piece of paper, no parchment, she corrected, as she turned it over in her hands.

  She only hesitated an instant before sliding her finger under the intricate wax seal. A ring crest perhaps? Her eyes widened, then squinted as she tried to make out the fancy script:

  My Dear Miss Stewart,

  Please forgive your rude welcome to my country. The Highlands are a barbaric place full of a barbaric people. I myself am English and much more civilized. I hear that you are being treated well. If I hear that you are treated as anything less than the fiancee of a man of my position, then Connor MacRae shall pay dearly. Please give my regards to your captor. And as our wedding is still set for the end of the month, I intend to see you soon. And, my Lady, if you are not a maid upon return to me, you will pay for that insult. It would be a shame to kill such as you. I look forward to seeing you in person and seeing if the rumors of your beauty do you justice.

  With Fond Regards,

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  John Campbell

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  Chapter Ten

  "Oh no! Oh crap!" Her hands were shaking as she re-read the letter. "There must be a spy here! Connor needs to know!" Mackenzie said it to herself as she ran out of the room, and down the tower stairs. She hiked up her gown and tried not to stumble down the stairs as she hurried. She jumped down the last three steps and ran for the door to the Main Hall. That was how she'd entered the castle the day before, didn't that lead outside? She hadn't really been anywhere in the castle yet, so she tried to remember the way. Of course, though, she got turned around, and searching blindly, Mackenzie followed the sound of swords clanging against each other.

  She ended up in a training yard of some sort, but the ever fickle fates were on her side as she saw Connor in the middle of the yard. He was surrounded by men and they were coming at him from different sides. He was amazing.

  He was shirtless, despite the crisp October chill, and wearing just his trews. She had seen him like this before, but here in the sunlight, she could see his muscles ripple with each movement of the sword, and she could see all of the scars along his back and chest. However, they only added to his sensuality, rather than detract; they hinted at danger. He was no metrosexual peacock like some that she met at clubs and bars; he was all man. A warrior. His bronzed muscular chest was on display as much as his skills were. He swung his claymore in a high arc, bringing it down with a resounding 111

  clang against his clansman's sword, and her eyes appraised him with lust. The flex of his muscles brought an undeniable feminine flare of excitement into her belly; he wanted her.

  She remembered the way his chest had felt pressed up against hers, the slight scratch of hair, the heat, and felt a slight flush color her cheeks...but she tore her gaze away from his sculpted body, and looked for a way to interrupt without making a scene. Unlikely, though, as there were no other women out there, and seeing as she was already famous, or infamous as the case was, she was sure to cause a stir. Mackenzie hated to interrupt, but he had to see this letter. So she gulped in a big breath, and walked out into the sunlit training yard.

  Making her way to Connor, she saw all the men stop and stare at her. Maybe women weren't allowed down here? Well, she had more important things to worry about than just committing a social faux pas. The men moved out of her way as if the Red Sea had just parted. Connor's eyes found hers at the commotion, or lack of commotion, of her entrance. And he looked annoyed. Really, really annoyed. Mackenzie took a deep breath and smiled anyway, and walked directly to him, stopping only when she was close enough to feel the heat coming off him and smell the scent that was his alone.

  "What?" He was definitely annoyed. Well, tough, she had news for him.

  "I need to speak with you immediately."

  Connor looked as if he was going to chastise her for the interruption, but decided against it and instead bent to pick up his shirt before taking her hand.

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  "Come with me." He dragged her in silence for about five minutes until they were out of earshot of his men, she guessed. They reached a clearing with a small pool of water.

  "Oh, it's beautiful," she breathed, her urgent news momentarily forgotten.

  "Why did you feel the need to interrupt my training?" He was so distant and sarcastic that she jerked her head around to look at him. What a different man than the one who had left her just this morning.

  "Oh," his shortness with her caused her words to come out in a rush, "Connor, I think you're in trouble; there's a traitor here!"

  "I ken."

  "You do?" she was incredulous, her eyes bugged out of her head. "What do you mean that you know?"

  "The man whom we captured in your chambers last night told us all about the plot to kill you. That is what tore me away from you this morning." His voice softened, "Doona be afraid, Mackenzie, I will na let any harm come to you." His blue gaze was running up her body as if she weren't wearing several layers of clothing, and Mackenzie knew the man was remembering their parting that morning. This one man had seen her naked more in a few days, than most of her boyfriends had in a few months. Her skin flushed wherever his gaze lingered.

