Highlander's Stolen Destiny: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  “Then we can happily toast to the future bride… May she make my son happy,” said Mary, raising her cup.

  “To Skye and Brice,” said the rest of the women present. Only Caitlin was missing. She had decided to take control of the kitchens to make sure the food was just as the laird liked it. Cooking was in her blood. Mary had tried to dissuade her but to no avail. She was adamant when it came to feeding the clan.

  “I can’t believe my beautiful daughter is going to be a wife in a few weeks’ time,” said Freya, almost crying.

  “And my boy,” added Mary. “It was only yesterday that I remember my three sons running in the hills near the castle.”

  Skye felt her stomach burn. As her mother and future mother-in-law discussed their children’s childhoods, it made her think of the beautiful hill where she and Brice went. It made her think of Brice. They were to be married soon, and she no longer had to fear having to live in Leighton Manor. A tugging to her plaid dragged her out of her thinking.

  It was Aiken. “My Lady…”

  Skye laughed. “Ye don’t have to call me my Lady… Call me Skye.”

  “But ye are to marry the future laird, are you not?” he asked, feeling proud that he got the title right. “So, you are a lady.”

  “That’s very nice of ye to say so.”

  “You are very beautiful. I think Lord Leigh—Oh, what do I call him now? Brice… Yes, tonight I shall call him Brice because of the poor man’s suffering.”

  Skye frowned. “What suffering?”

  Aiken furrowed his little brow. “You don’t know what ‘creeling the bridegroom’ is, do you?”

  Skye shook her head. “What have those horrible Scunners done to my man?” she hissed out, slowly getting to her feet.

  “You have first got to give him a kiss to free him, Skye,” said Aiken, hopping beside her.

  “Thank you… I never asked yer name, little man?” said Skye, smiling down at the energetic nine-year-old.

  “It’s Aiken.” When Skye asked him what manner of name that was, he repeated what he had told Alastair.

  “Stop her,” yelled the other woman when they saw Skye and Aiken race down the length of the hall. But she was already too far gone.

  “What is going on here?” yelled Skye when she saw the man she loved hobbling in the courtyard with a basket full of stones on his back.

  “Oh, this is just a bit of fun,” said her father, trying to clamber out of the hay again.

  “Aye, this is his rite of passage before he can enjoy the pleasure of holy matrimony,” said Murtagh, sniggering.

  Aiken tugged on Skye’s sleeve again. “Kiss him, and you will free him.” He nodded at her eagerly.

  Skye zipped forward to Brice who was still being marshaled by Bruce on the other side of the courtyard. She ran like never before in her life. She needed to be with the man she was to marry. She’d had enough of being parted from him. From now on, the evening would be spent together. Her father and Murtagh would just have to put up with it and find someone else to pester. And they promptly did.

  “Fine work ye lassies did keeping her in there,” said Mungo.

  “Useless ye are… I dinnae why we bothered telling ye?” intoned Murtagh.

  They continued their tirade until Mary and Freya put a stop to it and dragged them inside to sober up a little before the food was served.

  “Thank God ye are here,” said Brice when he saw her. “Kiss me quickly, Skye.”

  “I ken – Aiken already told me what to do.”

  “Bless that little rascal. Went to get ye, did he?”

  “Aye… Now, be quiet and let me kiss ye.” Skye pressed her lips against his, as she forced her weight against his body.

  “Argh, Skye! Skye, let me take this thing off first.” Brice chuckled despite the pain he felt on his shoulders and neck from the straps belonging to the basket.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” said Skye, attempting to free him of his burden.

  “Let me help,” said Bruce, coming to her aid.

  Together, they soon removed the heavy object. They let it fall to the ground.

  “I’ll let ye have that kiss then,” said Bruce, grinning as he slowly walked away in the direction of the manor’s entrance. He was hungry and needed to eat.

