Haunted By A Highland Curse: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance

by Emilia C. Dunbar

  “Hardly,” Fiona murmured softly, raising her needle with an air of linear strength. Her voice was laced with distaste. “It would seem that our fair laird allows the peasantry into his home and to his very bed. I’d be thankful that you were treated as the lord that you are.”

  Malcolm snorted and rolled his eyes at his mother’s cheek.

  “We’ve agreed time and again that that marriage is a farce and can hold no true value to Niall. She is worth nothing.”

  “We’ve agreed just so to the former, but there is always value to a man where a woman is concerned. No doubt a dirty upbringing will have educated Miss Caoimhe in dirty tricks to ensnare her man behind closed doors.”

  “Mother!”

  “You think me innocent of such things, Malcolm? You’d be surprised what your father wished of me, I’m sure.”

  Malcolm’s nose wrinkled in disgust. He did not wish to know.

  “Regardless,” he said, changing the subject, “I shan’t be treated so by a man who only sits as my superior because the timing of his birth was fortunate enough to appear legitimate.”

  “You will,” his mother contradicted, as he strode to the hearth and rested an arm upon its sill. He glared at her, as she explained. “Niall outranks you, sweetheart, whether you like it or not, which requires total acceptance and obedience. The only way to ensure that you never again have to be so humiliated as you were this afternoon is to take the lairdship from him. Before he propagates his bastard seed.”

  Malcolm disagreed with a wave of his hand. “We have already tried that, Mother.” They had worked for years to disrupt Niall’s reputation amongst the lords and suggest that a change of leadership was necessary. Rumors were too weak a weapon against a man that operated as an efficient laird to the people.

  “The man has no true weakness to exploit and is every inch of stony reserve. Today was the first time I’ve seen the man show any sort of emotion in ten years, and even then it was only abject anger and resentment.”

  They were hardly soft and malleable feelings.

  Malcolm felt his tongue dry in his mouth and wondered where the hell the servants were. They knew that he wished for wine upon his return home on every journey. Riding always gave him a dry mouth.

  His mother, on the other hand, appeared distracted by another concern. She had set aside her needle and thread, and was watching him with a look of curiosity.

  “What was Niall angry over?” she asked, entirely missing the point of what Malcolm had been saying. With limited patience, Malcolm cast aside her interest with the wave of his hand, his eyes moving to the door that led to the servants’ stairs.

  Where is that wine?

  “I startled his little scullery maid of a wife, and he went all white knight. I’ve seen him do it before.”

  Niall had been famous for his little temper tantrums as a child. His vigilante sense of justice had always fueled him to anger before resolution. It was only in his adult years that real war, and the bloodshed that came with it, had turned him soft on the idea of violence. Now, he kept himself reserved, forcing others into submission just through the terror of his infallible stare.

  “You’ve seen him do it before, over a woman?” Fiona prompted, her eyes narrowing.

  Malcolm paused.

  Now that his mother mentioned it…no.

  He had never seen his cousin react with any kind of emotion over a woman. Not unless one counted the sense of animosity that he never bothered to hide around his mother. Niall had always been a true fighter and defender of the weak as a boy but, since growing up, he had never shown a blind bit of preference for a lady, or in playing her savior.

  Malcolm looked across at his mother.

  Her smile was calculating in the extreme.

  “I think we just found a weakness, did we not?”

  Unsure where to run with such a statement, Malcolm could only play witness as his mother rose to her feet.

  “Do not pay that taxation. Delay it in all ways that you can. Ensure that we hold the coin for Ross’s mercenaries and then remove Niall’s ‘scullery maid,’ as you call her. If he’s moved to emotion over his new, little wife, his senses will leave him at her demise, and we’ll have little difficulty placing the blame upon his shoulders. With enemies at the gates and the laird without his head, the nobles will recognize the need to see him replaced—especially when he no longer has the immediate route to son and heir.”

