“No, but I am looking forward to finding out,” she purred, then smiled a wickedly suggestive smile at him. He pulled her close to him and gave her a smoldering kiss.
When he let her go, she was dizzy. “There’s more where that came from!” he whispered.
She giggled. “I hope so!”
They stood next to the stalls for a while listening to the soft whickering and munching sounds as the horses pulled hay out of their racks.
“But if we stand here talking all day, the rain will come on again, the horses will be soaked, and so will we!” she pointed out. “Time to go!”
“We have time for one more,” he said with his most winsome smile. She sighed and shook her head in exasperation, but held her hand out for another glass of wine, smiling despite herself.
Broch was loath to part from the scented warmth of Bettina’s body, but she was still keen, and he conceded that the horses did need a good gallop. After they crossed the bridge over the moat of Wallace Castle, they rode side by side for a while in comfortable silence.
The path they were traveling on was rutted and muddy, making their way slippery, and there were puddles everywhere, but they were not in the mood for caution today. They reasoned that if their clothes and horses became filthy, they could always be washed.
Bettina raised her face to the sky, watching the clouds scudding by and smiling. Out of nowhere, she said, “Remember I said I wanted ten children?”
He laughed. “How could I forget it?”
“I have changed my mind,” she stated firmly. “I want a dozen now.”
Broch stared at her in horror. “I will have to buy another castle!” he exclaimed. “Think of all the nannies!”
Bettina giggled, and Broch knew his parents had picked the right girl for him. He loved her sense of humor and her ready laughter and looked forward to the wedding as much as she was.
Presently, they came to a long slope in the road and were preparing to ascend it at a trot, when Bettina whooped and shouted, “Race you!” before urging Babby into a gallop.
A second later Diablo was after her, and before long both were at full stretch. The hill was not too steep, but it was perhaps half a mile long, and soon the horses were panting with exertion. Just before they got to the top, Broch caught up with Bettina and gave a triumphant laugh, then sped on ahead.
He was almost at the top of the hill when he heard a scream, then a thud, and he looked over to see Bettina lying motionless on the muddy ground. Babby struggled to her feet again after putting one of her front feet in a puddle and fell sideways on the muddy ground.
“Bettina!” he called desperately. He dismounted and ran down the hill, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He skidded to a halt beside her and bent over her, then lifted her head and shoulders onto his lap.
She was breathing quickly, and her face was very pale, but a vast tide of relief swept over him as he realized she was conscious, and her eyes were open.
“Bettina, can you talk?” he asked urgently.
“Yes...” It was a feeble whisper, and she was struggling to keep her eyes open.
Broch forced himself to stay calm. “Does it hurt anywhere?”
She tried to answer, though he heard nothing but a little moan before she shut her eyes and went limp. He gazed at her helplessly for a moment and then felt the pulse on her neck. Her heart was still beating, thank God, although her skin was ashen. He gently laid her back down by the side of the road and covered her with his cloak.
“I will be back,” he promised, and kissed her forehead. He felt wretched as he galloped away to fetch help. He knew he was abandoning her, but what else could he do?
Chapter 1
Broch was looking around desperately for help when he saw a cart a hundred yards away coming towards him with agonizing slowness. It was laden with farm produce and pulled by a huge ox that plodded along the road no faster than a man could walk. It was being driven by a plain young woman and a very old man, who were both astonished to see a well-dressed young man here in the middle of nowhere.
“Please help me!” he said desperately. “My betrothed is lying injured on the road, and I must get help for her. Can you wait with her? I will be back as soon as I can.”
“Of course we can, sir,” the woman answered, nodding. “We will wait an’ pray.”
“Thank you! Her name is Bettina.” He went back to place a soft kiss on Bettina’s lips, leaped into the saddle, and was gone.
While he rode hell for leather along the road back to his castle, Broch was praying furiously to the rhythm of Diablo’s hooves. “Let her live, let her live, let her live, oh, God, please let her live.”
His beloved Bettina was lying behind him, grievously hurt, and every second that passed was a second lost, one fewer second left to save her life.
He saw the castle in the distance and sped Diablo up ’til he was going at full stretch. They flew over the bridge and into the courtyard, where Broch jumped off and summoned the housekeeper, who was also well known for her knowledge of herbs and healing.
She hurried up to him. “Are ye awright, M’Laird?” she asked anxiously.
“Aye,” he replied, “but Bettina is not. She has fallen off her horse and is lying on the Dunbroath road. She looks seriously hurt, and I am afraid for her life. Please come quickly.”