  “It seems that the two who planned this little caper are drunker than ye are,” said Skye, shaking her head at her father’s and Murtagh’s antics.

  “Just haud yer wheesht and kiss me, lassie. I need it after all that,” said Brice, looking into her eyes and knowing that he had found home.

  Skye smiled at him, licking her lips briefly. “I love ye, Brice of the Clan Macleod.”

  “And I ye, Skye, daughter of Murtagh who nearly killed me, of the Clan Macleod.”

  * * *

  They laughed into each other’s mouths before their kiss silenced them.

  * * *

  THE END

  Can’t get enough of Brice and Skye?

  Make sure to get the Extended Epilogue and have a glimpse of their married life…

  Click the link or enter it into your browser

  http://www.alisaadams.com/skye

  * * *

  After reading the Extended Epilogue, turn the page to read the first chapters from “Highlander’s Stolen Wife”, the story of Alastair and Mary!

  Also make sure to claim your gift from the end of the book!

  Chapter 1

  WHAT A FAIR LASS

  * * *

  Northumberland, Northern England, Winter 1327

  * * *

  Mary, the daughter of Lord Leighton, rested her head against the padded inside of the carriage with the rounded top that transported her to her new fate. She sat in silence, listening to the angry pounding of the horses’ hooves on the dry ground. To her misfortune, the soil was hard and frozen solid. It was the dead of winter and two days after Christmas day. If anything were to drop from the sky, at these temperatures, it would be heavy snowflakes. To her chagrin, the short voyage from her father’s estate in Northumberland to the neighboring country of Cumberland would be swift and without trouble.

  She exhaled as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. To a point, she did – at least in her world she did. Absentmindedly, Mary looked out of the carriage window. The blur of the various impressions outside did very little to sooth the morbid sentiments burbling inside of her. She tried to let the forests and sweeping hills she habitually found so pleasant captivate her. To allow her mind to wander, no matter how briefly, would be a boon and a relief. Yet, the frosty environ with countless trees in glacial mantles made her think of him. Mary couldn’t get it out of her head that her father must have had another reason for having chosen him as her betrothed. She just couldn’t believe that he had only picked the man because of his wealth and station alone. Is our family not wealthy also? Why him? Such thoughts kept going around in her mind. There had been many other suitors and far younger ones to boot. It all didn’t make sense.

  “Mary, you are thinking about him again, aren’t you?” asked Elizabeth.

  Mary shifted her gaze from the racing images of the passing landscape to look at her twin sister. She had to admit that they both were very similar in terms of appearance: they both had cherry-red hair, dark brown eyes, and slim, pointed noses. Even their father sometimes had trouble telling them apart. But to Mary, their differences were so apparent that even a blind man could see them. Mary had a small dimple on her chin and a far softer countenance. Whereas her sister would look spoilt and slightly bored most of the time, Mary boasted an open face that was riddled with a curious disposition.

  “Yes, what else is there to think about but the fat old earl?” Mary lifted her shoulders a fraction in defeat, but even that act seemed to tax her physically. She let them fall, and without pause, they promptly continued to tap endlessly against the padded lining in the coach as it lurched over uneven spots on the king’s road of which there were many. The thick leather-covering casing the window
s occasionally flapped, letting the cool air inside.

  Elizabeth pleated her brow. “I see…” It pained her to witness her habitually vivacious sister be brought down so low. She behaved like someone on her way to the gallows. In essence, when she thought about it, her sister’s fate wasn’t far short of that. To have an old man claim her maidenhead was truly a cruel fate. The only consolation was the fact that he might die soon, leaving Mary with a considerable fortune, a title and maybe a baby or two.

  Mary arched her eyebrows. “You are thinking the same thing I am… aren’t you?” It was a statement. She shuddered. For a moment, she felt the intensity of the icy fresh winter air as it caressed her skin to her bones. It was as if her thick coat with the ermine lining didn’t exist. “I am stuck with a fat old earl, and I can do nothing about it.” She sighed heavily.