  “You…want me to see the lady killed and Niall condemned for her death?” Malcolm asked, just to be sure he had heard his mother correctly. His brows drew low over his eyes, dancing at doorways to ensure that no servants were eavesdropping. “The lords will never believe that.”

  Fiona moved across the rug that she had imported from England and raised a hand to rest it tenderly upon her son’s cheek. Her gaze was eerily soft for a woman so casually discussing murder.

  “The Brodie temper is famous, even more so in your cousin than you,” she told him. Her fingers patted against the side of his beard. “We have only to create a motive large enough for Niall to have taken angry vengeance upon the woman that conned her way into his bed, and we’ll have a ready-made path to the lairdship.”

  Malcolm thought about how that stableboy, the one that Niall had called Roy, had come quickly to the lady’s defense. How he had known of her fear of dogs, where Niall had been ignorant. How he had called her “Miss Caoimhe.”

  And how Niall had not seemed to like that one bit.

  Malcolm smiled.

  “I think I know the exact rumor that I’ll need you to be spreading, Mother…”

  “Not that way.”

  The words were softly spoken, and Niall kept his fingers around Caoimhe’s wrist. His touch stilled her feet, as she had turned towards her own chambers for the night. She was left, hovering at his side, their hands connected like a lifesaver across the waves.

  “My lo—” Her tongue stilled at the dark frown that came upon her husband’s face. She bit her lip. “Niall?”

  It felt odd to say his name so casually and it appeared to surprise him too. His features drew blank, and he was forced to blink before he could focus on the conversation once more.

  “You’re to sleep in here,” he told her. His touch drew her along behind him, leading her to the bedchambers of the laird.

  The private haven of the estate’s lord and master.

  Not sure what to say, Caoimhe almost tripped over her own feet as she stumbled to catch up, moving quietly past the tapestry that hung between their doors and up the single stone step to the door of his bedroom.

  She then followed him inside.

  The only room that she had not yet explored within Aberlynn, the master’s chambers, had been a mysterious vortex of curiosity over the last few weeks. It lingered in the private wing of the estate like a locked chest, tempting the imagination for what lay inside. Caoimhe could not help the little flicker of excitement that passed through her middle at the very idea of invading Niall’s inner sanctum. And, despite the fact that the room was perfectly normal and held no grand ceremony of magical import, she was eager to be permitted inside, nonetheless.

  The chamber was much the same as her own. Large and rounded, it was nestled into the body of one of the building’s towers. Several long and thin windows of colored glass shone a little in the firelight and, instead of the blue and green fabrics of her own rooms, Niall slept beneath shades of red and gold.

  So very regal… Caoimhe thought.

  It seemed equally fitting to her that Niall should slumber in a space fit for a king and yet not notice the splendor of it himself. He discarded his woven overcoat onto one of the two chairs that were nestled by the lit hearth, completely oblivious to the prestige of his sleeping quarters. He gestured to a silver tray upon the cabinet beside the bed.

  “Feel free to eat something if you are still hungry,” he permitted, sinking into the opposing chair to remove his boots.

  Caoimhe took one of the grapes that had
been left in a healthy bunch of green in the bowl, but she wasn’t hungry. They had dined only a few hours before in silence that was not uncomfortable, and then sat together in the Blue Room. In this moment, with her husband undressing across the room from her, Caoimhe struggled to remember what they had discussed, sitting beneath the portrait of his mother back in pride of place upon the wall. But in truth, the topics meant little to her now. She knew the feeling that such discussions had roused within her.

  The atmosphere had been more important than the words.

  The intimacy. The closeness.

  On the heels of that warmth came the fear that it would be taken away. That, like before, Niall would draw in towards her, be with her as a man was his wife, and then pull back. That she would be left playing hopscotch on the sands as the tide came in about her feet, ready to pull her under.

  She felt closeness now in Niall’s company. But not security.