The housekeeper, Innes Morrison, was mounted on one of the guards’ horses, and they left the castle at a furious gallop. A cart followed along more slowly behind them to carry Bettina back to the castle.
When they saw her body by the side of the road she looked like nothing more than a bundle of rags. Broch was the first to reach her. He put his fingers to her neck and felt a very faint pulse, and just then Mistress Morrison appeared by his side. She, too, felt the pulse and then took a small flask from her skirt’s pocket and waved it under Bettina’s nose. “Hartshorne, M’Laird,” she explained. “Smelling salts.”
They looked hopefully at Bettina as the pungent stench of ammonia filled the air, but there was no reaction, not even a flickering of Bettina’s eyelids.
Mistress Morrison began to feel along Bettina’s arms and legs, then her neck, where she stopped and shook her head. “M’Laird,” she said gently, “ye must prepare yourself for the worst. Mistress Bettina has broken her neck. She will not recover, and ye had better send for the priest.”
Broch could not take the news in for a moment. He gazed at Bettina’s beautiful face; he had been in love with her for a very long time and had been longing to marry her. He knew that she had felt the same, and they were both counting the days to their wedding.
He put his hand on her heart and felt it beating faintly, but after a few seconds, it stopped; he had felt her very last heartbeat. Bettina breathed out one final, ragged sigh, and then her life was over.
Broch gazed at her in disbelief for a moment, then he staggered to his feet and roared his grief and rage to the sky.
The funeral took place a week later in St Jude’s parish church and was a very lavish ceremony. Bettina’s family, although not nobles, were from wealthy merchant stock, and they spared no expense to make sure their daughter had a fitting entrance to the afterlife. The church was bedecked with flowers, which gave their heady fragrance to the air, and there were beeswax candles on the altar instead of the cheaper tallow ones.
The coffin was made of oak and had brass fittings, but even if it had been made of solid gold, he still could not bear the thought of Bettina being shut in it and buried in the cold earth, unable to escape.
He filed past the coffin with tears in his eyes as he bent down to kiss her cold, pale lips, which he would never see or touch again. She looked as though she was asleep and lost in some beautiful dream. He wanted to take her hand and tell her to open her eyes. He would help her out of the coffin, and this time when they went to the altar, they would leave as husband and wife.
When the casket was lowered into the grave, he had to force himself to look with a supreme act of willpower, but after he
had thrown his handful of earth, he could no longer wear his mask of calm acceptance. He strode away from the graveside and back into the church, then knelt to pray again, but found that the words would not come. All that came back to him were memories, but they were all happy ones.
* * *
Six months earlier...
* * *
“You are to be betrothed to Bettina Prentice,” Broch’s father, Findlay Wallace, told him at the breakfast table one morning. He was a tall, thin, stern man whose orders were rarely queried and definitely never disobeyed. Everyone lived in fear of him except for two people—his son and his wife. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he was even taller than his father, or that Broch could stare into his eyes without flinching for minutes at a time. Broch had never lost one of these contests of will, much to his father’s chagrin.
For a moment, he mulled over what his father had said. “She is very lovely, Father, and she seems intelligent. I will give it some thought.” Indeed, he could do worse than marry Bettina, but he disliked the idea of being forced.
“It was not a question,” Findlay Wallace growled, “but an order. You will marry her. Her father is wealthy, and she is beautiful, personable, and intelligent enough to be a formidable asset in running the estate.”
“I will meet her,” Broch conceded, “but I will make no promises, Father. You will not force me into marriage with a woman I do not want.”
“I have met her,” his mother, Moire, said. “She is, as your father says, a beautiful girl. I think you will be very keen on the idea once you get to know her better.”
Moire was a small, apparently shy woman with Broch’s dark hair and gray-green eyes, and she never argued with her husband, but somehow she always got her way. Broch had no idea how, but she calmed her husband down and bent his will to hers by some devious feminine way of her own.
“I trust your judgment, Mother,” he said, smiling. “Arrange a meeting for Sunday, Father.” He kissed his mother’s forehead and was gone.
Moire hugged Findlay and smiled. “He will see sense. I will start planning the wedding now!”
Her prediction proved to be true. It was no more than a month later that Broch decided that Bettina Prentice was the right woman to be his wife.
The first time Broch saw Bettina, she had been laughing heartily at a joke one of the grooms looking after her horse had made. Broch thought it very unusual that a lady of quality should be sharing a jest with a servant, but as he soon realized, she rarely acknowledged the difference between herself and her underlings. It was one of the things he came to love about her.