  “How do you know that he is fat?” asked Elizabeth. “You’ve never laid eyes on the man before.”

  Mary arched her eyebrows, this time irritably. “What else could the Earl of Wavel be? Father told me that he has some of the most profitable estates in the north of the realm. He said that it was due to the fact that he has a very able and industrious steward. So, now you know why I think he is fat as well as he is ancient and weathered like an old boot.”

  Her sister giggled, inviting a hostile look from Mary. “I still don’t see how that makes him fat?” She shrugged as she examined a strand of red hair that hung down her forehead. “Maybe he is just a little on the mature side, but slim and elegant.”

  Mary shook her head tetchily. “Believe me, sister, when I tell you that the man is as fat as a tub of lard. I am certain that he does nothing other with his time than sit, drink, and eat while his able steward manages his estate for him.” She pressed her lips together. “I still don’t know what all the rush is for? Why do I have to be presented to him between Christmas and the New Year? Surely, it could have waited.”

  “You know papa, Mary. When he has put his mind to something, nothing will hold him back.”

  “Yes, I know that. I just wish I could have chosen the man I am to marry,” said Mary with a serious expression.

  The color on Elizabeth’s face lit up, inviting pinkness to her cheeks. “I so want to fall in love and marry the man of my choosing.” She said it with a dreamy expression on her face. She crinkled her nose as she spoke. Mary could literarily see her imagining a knight in shining armor riding on his horse. For a moment, it irritated her that her sister would mention something like that on the day she was being dragged to her unsolicited betrothed. Then she remembered that her sister was always the same: an egoist and a dreamer.

  “Love is not in our hands, Elizabeth.” Mary let her mind battle with the notion of her impending fate for a moment. It had darkened her mood considerably. “We live in a world ruled by men. It is a place where they can take whatever it is that they chose.” A sad expression overtook her features. “Love is a thing told by wandering troubadours and handsome dreamers. You cannot marry the first because he does not believe in his own words, and you cannot have the second because he is most probably a pauper and a drunk.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “I disagree, sister. I will find love. I know I will.” She paused a moment. “And so will you.” She lifted her chin like she always did when she had made up her mind.

  “Once I am married to the fat earl, our father will set his sights on you. And you know what that means. He has the power to decide to whom you will be betrothed. It is just how it works in this unjust world.” For Mary, it felt as if the carriage was about to implode. A woman’s lot is just so unfair, she thought.

  Elizabeth pondered for a heartbeat. She knew that what her sister had said was true. Her fortunate circumstance so far was thanks to the biological fact that she was the younger of the two by a few minutes at birth. It would be her turn next when Mary was disagreeably ensconced in her new home in Cumberland. She wondered whether she might just be luckier and have a man that was a little younger and maybe not as corpulent. It was in the stars. Intuitively, she knew that her father would choose the man based on his wealth and standing and not his age and looks. Yet, there was a spark of a hopeful flame that still burnt at the base of her stomach.

  “There must be men that display the perfect root of honor and nobleness of wisdom, valor, and largesse…” Elizabeth’s face lit up. “Like the brave knight, Lancelot. He honored Queen Guinevere above all things, and he was the flower of chivalry – I will have such a man as my husband.”

  The expression on Mary’s face dissolved as mirth overcame her. It was a kind of gallows humor mixed with the stupidity of what her younger sister had said. Flower of chivalry and men of honor; they no longer existed and even if they ever did, her sister and she would never encounter one.

  “I don’t know what you find so amusing? I still believe in love. It is the only thing worth living for. And if you don’t change the way you think, Mary, you will never find it yourself.”

  Elizabeth’s words carried a certain amount of weight with them. They made Mary think about the kind of person she was and wanted to be. What had happened to her? She worried. For all of her life, she had believed in the finding of true love with a man of honor. What had changed? Was it her current fate? It couldn’t be. Usually, nothing so trivial could remove the wind from her sails. She knew that she was a fighter, somebody who would go down trying until there was not a breath left in her body. Mary pressed her lips together.

