Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  “I'm getting the general idea,” Brigette replied coldly.

  “I'm so sorry,” Antonia gushed, touching Brigette's arm in sympathy. “Iain willna’ set ye aside, but wants ye only to produce an heir for Black Jack. He canna love ye the way he loves me. How wretched to be nothin’ but a brood mare!"

  Brigette turned her back on the other woman, unable to control the quivering of her lips or the hot stream of tears coursing down her face. Consumed by pain and jealousy, she failed to question the validity of Antonia's words.

  Give me a son, Iain had panted in a moment of shuddering ecstasy.

  Perhaps yer wi child? he'd asked before leaving with the duke.

  Antonia's words rang like a death knell for Brigette's marriage. Taking a deep, ragged breath, Brigette regained her composure, and her pain became boiling rage. Without a thought to my happiness, she seethed, that arrogant bastard married me to honor his father's contract. How dare he profess his love for me one moment and fly to his mistress's arms in the next! All this time the swine and his tart were enjoying a jest at my expense.

  Brigette whirled around to confront Antonia, but the blond beauty had vanished. Revenge formed in her mind. We'll see who laughs last in this sordid affair. It's unfortunate but true that a bastard cannot inherit, for that's all the proud MacArthurs will get from Iain and Antonia. I will not be here to whelp a brat each year.

  Sly's whining drew Brigette's attention and she knelt to hug the fox. “As much as I love you,” she whispered brokenly against his neck, “you may not come along. Basildon Castle is closed to me; either Iain will seek me there or my mother will return me to Dunridge. My destiny lies in London, my precious pet, where you cannot follow. Besides, with me gone, Glenda will need your company."

  Dressed in her warmest riding gown and woolen cloak, Brigette paused in the foyer and wondered where Glenda might be. In the library, she remembered, learning her letters with Father Kaplan.

  Brigette smiled in spite of her troubles. How strange that the son of a Jewish merchant would be a priest! But that was exactly what Father Kaplan was. The product of a Scottish woman and Jewish merchant, Father Kaplan had been orphaned at a young age and raised in a Catholic shelter.

  The priesthood had beckoned, but once ordained, Father Kaplan had not been taken seriously because of his unusual parentage. So be it, he'd thought, and had begun ministering to the spiritual and earthly needs of the derelicts and outcasts in Edinburgh's poorest section. There, most did not know their own fathers, much less care about his. Father Kaplan had been quite busy; the world was filled with the poor, the homeless, the lost.

  Then Black Jack MacArthur had entered his life. A certain lady friend of Black Jack's had done the unthinkable—attempted suicide. Ravaged by guilt, Black Jack was frantic that the dying woman be blessed and honorably buried. Learning the circumstances of the emergency, no priest would come ... until Black Jack found Father Kaplan.

  Filled with compassion for the young lord's anguish, the priest had understood that he was ministering more to Black Jack than to the unidentified lady. Without a moment's hesitation, Father Kaplan had accompanied Black Jack to his kinsman's home and administered the last rites of the church to the beautiful, dying noblewoman. Later, he'd blessed her unmarked grave, gaining MacArthur's respect and friendship.

  Black Jack had asked Father Kaplan to return to Dunridge Castle with him. When the priest hesitated, Black Jack had vowed there were many poor crofters and drunken men-at-arms in Argyll; all were in need of having their souls saved. So Father Kaplan had left Edinburgh with Black Jack and remained at Dunridge for the next thirty years.

  Glenda brightened when Brigette and Sly walked into the library. “I'm sorry to interrupt,” Brigette said to the old priest. “May I speak privately with Glenda?"

  “Well, it isna’ playtime yet,” he replied, “but I suppose we could end our lessons early for once."

  “Let me see what you've been doing,” Brigette said after the priest had gone.

  Glenda grinned and held up her parchment. Written on it in large, childish letters were Brigette's and Sly's names.

  “Excellent! And your own name?"

  GLENDA!

  Brigette applauded, then squatted beside the child. “As you can tell by my gown, I'm leaving."

  “Leavin'?” Glenda cried.

  “I'm riding out for a while,” Brigette said, patting her arm. “I want you to promise to care for Sly while I'm gone."