  "Stop."

  "Stop what?" His eyes were too wide and innocent; he knew what she meant.

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  "Stop looking at me like...like...like I don't have any clothes on!"

  Connor raised an eyebrow, smiled, and taunted,

  "Embarrassed?"

  "No," she glared, but her blush gave her away.

  "Doona be, you're a beautiful woman, Mackenzie," his voice was husky as he drew her into his arms.

  "No," she mumbled half-heartedly against his lips.

  "Nay?" Connor hovered tantalizingly close to her mouth, and she could feel his warm breath against her lips. God he smelled good. Why had she said no again? Oh right, the spy.

  "Umm," she had trouble focusing, "your spy?"

  "My what?"

  "Uh, the traitor?"

  "That's right," his eyes narrowed. "What is it that you feel is so urgent that you ran down to interrupt my training?"

  "Someone left me a note in my room."

  Connor froze. "Show me," he demanded.

  Mackenzie handed it to him wordlessly.

  "'Tis in Scots." Connor ground his teeth together.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that the Campbell thinks me an ignorant barbarian too uncivilized to read Scots, the tongue of the Lowlander, if I can read at all. 'Tis his way of insulting me.

  'Tis also why he goes by the English 'lord' rather than his own Scottish 'laird,' he thinks himself too good for his own people."

  "What does he think you speak?"

  "Erse."

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  "What is that, like Gaelic or something?"

  "Aye." His terse reply had her biting her lip.

  "I'm sorry, it's just that I don't know that much about your people."

  "'Tis Scottish Gaelic. The English are trying to drive us out, and require that we speak their language and present ourselves in Edinburgh once a year to report on our clans.

  Your betrothed is the primary promoter of the Clearances. He has said quite publicly that in the Highlands, the Irish language should be forcibly suppressed as the stronghold of ignorance and rebellion. He takes it upon himself to suppress it." He explained it impatiently, but at least he didn't insult her for not knowing her Scottish history.

  "Oh." She paused, "You understand that I never chose to marry him, right?" She wanted to be clear on that. She was already in way too deep as far as her attraction to him went, and she wanted him to understand that she'd been sucked into this plan without her permission; she wanted him to know her.

  Connor looked at her with surprise, "Aye, lass, I ken. 'Twas the Campbell who chose you. He knows of your background, and he might think that you are connected
to the Mackenzie tribe as well. 'Twould only be natural." He almost smiled.

  "No, he thinks my name is Isabella." Mackenzie corrected his assumption.

  "The man you are set to marry does no' know your given name?" his voice was incredulous.

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  "No, his sorcerers, my travelling companions, told me to go by my middle name. They said it was more common in this era."

  "This era? "

  Oops! Connor had noticed her slip.

  "Umm...this area. You know, the Highlands. Probably for the same reasons you thought." She could tell he didn't believe her, but she didn't really know what to tell him. What would he say if she told him she was not going to be born for over 200 years? He would probably lock her in the tower.

  "What are you hiding from me, Mackenzie?"

  She turned away from him and said, "Nothing."

  A long arm caught her about her waist, "Doona lie to me, Mackenzie."

  "Trust me when I say that it is 'need to know' only, and you don't need to know. In fact you probably wouldn't even want to know." Mackenzie was suddenly very sure of that fact. Connor seemed to only believe what he could see, and touch; like most people. She didn't think he'd even give the slightest credence to her fantastical story. Realistically, she wouldn't have either if their positions were reversed.

  "You speak in riddles. Tell me plain, what are you keeping from me? Is it something to do with the Campbell?" His hands were gripping her upper arms painfully. "What do ken you of his plans?"

  There was a fervent light in his eyes that had her cringing mentally at the thought of lying to him. So she thought of the best way to tell him as much as she could without revealing the main detail she was dancing around.

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  "As far as I know," Mackenzie spoke slowly, still gathering her thoughts, "The Campbell thinks that he has made a normal, typical marriage bargain with my father." Mackenzie had taken to calling him the Campbell as Connor did. She assumed that it must distinguish him as the chief. "He knows that I am the first female Stewart born since my ancestor who cursed the lands. He thinks that in marrying me, he will end the curse, if not in reality, then at least superstitiously.