  “Yes, you are right, Elizabeth. We will both find a man to love and live happily ever after,” she said with force, at the same time trying to quell the inevitability of her fate to the back of her mind.

  With all the willpower she could muster, Elizabeth banished her morbid contemplations from her head. For a moment there, her sister had made her feel like there was no hope in life. She had already begun to imagine her own fat earl waiting to mount her. “It would be nice if the men we find are either friends or related.”

  “Why?”

  “Then, I would never have to leave your side.” Elizabeth shrugged.

  Mary smiled. “Yes, that would be nice.” She moved closer and took Elizabeth’s hand. “If we both believe in it then it will happen,” she said sweetly. She watched as the expression on her sister’s face lit up. It made her feel good that her grin was returned to her.

  “How will you avoid marrying the fat earl?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I don’t know, but judging by what father told me about his health, he won’t live for much longer. Maybe I won’t have to marry him at all. He might die before the day arrives.”

  Mary’s words made Elizabeth shiver. She quickly made the sign of the cross to ward off evil omens. She proceeded to touch her right hand sequentially to the forehead, lower chest, and both shoulders, while she uttered the Trinitarian formula, “In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti… Amen.”

  “Don’t worry, we will prevail.” Mary’s mouth had become a straight line as determination coursed through her. She took no notice of her sister’s religious antics. She looked out of the window again. Usually, nature helped her when she was faced with problems. Maybe she would be lucky this time as well.

  The River Tyne meandered along to the south of their position. She took a moment to scrutinize the snaking blue watery expanse that had accompanied them all the way from the North Sea. The crisp winter’s air pressed its way past the thick curtain hanging by the window as she lifted it. It felt like piercing needles on her skin. Despite the pain, she stuck her head out of the carriage. She could see her father riding his great black hunter at the front of the procession. She swiveled it back to where there were at least twenty men astride of horses. It was the personal escort that formed a part of the earl’s guard. She backed down into the carriage with a deep sigh.

  English noblemen had to beef up their security since the famed King Edward the Longshanks had died, leaving his insipid and useless son, Edward the Second, on the throne of England. That had all come to an e
nd when his young son, the Prince of Wales, replaced him to become King Edward the Third of England in January of that year. After ascending the throne with his mother, Queen Isabella, formally a Princess of France, acting as his regent alongside her lover, the nobleman Roger Mortimer, the English pressed north to Scotland again to put an end to the war that had been raging between the two countries for close to thirty years.

  The Scottish, in a daring attempt to thwart the English advance north, had invaded England instead of waiting for them to arrive. During the Battle of Stanhope in County Durham, the Scots, under the command of Sir James Douglas, had led a daring night attack on the English camp. The result was the near capture of the young king in his tent and the death of several hundred English soldiers. After that, the Scots had broken camp and returned home. The English were unable to pursue due to a lack of manpower and coin.

  It worried Mary. Were there still any Scotsmen about? They did move south of the border occasionally. Especially after their great victory earlier in the year, they were becoming bolder. She had never seen one in the flesh, but she had heard the tales told about them. William Wallace, when he lived, was ten feet tall and had slain over a thousand men in single combat – that was the legend at least. According to wagging tongues, even Queen Isabella had fallen for the barbaric and masculine charms of the man. A slight shiver slid down Mary’s back. She looked to her sister for comfort, but she had fallen asleep. The notion of such a man excited her just as much as it frightened her. Surely, they were nothing more than simple barbarians with an evil penchant for more power and blood?

  Deep down, Mary knew different, but she quashed the budding thought before it could germinate. “The Scots are a horde of troublesome savages that have forgotten their place in the world,” she hissed out. “I swear if I ever see one, I will run him through with a sword.”