  Glenda sensed something was terribly wrong. Frowning, she looked from Brigette to Sly, then back again.

  “Don't you want to care for Sly?"

  “Yes, but I'd rather go wi’ ye."

  “Not today, sweetheart,” Brigette replied. “Sometimes people have a need to be alone and think about their problems."

  “I could help ye."

  “By caring for Sly, you will be helping me,” Brigette said. “Will you do it?"

  “Yes."

  “You're a good girl and I love you. Give me a hug."

  Unaccountably sad, Glenda flew into Brigette's arms, and they clung to each other while Sly scampered around them, whining for attention. Brigette kissed the little girl on each cheek and set her aside, then gave the fox a quick pat and left the library.

  “Good mornin',” Percy greeted her in the foyer. “To where are ye off?"

  Brigette hesitated. “I—I'm riding out."

  “I'll ride wi’ ye."

  “No!” Brigette refused too quickly, and Percy's brow furrowed into a frown. “I prefer to be alone,” she explained.

  “What's amiss, Brie?"

  “Nothing, but I miss Iain dreadfully."

  “Ridin’ out alone is dangerous,” he said.

  “I promise I won't go far."

  Uncertain, Percy was silent. If anything happened to Brigette, his life would be less than worthless when Iain found out. The last time he'd been in charge, she'd run away. What a roasting he'd suffered for that folly!

  “Please,” she pleaded.

  Against his better judgment, Percy nodded, but warned, “Be careful and dinna go far. Dinna stay outside the walls longer than an hour."

  “Yes, Papa.” A smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

  Moments later, Brigette waved to the tower guards as she passed through the outer gate. A short distance away, she halted her horse and looked back at Dunridge Castle.

  Iain! her heart cried out. I loved you so!

  With painful regret, Brigette turned and galloped away.

  9

  With the heaviest of hearts, Brigette wended her lonely way southeast. The day was raw, and by afternoon she was uncomfortably cold and hungry.

  What a dolt I am, she berated herself. Though I would have been conspicuous wearing my fur-lined cloak, I also would have been warm. Even worse, I've brought no food.

  Worried, Brigette wondered what would happen when night arrived. It was certain she'd be passing the night alone in the woods; there was no inn where she could spend the coins she'd taken. Brigette hoped there'd be no wolves in the area. Bringing a weapon had also slipped her mind.

  Rounding a bend in the road, Brigette spied a man walking up ahead. He halted at the sound of her horse and turned around. Cautiously, she advanced.

  From a distance, he seemed a strange old man, his carriage and physique incongruous with the overall impression of advanced age. He wore a long, tattered robe and carried a thick walking staff.

  Some sort of holy man, Brigette thought. Coming abreast of him, she realized he was much younger than he appeared, perhaps of an age with Iain.

  He was tall and broad shouldered. His long, shaggy hair was a rich chestnut brown. Only his outlandish garb and the stubbles of a beginning beard created the illusion of old age.

  As the man eyed her curiously, Brigette halted her horse. Her eyes met his, and she was almost startled by their familiar, piercing grayness. Where had she seen those eyes before?

  Without seeming to scrutinize, those sha
rp gray eyes missed nothing about the green-eyed, copper-haired beauty astride the horse. He noted the quality of her finely made garments, her wedding ring, and the MacArthur horse. When she spoke, he recognized her upper-crust English accent. Very upper-crust English.

  “Good day to ye, my lady.” The man smiled and nodded his head.

  “Good day to you, sir,” Brigette returned. “Would this be the road to London?"

  As if he could see the road's end, he cast a long glance at the horizon, then looked back at her. “I do believe so."

  “Are these MacArthur lands through which I'm passing?” she asked.

  The man studied Brigette speculatively, then decided she was too fine a wench to be a horse thief. But who was she? A runaway bride? The last he'd heard, neither of his MacArthur cousins had married. “We're on Campbell's lands,” he answered. “Ye passed the MacArthur land several miles back, if that's where yer headed."

  “I'm for London."

  “By all the holy saints!” he exclaimed, a charming grin lighting his face. “I'm also for London. I'll tell ye a tale for a lift on yer horse."

