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

by Alisa Adams

  “Aye, I ken.” Mungo looked over at Mary who was being helped to her feet by Murtagh. He smiled wanly to see the thickset man behave so gently. “The lass has got spirit. She could be one of ours, ye ken.”

  “Aye, that she could, brother. I dread to think what that woman would do to the man who will one day be her husband if she caught him frolicking about with another lass. She’d have his welly off with his sword before he could drop his kilt.”

  Deep laughter rumbled out of Mungo’s mouth like the advent of a thunderstorm as he mounted his horse. “Aye, I’ll be sure not to cross Lady Leighton in the future.”

  Chapter 4

  “How are yer thòns, lass?” asked Murtagh, referring to Mary’s buttocks.

  “My what?”

  Sitting on a horse’s back for over six hours had rubbed her backside raw after the thrashing Alastair had given her. She swore to herself that she would never forgive him for it. The way he had sneered at her when she had begged for them to stop by a stream so that she could dip her bottom into some cold water had infuriated her. He had not even deigned to give her an answer. Instead, he had spurred his mount forward to the head of the party. Mary did not know why she felt so intensely when she thought about him. It was unlike her to feel anything much for a man, not that she knew very many. But Mary knew herself, and uncontrolled anger or hate were not things she had ever succumbed to in her life. On the contrary, she was composed and in charge of what she felt. That was something she realized was impossible with the Scot. The mere sight of the man made her blood boil over.

  “Yer thòns, lass,” repeated Murtagh, wiggling his backside on the saddle to make his point. When he still did not get a response, he slapped himself there for good measure.

  “Oh, my…”

  “Aye, your thòns. I pray they hurt not too much.”

  “Yes, they are, it is fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “That’s good then. Then, I am sure Alastair thrashed ye well.”

  “Thrashed me well?” Mary felt the heat of anger rush up her neck to her face.

  “Aye, a good beating entails not leaving any marks long thereafter.” Murtagh shrugged. “It would be a shame because I am certain that ye have a fine pair of ‘em down there.”

  Mary couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Despite the topic, she could not help but like Murtagh. He meant well in his crude way. “I never knew that there was a difference,” she said at last.

  “Oh, there is, lass. Ye see, when a bloke breaks the skin it leaves scars. Now, if you’re careful and make sure that you administer a clean whipping by only leaving light red welts, it just hurts, but the bruising goes away after a time, leaving no scars. Only a stupid husband leaves those. It sort of ruins the view, if ye get my meaning, lass, when yer coupling.”

  “Oh, no… yes. Oh, I do; that’s quite enough on the subject, thank you, Murtagh.” Mary snapped her eyes open. She couldn’t believe that he was discussing something that personal with her.

  Murtagh chuckled. “Aye, lass. Enough on the subject of beating. But, ye ken, Mary, when a woman…”

  “Murtagh, enough on the subject.”

  “Oh, alright. Don’t ye talk about the happenings between man and woman in England?”

  “Murtagh, I mean it.”

  He huffed. “I guess not.”

  Despite the sting on her backside and his familiarity concerning the act of coitus, Mary managed a smile. The rough clansman cared about her. In a strange way, he made her feel safe. Without thinking, she rested her head on his back, at the same time, increasing the grip around his waist. Looking to the side, she saw Alastair grimacing at this small show of intimacy. His reaction made Mary frown. She held his gaze until he turned away as he urged his mount forward. Mary knew that she’d had an effect on him, but why she did not know.

  Surrendering to the dull throb that increased and decreased with every step of the horse, she let herself drift and admire her surroundings. Above her, the sky had started to turn from a broken light gray mixed with patches of blue to an increasing dark gray. In the distance, the sun hung low on the horizon, fighting with the late afternoon’s rain clouds for dominance of the heavens. Mary relished the brief warmth given to her by its rays that occasionally made it past the clouds and Murtagh’s bulk in front of her.

