Yet despite the pain, her tumble had turned out to be both of their saving graces. Inside she’d found the smallest black pup she’d ever seen, cold and limp. From the droppings in the cave, she could tell that the mother and the rest of the pups had moved on to a new home not too long ago. The wee runt of the litter just hadn’t been able to make it.
At first she was going to just bury the poor thing, but as she had scooped it up, the sounds of villagers came echoing through the ravine, and she had pressed it instinctively to her chest. The cave had been so well hidden by the thickets of briars that no one had even noticed the entrance, and they went right past her.
Still for minutes after she sat huddled in the back of the cave, her knees and pup drawn close her in utter fear. Silent tears trickled down her cheeks as she waited to be caught. It wasn’t until she heard the softest whimper did she uncurl her body and, to her utter surprise, found the pup had come back to life.
Overcome with the joy of not being alone, she pressed it to her cheek and thanked it for returning. Finding him alive had eased her fear enough to help her realize that the hunters had come and gone without even detecting her. Since then he had stayed protectively by her side. She had named him Zeus, the God of Thunder. He was one of her favorite gods from her aunt’s lessons in history.
Through the years, he had gathered quite a few scars protecting her and himself from Sir Nigel Fordun and his evil band of followers, but Zeus had never once left her side. In many ways, Morgana was just as much his pet as he was hers.
Each village they had traveled to had started out so well. They would arrive, treat ailments, and stay out of everyone’s way. But no matter how hard they had tried to blend in or help, they always had been chased away by small minds the moment the witch-hunter pointed his finger at her.
Like her father, she was simply good with herbs, with healing. But all people wanted to see was a witch and her familiar. It was during those times she actually wished she was a witch. If she was, perhaps she could have the power to pull stupidity from people’s brains.
Pulling her out of her thoughts, Zeus suddenly snorted, and jumped out of his sleep. His heavy paws clacked toward the door, then he turned to her and waited for her to join. When she didn’t move fast enough, he whimpered.
Stifling a laugh, Morgana wrapped her cloak around her, shouldered her bow and arrows, and went to the door. On her way out she stopped by the fireplace and grabbed the lantern that sat on the hearth to light it.
“Too much stew?” she teased, opening the door up for him. Zeus let out a small growl of annoyance before he darted outside to relieve himself.
In Tily’s front yard, Morgana trailed slowly behind as Zeus wandered away from the house and out into the first of many fields that stood between the main house and the cottage at the edge of the wood.
Above them the sky was slowly turning from midnight blue to royal purple, letting Morgana know that dawn would be approaching within the next hour or so. The new moon could be seen in the otherwise clear sky, offering her a sliver of hope and light for the new beginning.
Maybe it’s a sign. New cottage, new village, new moon.
She wanted it so much to be true. She was so unbelievably tired of running, of hiding. All she wanted to do, all she ever wanted to do, was to simple exist in harmony with the rest of the world. Thanks to Fordun though, it would never happen.
“Zeus, come,” she sighed, patting her side. Now feeling overwhelmed, she just wanted to return to her sleeping mat and hide under her blanket.
“Come on, boy,” she whispered once more. “It’s time to go back to bed.”
In response, Zeus barked playfully and took off through the fields. At first Morgana panicked. He had never done such a thing like that before. Then she realized something. They were finally away from England, away from the witch-hunters and the small-minded English townsfolk. Zeus, sensing the freedom, wanted to run. And despite it being so late, Morgana realized she wanted him to as well.
“Go on then,” she sighed, when he circled back. “Just don’t go too far, you hear?”
A cool breeze pushed the grassy fields toward her, their husk-brown leaves moving like an ocean as she slowly trailed behind him. She watched, happy, as he led her through them and then toward the wood. Soon the weather would warm and all that was brown would be consumed with new, virile green. It would be time to plant, to renew. Perhaps she could renew her life here, in Henwen.
Without light, Morgana was having trouble keeping track of Zeus. The jet black of his coat blended in perfectly with the night, and soon she was following nothing but the sound of his paw steps. She was just starting to think they should turn back when Zeus veered sharply, and led them to a clearing.
At the edge of the wood he stopped suddenly and let out a low growl. Immediately Morgana ducked behind a tree as she knocked an arrow and took aim. Zeus followed silently behind, knowing all too well what to do.
In England, rumor ran amok about the dangers of Scotland. Tales of wild beasts and even wilder people had been the reason she had stayed in her crazed country so long. It wasn’t until her last run-in with the witch-hunters that she realized that there was nothing more dangerous than a man with a zeal for violence by accusing her of witchcraft. Whatever it was Zeus had just found, she’d take it over Fordun the Murderer any day.
Poised for action, Morgana watched as a horse and rider appeared to stride past her not ten feet away. They weren’t moving fast at all. In fact, they were walking so slow that could have caught up to them and walked behind them easily. She had to admit, she was quite curious.