  Instantly suspicious, Brigette glanced sidelong at him. A frown clouded her features.

  “Magnus is my name,” he introduced himself, then swept her a courtly bow. “Gaberlunzie is my vocation. Can ye no’ tell by my garb?"

  Brigette stared blankly at him, and Magnus chuckled. “Do ye know,” he asked, “what a gaberlunzie is?"

  “No."

  “A gaberlunzie travels the roads,” he explained, “and tells his tales for supper. And ye are?"

  “Brigette Mac ... Bria.” She gulped nervously. “I hope I'll not be mentioned in any of your tales."

  Magnus grinned, thoroughly and hopelessly enchanted by the mysterious, green-eyed Sassenach. “Well, Brigette MacBria,” he teased, “the price of my silence is a ride on yer horse."

  Wary of traveling with a stranger, Brigette was uncertain, but her need for companionship overrode her caution. “Call me Brie—all my friends do."

  Magnus mounted behind her. Reaching around her body, he took control of the reins. Brigette was tense, understandably so, since she'd never been alone with a strange man except “Ross” MacArthur. As they rode, their silence was companionable and soothed her rioting nerves. Gradually, she relaxed, almost imperceptibly leaning against the masculine body.

  Magnus's unease grew in direct proportion to Brigette's relaxation. He felt the delicate column of her back and marveled at what a fragile creature she was. Her head rested in the crook of his neck, and the fresh scent of her hair besieged his senses. He felt his manhood stirring and stretching beneath his garments.

  “So, yer for England,” Magnus commented, hoping casual conversation would alleviate his baser urgings.

  “Yes."

  “Goin’ home to yer family?"

  “How do you know I'm English?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Ye dinna speak like a native Scot."

  “Oh."

  “Ye've family in London?"

  “No."

  “Friends, then ... who?” he asked, and felt her body stiffen. “Perhaps I know them."

  “I doubt it,” Brigette replied coldly.

  She's running away, Magnus decided. “Where is it yer comin’ from, lassie?"

  “That's none of your business! May I remind you,” she haughtily informed him, “you are riding only through my forbearance. If you prove bothersome, my invitation will be rescinded. Do you understand?"

  “Quite so,” he mimicked her upper-crust accent, then smiled, thinking she had spunk.

  They rode along in silence, not quite as companionable as before. Magnus cleared his throat, then ventured slyly, “This steed is MacArthur property.” Brigette tensed and he knew he'd struck a nerve.

  Instead of responding with anger, Brigette decided two could play his game. “Your hands do not have the look of a working man,” she observed.

  “A gaberlunzie toils wi’ his tongue, lassie."

  “Is that so?” She turned one of his hands over. “The calluses on your palms speak of rigorous training with a sword.” Magnus was silent. Brigette longed to turn and catch the expression on his face. “In fact,” she continued, “although you give the impression of advancing age, I know you are a young man. Why, you must be of an age with—” She caught herself just in time.

  “Of an age wi’ whom?"

  “Nobody. Who are you, really?"

  “I'm stronger than ye,” he whispered harshly against her ear. “Yer remainin’ alive only through my forbearance. If ye prove bothersome ... Ye ken?"

  “I ken,” she croaked, trembling with fear. What folly to have given a ride to this murdering rogue! Indeed, what folly to have left the safety of Dunridge's walls!

  Magnus halted the horse abruptly, and Brigette held her breath, certain her end was at hand. He dismounted and pulled her, none too gently, from the saddle. As he stared into her green eyes, wide with fright, his forbidding expression softened. “I'm verra sorry for threatenin’ ye,” he apologized. “A truce is in order, would ye no’ agree?"

  Brigette nodded quickly and Magnus smiled at her sudden willingness to please him. “We've secrets we dinna want known. Can we no’ journey together wi'out pryin'?"

  “You pried first."

  “I stand corrected."

  Caught unexpectedly in the depths of her emerald eyes, Magnus lowered his head to press his lips against hers. When they would have made contact, Brigette's stomach growled loudly, roaring like a wild beast.

  Smiling, Magnus drew back. “Are ye hungry?"

  “Famished."

