by Fiona Faris
Highlander’s Sinister Deception
Revenge was the only thing on his mind until he met her...
Fiona Faris
Contents
Thank you
About the book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Afterword
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Thank you
About the Author
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About the book
He thought that she would be the deceived one, not his partner in crime...
Ethan Alasdair Buchanan has been born a bastard. Even though he is a Laird's son, the death of his mother and the dismissal of his father threatened to turn him into a cold-hearted man. Filled with the need to survive and take revenge upon the family that cast him away, Ethan will take part in a most devious plan: pretend to be his half brother and marry his rich betrothed. But the future bride is not a blushing one and Ethan might be more surprised than he thought.
Lady Georgiana Leighton's reputation is completely ruined. Having been seen in a compromising position, she is scorned by the noble society and for that, her father is ready to ship her to Scotland, in an unknown land, with a man she never met before. As it turns out, there is much more to this Highlander than meets the eye, and Georgiana will not hesitate to take part in his plans to escape her fate.
As perfect as their alliance might seem, there are dangers ahead that none of them is ready to face and a desire that will only make things much more complicated...
Revenge was the only thing on his mind until he met her...
* * *
Chapter One
Ethan sat with his head down, not paying attention as his fellow crofters filed in to pay their last respects to his mother. His vision was blurry with tears, and he did not want anyone to see them. His hands twisted in his lap as he contemplated the fact that he was completely alone now. His mother had been his only kin.
At least the only kin who acknowledged him.
“Did the laird stop by yet?” Master Iain McNeil leaned in to murmur in his ear. He was the local tacksman under whom Ethan and his mother had farmed the land.
Ethan slowly shook his head. He had no interest in the laird or whether he would attend his mother’s wake or not. As far as he was concerned, the laird could go to hell. He had gone to Barclays Alasdair Buchanan when his mother had been sick and pleaded on his knees for help. They barely had money for food; it had been a long winter. Getting the medicine his mother needed for her illness had been impossible without help. The other crofters did what they could, but everybody was struggling.
His mother had died slowly and painfully, and the laird had turned his back on them. He wondered briefly if Buchanan would throw him out of his cottage too. He was but a fifteen-year-old lad, alone, and incapable of bringing in much grain on his own. Ethan had no doubt that there were other crofters out there looking for a home who could provide better labor than he could.
What did it matter if the laird was also his sire? Unacknowledged by-blows meant less than nothing. Ethan figured that this was the perfect excuse for the laird to get rid of him. Technically, it was up to Master McNeil whether he went or stayed, but Ethan was sure that the laird would not want his lady asking too many awkward questions if Ethan was allowed to stay – to say nothing of his good-for-nothing legitimate son Lachie.
The bile rose in his throat as he contemplated homelessness. Mrs. Campbell got to her knees opposite him, made the sign of the cross, closed her eyes, and bent her head. She had offered him a home, should he need one, and he appreciated it. However, if the laird threw him out, Ethan would not stay on his land. He had resolved to go down to Edinburgh and catch a ship to the New World. He had no money, but he could sign on as a ship’s mate. He only had his two hands, but he knew how to work and was motivated to move as far away as possible.
Mrs. Campbell finished her prayers and then reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “God bless ye, lad. It’ll be alright. Dinna ye fash.”
Ethan nodded in acknowledgment, swallowing the lump in his throat. It would never be alright again, but he could pretend along with the rest of them. They were just trying to help, after all.
Master McNeill whispered to his lad, and the boy went out and came back with an anker of whiskey. Someone put a glass of the stuff in his hands, and he gulped it down without tasting it. If ever there was a reason to get drunk, this was it.
* * *
“Surely ye’ll throw the lad out now, Faither, will ye no?” Lachie asked, watching his father pace back and forth.
“He hasna anywhere tae gae.” Barclays’ eyes dipped, his hands clasped behind his head as he thought about how to proceed. The boy was his very own flesh and blood, and he was not so heartless that he would throw Ethan out on the street. His presence here, however, was an uncomfortable reminder of past indiscretions. If lady Buchanan ever found out, there would be hell to pay.