  It had been on the tip of her tongue all evening to ask Niall if there had been something amiss that night. If she had done something wrong or offended him in some way. But their hours together since Malcolm’s untimely visit had been such pleasant ones that she had not wished to risk those forward steps for the sake of fear over their retreat. Instead, she had warmed to the idea of getting to know her husband, and kept her inner anxieties to herself.

  Niall glanced at her as she stood by the bed, feeling the heat of her gaze upon him. He smiled a little.

  “You’ll have to undress if you wish to be comfortable,” Niall told her. “You’ll not sleep well like that.”

  Caoimhe’s eyes widened. She had wondered if Niall had simply wished to continue their conversations, if he had been teasing her with his earlier words.

  “You truly wish me to sleep here? Tonight?”

  “I think it best that you sleep here every night,” he replied, setting his boots aside and removing his tunic. His trousers were fastened loosely on each hip, and Caoimhe looked away from his bare chest. Her heart was pounding again, and she felt heat bloom in her cheeks. But perhaps he would suppose that it was the warmth from the fire.

  Her inner glow was dimmed a little when Caoimhe realized that Niall hadn’t answered the question. She had asked him if he wanted her there. He had said that she should be there.

  Those were not the same thing.

  Tempted to be bold enough to ask him straight, Caoimhe looked up to find her tongue stilled, frozen in her mouth. Niall had moved from his place by the fire and now stood directly in front of her. He was so close that her skirts were brushing against his clothes, and the curls of her hair flicked across his arm as he played with the locks.

  Caoimhe licked her suddenly dry lips; Niall’s gaze followed the gesture.

  His eyes were dark again, drawn to every flicker of her features, and deep enough to drown in.

  Where the moment would have gone from there, Caoimhe would never know. For it was in that moment that she spotted, over the rise of Niall’s shoulder, two dark eyes watching them. Her breath caught in her throat as she gazed across at the open door.

  A dark canine stare was fixed back at her.

  “Niall…” Caoimhe had no hesitation in speaking his name this time. It rolled from her tongue on a shiver of fear. “Niall, the d-dog…”

  Her husband turned to look over his shoulder but made no move to shut the door or shoo the animal away. Instead, he simply reached up to take hold of her face in his palms.

  “They’re often in here with me at night,” he told her.

  The soothing tone in his voice did nothing to stop the ricochet of terror running through her at the very idea.

  “You need to make them go!”

  “No.”

  Caoimhe’s body betrayed her, a whimper on her lips.

  “Caoimhe, you cannot allow fear to debilitate you so. Not when there is no real threat.”

  “I have seen what dogs can do, Niall!” Caoimhe bit back, her eyes still focused on the large, black dog at the door. “So, don’t tell me they’re n-no threat.”

  Tears were coming to her eyes, and Niall was quick to try to comfort her. He petted at her hair, murmured soft noises like he might to a small child that had skinned his knee. Despite Caoimhe’s pride disliking the idea of her being seen as little more than an infant, it cooled her raising pulse all the same.

  In a moment of soft movement, Niall had wrapped his hands around her waist and raised Caoimhe to sit upon the high, four-poster bed. She lifted her feet up off of the floor and knelt there on the blankets, a hand on one of the twisted wooden pillars.

  “Stay there,” Niall told her, a hand up to halt her need to run.

  As there was nowhere to run to that was not the doorway that held the source of her fears, Caoimhe was happy to stay where she was. That was, until Niall issued a quick command to the dog. The animal came into the room, its large paws padding over the floorboards. Caoimhe could hear the clicking noise of its claws on the wood and shivered.

  “She’ll not get on the bed,” Niall told her. “She knows not to.”

  “It’s a she?”

  Niall smiled, as if amused that Caoimhe would assume all big and scary animals to be male.

  “This one is. She’s Aila.”

  The dog’s ears pricked into points as she recognized her name. Her mouth parted to show her big teeth, but Caoimhe was distracted by the silly, lolling pink tongue.

  “Her mate, who is downstairs I think, is Jaspar. And the third is Giurin.”