  “Why did ye no’ say so?” he chided.

  “Have you food?” Brigette's mouth watered in anticipation.

  “No’ on my person,” Magnus admitted, “but we'll get some."

  “How?"

  Magnus looked around and then at the sky. “It's nearly dusk,” he said. “We'll stop for the night."

  “Will you hunt?"

  “There's nae need for huntin'. Campbell crofters abound in the area."

  “What good does that do us?” Brigette asked irritably.

  “It's a custom of the Highlands to offer hospitality to travelers,” he explained.

  “I prefer my passage south not be marked."

  “Dinna worry aboot that, my wee Sassenach,” he said, playfully tapping the tip of her upturned nose. “It's also a Highland custom to refrain from askin’ a traveler's identity..."

  * * * *

  Brigette, having declined one of the cottage's two chairs, sat on the floor in front of the small hearth and finished her meal of meatless stew, cheese, and bread. Never had she eaten a more satisfying meal.

  Magnus had been correct. Asking no questions, the aging crofter and his wife had invited them to share their meager supper and lodging. However, something in their manner suggested they'd met Magnus previously.

  “Ye've a mighty appetite for such a wee lady,” Magnus teased, sitting beside her. “The stew was to yer likin', then?"

  Brigette blushed. “I was hungry. Besides, better stew than haggis."

  Magnus smiled. “It's time for sleep. We leave at dawn."

  “Yer welcome to our bed, my lady,” the crofter's wife offered.

  Looking at the older woman, Brigette decided youth should sleep on the floor. “No, thank you,” she refused.

  “Wrap yerselves in this,” the crofter said, handing Magnus a Campbell plaid. “'Twill keep ye warm."

  Magnus smiled wryly at Brigette. “If we lie together and wrap the plaid around ourselves, we'll be toasty."

  “Are there not two we could use?” Her cheeks were scarlet.

  “There's only the one.” Magnus grinned wickedly.

  “Well,” she hedged, wondering if the crofter and his wife could be considered suitable chaperones.

  “Ye dinna trust me?"

  “I—I—I guess I do."

  “To a Highlander, Brie, there's nothin’ considered more dishon
orable than takin’ advantage of a person who's placed his trust in ye."

  “Are you a native Highlander?"

  “I am,” Magnus vowed solemnly, but his lips twitched with suppressed merriment.

  Green eyes met gray, and Brigette knew he'd spoken truthfully. Shyly, she slid into his embrace. Magnus folded the Campbell plaid around them, sealing out the night's chill, and held her close. Brigette rested her head against his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart soon lulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Magnus pressed a light kiss on the top of her head and closed his eyes.

  * * * *

  Smack! The smarting pain of a lusty whack on her derriere awakened Brigette. Iain! she thought in alarm. Iain is here.

  “Get up, I say,” a stern voice ordered, and Brigette opened her eyes to find Magnus looming above her. “Ye lazy chit. Dawn was an hour past, and the Campbells are hard at work. If ye dinna get up now, I'll leave ye behind.” She accepted his extended hand and rose tiredly. “There's porridge for ye on the table."

  The porridge was cold. Thinking it might be the only food she'd have that day, Brigette forced herself to eat, then glanced sidelong at her companion.

  After neatly folding the Campbell plaid, Magnus packed it in a sackcloth that he swung over his shoulder. He met her questioning gaze. “They've insisted we take the plaid and a few supplies as well."

  “To provision passing travelers is also a Highland custom?"

  “Nae, lassie, it's the magnanimous generosity of the great clan Campbell."

  Afternoon's shadows were fading into dusk when Magnus left the road and entered the forest. They stopped near a stream where they could water the horse and camp for the night.

  Magnus dismounted and lifted an exhausted Brigette from the saddle. “Thanks to the Campbells,” he told her, “we've nae need to hunt tonight. We willna’ build a fire."

  “But I'm cold,” Brigette whined pitifully. Tears of misery welled up in her eyes.

  “I know ye are,” he said, caressing her cheek, “but we're nae longer on Campbell lands. Tomorrow will be better, and I'll do my best to keep ye from freezin’ tonight. Go on and take care of yer private needs."