  Mary thought that she could discern the change from the glens and crags of the lowlands as they gave way to the more rugged ravines and peaks of the Highlands. It was a magical land of immense natural beauty. The scenery took her breath away. The flora and fauna captivated in such a way that it held her in its grip, as if luring her forth with hypnotic strokes. From the mesmerizing glow of the near sunset on the western horizon to the raw beauty of the eastern mountain range, and all the vastness around and between, to her surprise, she felt wonderful, exhilarated even, and craving the adventure that took her farther and farther away from home.

  “There it is, lass. Castle Diabaig, home to the Clan Macleod,” said Murtagh, pointing ahead.

  Mary moved her head past his body so that she could get a better glimpse of the lay of the land before her. She swallowed deeply. In the distance, she could make out a castle situated on a small islet in a lake or a loch as the clansmen called it. It was not as large as the castle at Carlisle or even the one she called home, but it was beautiful in a quaint and rustic way. High walls on all sides surrounded it. A large keep stood in the center of the surrounding buttressing. A single stone bridge connected it to the mainland that was a tongue of land that jutted out into the sea. On the towers, Mary could see large banners flapping proudly in the breeze.

  From their vantage point on a hill, she could see all across the countryside. A moody mist shrouded the snow-caked mountain peaks in the distance. Moorland, rushing burns and a few steely gray lochs defined this fairy-tale wonderland that did not feel forbidding despite the winter. On the contrary, the setting sun had bested the clouds in dominance over the sky, still stroking her cheeks with pleasant warmth. It gave her strength and somehow made her forget that she was in the company of a group of people she called her enemy.

  “It is beautiful. This place… I have never seen the likes,” said Mary for her own benefit.

  “Aye, Mary. I ken.” Murtagh had refrained from calling her lass or Sassenach since the beating she had received. Her resilience and lack of whining had convinced him that she was a brave soul. He admired women like that.

  It was late afternoon on the third day of their travel. Having been appointed her guardian, Murtagh had come to know the English lady better, cementing their regard for one another. He sometimes caught himself feeling like a big brother of sorts. The more he spoke to her, the more he wanted to protect her and make sure that she always felt safe.

  “Who are they, Murtagh?” asked Mary, pointing ahead.

  He squinted into the light of the sun that hung on the horizon, threatening to drop below it at any moment. “Those are men sent by the Laird. They have come to welcome us home. If we are lucky, there will be a feast tonight.” Murtagh shifted his weight in the saddle. “That means lots of whiskey, ale, and food. I can tell ye, Mary, I have had enough of oats and rabbits. I need a nice hearty shank of beef in my belly.”

  Mary giggled. She had come to like the brutish Scotsmen a lot since being paired up with him for the entire journey. During their talks, she had found out that he was not married and didn’t have any siblings. His parents had died when he was still very young. Alastair’s father had taken him on as his own and raised him like he would a son. When she had asked him whether this was normal, he had frowned at her and said, “Of course. It’s the way of the clan to help others.” When a child’s parents passed away, and there was not a next of kin to mind it, members of the clan would jostle for the chance to help the orphan. It was the Laird who ultimately decided its fate.

  Sitting by the campfire the night before, Mary could not help herself from asking Murtagh about Alastair. Seeing him brooding in the distance while he ate wi
th the other men, she had never missed him glancing in her direction as if to see whether she was still there. She had not been able to read his stare due to the darkness, but she somehow felt that he had a bad conscience for whipping her with his belt.

  Mary no longer felt as acrimonious toward him. She had admitted to herself that she had threatened to kill him for breaking his word to her father. It was all she could do at the time. Mary convinced herself that it was not out of malice that he had acted so, but rather to save face in front of his men – her father probably would have done the same. But for the life of her, she did not know why he kept looking at her with that strange expression on his face.