He had gone to visit her in the presence of her father, who looked at them both assessingly. Ben Prentice was very protective of his youngest daughter. He bent down and muttered something to her, then she turned and saw Broch. Her eyes widened, and she stared at him as if she were startled, then he moved forward to greet her, smiling.
She was stunning; her face was a little too long, but she looked like one of the happiest people he had ever seen, and that had a beauty of its own. He moved to greet her, and she curtsied at his approach, then he bowed and bent to kiss her hand.
He saw that her eyes were hazel, and her hair, tumbling in waves down her back, was deep brown, so their children would be dark, he thought suddenly. Why was he thinking of children already?
“M‘Laird,” she said, smiling broadly at him. “We meet at last.”
“Mistress Bettina. Indeed, and what a pleasure it is. I have brought some French wine. Come and have some with me and we can talk.”
So they talked, and in the days to come, they would talk more, getting to know each other and learning one another’s likes and dislikes. It was not long before Broch realized he was falling in love with her.
One evening, he visited her at her house and found her standing in the library looking out of the long windows, deep in thought. She looked around and heard his step, then smiled as she saw him.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, putting his arms around her waist.
“Our wedding night,” she answered, with the frankness that always amazed him. So many other young women would have been coy or embarrassed.
“Are you afraid?” he asked tenderly.
“A little,” she admitted.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered, and kissed her. “I have never told you how much I love you, have I?”
“No. And I have never told you how much I wanted to hear you say it, and how much I wanted to say it back to you. I love you, Broch, with all my heart.”
They had never kissed properly before, only exchanged soft, quick brushes, but now he turned her around gently and kissed her very tenderly. When they gazed into each other’s eyes, a spark ignited between them. For a moment longer, they hesitated, and then he kissed her hungrily, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and straining her close to him, so their bodies were pressed tightly together. He heard her moan with desire as she wound her arms around his neck. When they drew apart, they were breathless.
“Why have you never done that before?” she asked in disbelief. “It was so...I have no words to describe it, Broch. Is this what happens between a man and a woman?”
“Yes,” he replied. “This and more—much more. I cannot wait to show you.”
“Then show me a little more,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling wickedly.
* * *
Looking back, Broch realized that was the moment he had truly fallen in love with her.
He knelt in the church a while longer then got up, sighing. It was time to pay his respects to Bettina’s family, then he would leave before he made a fool of himself by weeping in front of everyone.
He approached Mary Prentice, Bettina’s mother, a tall, strongly made woman with Bettina’s dark hair and hazel eyes. Bettina had not inherited her mother’s lack of humor, however, although today was not a day for laughing and jesting. Bettina would likely have made fun of all the gloomy faces around her and told them all to cheer up. She had often said she would love to be a guest at her own funeral.
Broch went up to Mary and bowed, although he could see that her eyes were smoldering with hatred. He opened his mouth to say something, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“You dare to come and speak to us after what you have done?” She was almost spitting at him. “You killed my daughter, and this family will never forgive you for that! Stay away from us. If we see you, we will ignore you, and you will kindly do the same for us. Goodbye, M’Laird. Never let me see your sorry face again.”
Ben stood up then with a thunderous expression on his face. “My wife is right,” he said savagely. “If you come near our home again, you will find a pack of dogs on your heels. Be off!”
Broch had been feeling quite repentant and guilty, but now the injustice of Mary’s words smote him hard. “I did not cause her death,” he protested indignantly. “She suggested a race—I could see that the horses were in a wild mood, so I chased after her and Babby put her foot in a hole. None of this was my fault, and I do not deserve to be blamed for what happened. I miss my Bettie as much as you do. I loved her, and I always will. Do your worst—walk past me if you see me because I only ever cared about Bettina anyway. The rest of you can go to hell!”
He had kept his voice down, but his cheeks were red and his fists were clenched, his whole body trembling with rage. He glared at the Prentices one last time before he walked into the courtyard of the large imposing house where Bettina had lived, intending to fetch Diablo and leave. A large glass of whiskey would have been very welcome at that moment, but he decided to wait ’til he arrived at home so he could drink himself into a stupor with impunity.
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Afterword
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This book is a work of fiction. Some of the characters are real historical figures, but the others exist only in the imagination of the author. All events in this book are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.
Haunted By A Highland Curse: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance Page 20