Fortunately, she took no notice of the crofters beyond spending the rent money collected from them. He sighed, thinking about his rapidly depleting coffers as she attended the Season in London. There was no reason for her to go, but she said that she was on the lookout for a suitable bride for their son – even though it would be at least another five years before he was ready to get leg-shackled. It was ridiculous, but Barclay did not complain; he had free time with his mistress while his wife was away. If it weren’t for Lady Buchanan’s profligate spending, he’d be happy as a pig in mud.
He sighed. “We mun show our faces at the wake.”
“Naw!” Lachie got to his feet, his face like thunder, “I willna go anywhere near that fiddle! And neither should ye.”
Laird Buchanan sighed. “He’s my son.”
“He’s yer bastart!”
Barclays whipped around, eyes narrowed, glaring at Lachie. His son dropped his eyes, face flushing, but didn’t say anything. Barclays snatched up his cloak and whirled it over his shoulders. “Ah’m leaving. Ye can suit yerself.”
He strode out, as Lachie watched him g
o.
* * *
Ethan was alerted to the presence of the laird in the room as people called out greetings, got to their feet, and congregated around Laird Buchanan as if he was the second coming. Ethan frowned, his eyes not straying from his mother’s hands, where they had been for most of the evening. They were the only part of her that still looked the same as when she was alive.
He heard a step and did not need to lift his eyes to see his father’s shiny shoes. He frowned, and stiffened, although he still did not look up. A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and it was all he could do not to jerk away from it.
“Ah’m sorry for yer loss, young sir. Yer mither was a guid woman.”
Ethan clenched his jaw, turning his head away from the laird. His ginger hair, too long in the front, fell across his jade-colored eyes, disguising the anger that had set in.
He heard the laird take a deep breath. “I want ye to ken that ye’ve a hame here. Ye’re welcome to stay as long as ye like.”
As long as I like?
Ethan’s brow furrowed at his father’s words. For him to sound as if he was doing Ethan a considerable favor was maddening. He swallowed, hearing the tick in his throat as he opened his mouth, trying to speak.
“T-Thank ye,” he said quietly, amazed at the amount of self-control that stopped him from strangling his father.
The laird patted his shoulder again before moving away. Ethan swallowed and got to his feet, almost tripping on the chair he’d been sitting on. He was tall for his age and gangly with it, and hadn’t yet learned to control his limbs or any part of his body. He shuffled over to the window, keeping his eyes away from his father and tried to steady his breathing.
One day old man, one day, I’ll get you back for everything.
* * *
Five Years Later
Ethan was coming from the graveyard on the anniversary of his mother’s death - having gone to bring her flowers – when he heard shouting from the big house. He hesitated, torn between apathy and curiosity.
It might be something I need to ken, he told himself before changing direction and making his way quietly towards the bay windows that lined the back of the house. The voices got louder, the closer he got, and he went on his tiptoes, crouching low down in the flower bed, as he inched along the side of the house.
“It could have happened to anybody Da. I dinna mean for this, ye ken that, no?”
“Intentions dinna mean a thing when ye’ve lost a whole year’s profit on the gaming tables son! What were ye thinking?”
“I wasna…I…I dinna,” Lachie’s voice was higher than usual, seemingly breathless. Ethan couldn’t help smirking.
There was the distinct sound of flesh hitting flesh, and then Lachie whimpered in pain.
“Ye have no idea what ye’ve done,” the laird hissed.
“I’m sorry da-” Lachie’s voice was pleading.
“Ye dinna get tae say ye’re sorry!” Ethan flinched at the sound of more beating, even though he did not feel the slightest bit sorry for his half-brother. The man had made it his mission to make Ethan’s life as difficult as possible. There had been a girl Ethan liked when he was sixteen and just getting over his mother’s death. She lived in the village, and every day, she would come around with baskets of flowers to sell. Ethan would watch for her, his heart pounding with anticipation. She would go around to his house, and even though he could not afford the bawbee for her flowers, he still lay in wait for her, a cup of milk in hand.