  The question never left her mind the entire time. Why did he keep staring? As far as she was concerned, he considered her a dumb Sassenach wench and nothing more. However, a voice deep inside of her told her that this was not the case. Alastair wanted something from her. Mary had sensed it the moment she had laid eyes upon him for the first time on the King’s road to Carlisle. But what could it be? Murtagh had partially answered that question when he had said that Alastair always took what he wanted when he wanted it. He had added that the Laird’s son was the most honorable and bravest of men. He had literarily spelled it out to her that he would gladly give his own life for his if need be. He concluded this statement by affirming that every man in the posse would do the same.

  What kind of a man inspired such loyalty? Mary had asked herself after that. It was true that he was brave. He was not a man that shirked his duties. From what she had seen from the carriage on the day of the attack, he had led his men from the front. There had been no fear in his eyes or on his face, just raw courage and strength. Also, he had behaved honorably to her father when he had not treated him like a common prisoner. Alastair had let him keep his weapon and with it his honor intact. It somehow pained her that they no longer spoke. The whipping had severed the weak connection they had shared before that.

  Mary wondered why it bothered her so. All he did was infuriate her when he spoke. Alastair of the Clan MacLeod was stubborn, headstrong, foolhardy on occasion and very opinionated when it came to the topic of politics and patriotism. But he was also handsome. Mary had never seen such an attractive man before. She often could not help stealing glances in his direction when there was the chance to get a good look at the muscles on his legs as they flexed and bunched when he moved. She remembered the way it had felt to be held in his grip. The raw power he had effused had been all-consuming and seductive.

  On the final stretch of the journey, she had caught herself looking in his direction more and more often, just like she was doing now. The heat rose to her face in a rubicund flush when she beheld two piercing blue eyes boring into her like daggers. It was him. Alastair was staring right back at her, and he had witnessed her shameless ogling. This time, it was she who looked away first. Mary felt like a thief caught red-handed in a bakery with her hands full of stolen loaves. What was it that just happened? The tickling torridness she felt in her lower abdomen was not out of anger. It excited too much for it to be anything like that. This was something else. Something, she had never before encountered.

  “Alastair, tis good to see ye. How were yer travels?” asked the leader of the mounted men as he approached. He sat on his mount with easy grace. Like his compatriots, he was tall, broad-shouldered and had long legs that looked like they could touch the ground from the back of his horse.

  “Good, Hamish. We managed to get our hands on some gold to replenish my faither’s chest.” Alastair tossed the leather bag containing the coins to the other clansman.

  He whistled. “Tis heavy this. How did ye get it?”

  “We ransomed some Sassenach nobility we caught on the road to Carlisle. Easy pickings they were.”

  “Guid gear comes in sma’ bulk.” Hamish tossed the bag of gold back to Alastair. “Yer faither will be happy when you give him that. Come now, we must be getting back. The Laird has given the order to light the fires in the Great Hall. There is to be a homecoming feast in yer honor tonight. Ha, ha.” Hamish turned his horse around and dug his heels into its flanks, urging it forward at a gallop down the hill. His men quickly followed.

  “Come on, brothers. Ye all heard the man. There is to be a feast. Ye best be quick lest the wallopers eat all of the meat, drink all of the whiskey and bed all of the lasses.” Without waiting for a reply, Alastair hit his heels into the horse and followed the other clansmen.

  “Are ye ready, Mary? We are in for a wee bit of a bumpy ride all the way back to the castle,” said Murtagh.

  Mary cried out when the large horse shot forward in hot pursuit of the yelling Highlanders. It felt exhilarating to have the wind blowing in her hair. Mary clung onto Murtagh for dear life as she firmed her grasp around his waist. Their steed instinctively followed the others down a narrow winding track that had appeared out of nowhere. The passing land was pristine and unrefined. Heavy boulders dotted the landscape in the midst of green grass. The snows had not fallen yet, leaving everything as it was. If the beauty of everything had impressed Mary so far, she had not been prepared for what Alastair’s home looked like.