  Caoimhe wasn’t sure what to make of this information. She felt an almost resentful sensation in her heart that the animals having names somehow made them less frightening. Like she was losing her right to be scared.

  “Don’t…” She cleared her throat. “Don’t the boys fight over Aila?” she asked. The dog looked at her, bright-eyed, and wagged her tail at the sound of her name again. Caoimhe felt her anxiety cool a little. Such a silly mutt for getting so excited over a single word…

  “I should hope not,” Niall answered with a laugh. He patted Aila’s head, and she tilted herself into his touch. “Giurin is Aila and Jaspar’s pup. He’s fully grown now, so he looks the same size, but he’s a generation younger.”

  “So, they’re a little family?”

  Niall glanced her way, an odd look of surprise on his face. It was as if the idea had never occurred to him.

  “Yes, I guess they are.” He then snorted softly before crouching down to scratch behind Aila’s ears. She panted, her tongue flapping about and her tail waving madly. “The only family I’ve really had, I guess.”

  The words, while said with such lightness, only served to prickle at Caoimhe’s heart.

  She watched Niall with the animal, ashamed of her fears. It was clear that the creature was besotted with her master, and Caoimhe could not judge Aila’s choice of loyalties.

  At least that was one thing she and the dogs had in common.

  Perhaps they could build from there?

  “Do you want to touch her?” Niall asked, breaking into Caoimhe’s reverie.

  She shook her head firmly, which prompted him to laugh.

  “Alright,” he accepted, letting Aila go. The dog moved to find a familiar place for herself by the open fire, and then flopped to the rug with a heavy sigh.

  As he moved to shuck the rest of his clothes, Niall offered no shame before the animal or Caoimhe. He simply took to his bed naked and settled his large body on one side of the mattress.

  Caoimhe was less confident, removing her clothes with her back to the man and scooting in beneath the sheets before she could be seen. Her modesty seemed to amuse Niall.

  “You’ve no need to be so defensive, Wife,” he told her. “I think we’ve each had enough excitement for one day. Just sleep. I’ll be sure to keep the monsters at bay.”

  Feeling decidedly like she was being mocked for a child, Caoimhe kept her back to her husband, curled her knees into her chest, and tried to sleep, as she was bid.

  19

>   Samhain

  That first night after her wedding, Caoimhe had feared the presence of her husband in the mornings. She had sensed a weight around her, a shape in her room—had worried as to his sudden appearance in her chambers and what he might want from her. Now, such anxieties seemed pure nonsense.

  For the next two weeks, Caoimhe awoke in Niall's arms. While he left her alone every evening and gave her the space to feel secure in their now shared room, the nighttime hours brought him towards her every time. Like the sun moving from one side of the sky to the other. By morning light, Niall would be curled around her frame, her back to his front. One of his legs would be wrapped around hers, and his arm would be curled about her middle. Not a single morning had brought the anxieties that had chased her through the night in her own chambers.

  Instead of her husband being a dominance in her life, a terror that lurked on the outside of her world and beckoned to her from the shadows, Caoimhe now felt as if she were the one in the darkness, that her doubts and worries over Niall's heart had her dithering on the outside of something that could be glorious. Instead of the master of shadows, Niall was now the epicenter of light. The pillar of strength towards which she gravitated.

  Each morning he woke with her, Niall was soft and gentle. He stroked her arm or kissed her shoulder. He even surprised her once with a soft and playful pat to her bottom.

  Then he would rise, see to his morning ablutions, and give her the privacy of doing the same by herself. They would separate for the day, seeing to their own duties about the household or the Brodie lands, and then reunite over the evening repast. They talked over their days, their thoughts and feelings on life in general. They spoke of the servants and how Ben needed new shoes and Herman had a cough he would not admit to. Niall arranged for Fergus to see the groundskeeper, and Caoimhe was given money to purchase shoes for the boy.

  All within Aberlynn had become domestic and cozy.

  And yet, despite retiring to the same bedroom every night, it had been two weeks since Niall had touched Caoimhe in passion.