“Ye’re voice must be tired from all the shoutin’,” he’d say as he handed it over. She would drink, thanking him with a smile and a single bud, and then she would be gone, and he would wait for her again the next day. The girl had been the one light in his bleak life. He kept all the flowers she gave him in a small jar and watered it religiously.
One day, she hadn’t come around as usual, and that worried Ethan enough to get his threadbare coat and walk to the village square to seek her out. He only knew her first name, Abby, and the fact that she sold flowers. He cursed himself for a fool, having been too tongue-tied when she was near to ask about her life.
He went to the market and began to walk, keeping an eye out for a willowy lass with long wispy auburn hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. He reached the end of the market without seeing her and then turned back and tried again. When he came to a stall that sold flowers, he stopped, examining the old lady hunched over on a stool, half asleep.
“Pardon me, ma’am, may I ask ye, d’ye ken a lassie named Abby what sells flowers to Daltern?”
The woman looked up, blinking at him for a long moment. “Aye.”
Ethan stiffened with excitement, “Ye do? Where is she the noo?”
The woman glanced away and scoffed. Ethan stared intently at her as if he might make her tell him. “She dinna come back yesterday. I sent word tae the housekeeper at the big house. She said she saw Abby there with the laird’s boy.” She swallowed, blinking tears from her eyes. “He took her to his quarters.” Her eyes moved slowly, coming to rest on him in accusation, “Like faither, like son, I suppose.”
If heartbreak had a sound, Ethan would describe it as the impact of a flower shattering on the stony ground like glass as its petals scattered everywhere.
He nodded, feeling helpless, and turned away, walking blindly back to his cottage. Opening his door, he sat on the only bit of furniture in the room – his bed. His fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to muster the urge to charge into the big house and squeeze Lachie Buchanan’s neck until he died.
On top of that, he was worried about Abby. He did not know if she was with his half-brother willingly, or he had coerced her in some way. What he did know for sure was that Lachie had done this out of spite. Somehow, he had divined that Ethan had a soft heart for Abby, and once again, Lachie had taken something from him.
Three months later, Abby had turned up pregnant, Lachie having thrown her aside, having had his fun. Ethan had tried to help her, but the girl wanted nothing to do with anyone from Daltern, especially one who shared Lachie’s blood.
It was a source of great bitterness to him, but there was nothing he could do except watch over his nephew from afar.
Someone hit him over the head as he crouched in the shrubbery, and he jumped, turning to see the housekeeper of the big house glaring down at him.
“Now Ethan, what are ye doing hiding in my vegetable patch?” She glared at him, and he straightened to his feet. He was considerably taller than she was, and yet he cowered before her. He didn’t say anything. After all, it was quite obvious what he was doing.
She turned away, “Follow me.” He took it as the order it was and scampered after her, as she led him to the kitchens where she snatched up a bowl and ladled some soup into it.
“Sit.”
“Miss Maisie…” he began.
“Naw, sit doon. Eat.”
He slowly lowered himself into the seat and picked up the spoon, scooping up some soup and swallowing slowly. Maisie McDonald took a seat opposite him.
“Ye want to ken what themselves are arguin’ aboot?”
Ethan shrugged a little sulkily.
Maisie sighed. “Ye’re faither and his son were fighting because the idjit went an’ gambled all the year’s profit and now they’re even deeper in debt. Might stand to lose everythin.”
Ethan looked up, eyes brightening with interest. Maisie smiled. “Ah, that caught yer attention, did it no?”
Ethan looked away, coloring slightly.
“Weel, before ye celebrate, ye should ken they have a way oot.”
Ethan raised his eyes.
“It’s a Sassenach lassie. Daughter of a Duke. She’s disgraced hersel’ and is desperate for a husband.”
Ethan frowned. “She’s pregnant?”
“I dinna ken.”
“So hoot’s the problem?”
“He doesna wish to marry right the noo. ‘e wants to wait until the spring tae gae for his bride.”
�
�The spring? I thought ye said they were in trouble?”
“Oh, aye. But ye ken how he is.” Maisie shrugged as if that explained Lachie’s shortcomings. To Ethan, it did.