  She realized that traveling the Scottish Highlands was to wonder anew with each new change of scenery. She finally understood why men like Alastair fought so hard to defend their home. These lands spoke of romance and adventure with the bare whisper of the wind. They had hardly encountered a soul as they had traversed the monumental and ever-changing countryside. There had never been a boring day despite the long rides that had often taken place in silence. Yet where she was now towered above all else she had seen so far. The town of Diabaig and its environ were a preserve of imagination as much as sheer physical geography. The pine forest lining some of the hills and the granite escarpments bearded in mist made her want to take up the art of painting and suck in all there was to behold, preserving it forever on a canvas.

  By the time, they entered the castle, the sky had already darkened with the departure of the sun as it dipped below the horizon. The first stars appeared on the twilight’s blanket, speckling the sky’s canopy with twinkling dots. On the way there, the townspeople had exited their houses to welcome the returning men home. Women held up babes in their arms for their husbands to see. Some children had run beside the horses, welcoming their fathers home. On occasion, a few women had reprimanded their husbands for leaving them alone for so long. All in all, it was a warm homecoming that made Mary smile.

  “Sassenach, ye are coming with me.”

  Mary’s eyes snapped open. She turned her head to see Alastair looking up at her with a serious countenance on his face. “And where might we be going?” she asked haughtily.

  “To see my faither, lass. Now come on. He is a man who does not like to be kept waiting. Murtagh, you will accompany me. Mungo’s coming too.” He did not wait for a reply. He stalked off in the direction of the main door to the keep.

  Murtagh dismounted and helped Mary down off the horse’s back. After that, everything was a blur from the curious people staring at her as if she was a being from a separate dimension to the walk into the keep and down the hallway to the Great Hall. Two guards standing vigil ushered them in. Mary gulped when she entered it. It was like appearing before a monarch. There were certainly enough people in the hall to give off that impression.

  All the way up to the plinth in the back, clansmen and women lined the walls. The women were dressed in clothing she had never seen before. They wore all manner of plaids in various colors and patterns. The men were no less impressive in their own plaids that covered most of their bodies. All of them carried swords in their scabbards held to their waist on heavy leather belts. The gathering of people did not make a sound as Mary and her escort walked down the entire length of the hall that was large even by her standards.

  In the center of the wall to her right, there was a large fireplace with an elaborate over mantle with stone carvings, depicting what she made out to be the clan’s coat of arms – Mary
managed to sneak in a quick peak despite the fast pace they walked. The sigil consisted of a red background with a white animal on it – from her hasty glance, she deduced that it was a wolf. The chamber, though slightly frugal compared to English taste, was magnificent. It had the most beautiful decorations in the form of mullioned windows with extensive and ornamental frames. Various tapestries hung on the walls. Off and on and in between, banners hung loose from the ceiling with the clan’s crest. The closer she got to the high table at the end, the more nervous she felt. Above it hung a chandelier that the Scots called a hart-horn. It was made of a deer’s antler.

  “We stop here, Mary, and wait for the Laird and the Lady to emerge. Whatever ye do, don’t say a word unless spoken too. Is that clear?” Murtagh looked at Mary sternly.

  She nodded. When she heard one of the men standing by the door behind the table bang his spear on the stone floor, her heart nearly leaped from her chest up into her mouth. The other guard stepped forward to open it. The hinges creaked in protest as the heavy oak door shifted outward until it was completely ajar. Mary gulped. There they were, the Laird and Lady of the Clan MacLeod Wallis.

  Alastair’s mother looked resplendent. She wore a silk checkered arisad. This was a plaid that reached from the neck to the heels and was tied on her breast with a buckle of heavy silver. The ornate clasp with a large gemstone in the center denoted her rank. The plaid, being pleated all around, was held in place below the breast with a belt of leather covered in places with plaques of silver and gems. Under it, a man’s vest made of silk with gold lace and plate buttons with fine stones covered her slender but firm physique. Rounding off her appearance was a headdress of fine kerchief of linen attached straight and tight about the head, hanging down the back taper-wise. A large wisp of her red hair hung down her cheeks above the breast with the lower end tied with a knot of ribbons. She carried a serious expression on her face that, depending on the way the light caught, resembled Alastair’s.