Who would be out here at this time of night? Well, save for her, of course, who couldn’t sleep.
Deciding to follow him, she motioned for Zeus to remain quiet, and then the two began to move forward, keeping to the trees for cover. The rider was definitely a man; tall and well-built, with a thick head of hair. The way he carried himself in his saddle implied that he was of some importance. A castle guard looking for thieves, perhaps? But where was his armor?
Perhaps he is a thief. They rarely traveled alone.
More curious than ever now, Morgana and Zeus followed the rider until he came to another clearing. They watched from the tree line as the man dismounted from his horse and walked to what looked like a very tiny fenced-in plot of land. Quickly she realized it was a graveyard, and out of respect, hid further in the trees.
God forgive me. Did I just spy on a priest?
“Good morn, me loves,” the stranger spoke.
Although a good twenty or more paces away, Morgana heard the soft words echo perfectly through the silent night. The man’s voice was deep, gravelly. And full of heartache. The sound of it made her own heart start to throb in an all-too-familiar pain, and she took a step back.
It seems that loss is something the people of Henwen knew well too.
For a moment, just a moment, she thought of her parents. She missed them terribly. What she wouldn’t give to go back and see them again, hug them again. And warn them.
Time slipped by silently as she watched him with an odd fascination. It wasn’t until the sky began to turn a faint shade of pink that she realized how long she and Zeus had been gone. Though she was still curious about the mystery rider, she didn’t want to be caught watching him. Softly, she knelt down to caress Zeus’ shoulder, and the two began to walk back to Tily’s.
As they walked, Morgana recalled watching the rising light slowly start to illuminate the man’s face. He had dark, shoulder-length hair, a clean jaw, and a stern nose. Chiseled lips had whispered prayers to the dead, and eyes had stayed closed, not revealing colors, or emotions. She wanted to go back then, if only to look into those eyes.
Chapter 2
Like clockwork, he could feel her touch. It rested on his shoulder at the same time every morning. Isabel’s soft, gentle fingers prodding his muscles, imploring him to wake and kiss her like he had every morning for five years. He’d roll over, see her angelic
face shrouded among her pale blonde curls smiling, and he’d revel in the way their lips met.
Except now, Isabel wasn’t really there. Hadn’t been for three years. Their boy Ian, a wee bairn, wasn’t there either. A familiar ache filled Gregor’s heart as his evergreen eyes slowly opened to the purple dusky morning. No matter how much time had passed, he still felt them in that small moment between slumber and waking.
Gregor turned onto his back, and stared up at the large expanse of canopy. He had no idea why this time was the magic time, but he could never sleep past it. For months he had tried, doing and taking everything the alchemists had told him to, so that he could regain his sleep. No matter what he tried though, nothing would work for him.
Whether he liked it or not, he was awake and fully alert. His bed, large and cold, was no comfort to him. Unable to stay in it a moment longer, he pulled back the furs and left the bed. Gregor dressed without the light of a candle, knowing where his worn tan breeches and loose long-sleeved white shirt were simply by how high the piles of clutter were.
Servants were allowed to bring him food and drink, but no one dared attempt to clean up the chambers he’d once shared with the late Lady of Henwen, Isabel Reid. The last time someone had attempted to do so, he had lost his temper horridly and had terrified the young lass that was only trying to do her job.
Outside his chambers he looked down the dimly-lit hallways. Even servants weren’t up yet, nor did he want them to be. It was an ungodly time to be awake, just before morn. It was when most men got their deepest sleep, when they regained their sanity. It was a blessing he missed tremendously.
Heading toward the back stairs, he took the servants halls to leave the castle and headed for the stables. Hermes neighed to him as he came through the doors, ready as always to run with his master. The steed was the only one in the stables that wasn’t a sturdy Highland Pony or a Clydesdale giant. A gift from Spain, it was his prized possession, a grey stallion born from one of the finest Andalusia lines.
Standing at sixteen hands high, he was tall even for his breed. Height meant nothing though when it came to the horse’s speed. The beast could cover fields twice as fast as any native breed and it was afraid of nothing, not even the fierce Scottish bears and other predators.
“Ay, there boy,” Gregor soothed, walking into the stallion’s stall. Hermes nickered in reply, and lowered his muzzle to his master’s hand where a wealth of oats waited for him.
“Ready to run, aye?”
In moments they were racing out of the stables and through the gates of the castle grounds. Hermes, ready as always for their morning run, charged full speed ahead into the forest and along their usual path.
The morning air rushed by him as they rode, numbing his body but softening his usual early-morning anger. Although at times it was difficult, he did his best to never visit Isabel and Ian when he was angry. To others it might have seemed ludicrous to worry about the feelings of the dead, but he did.
Above them, the sky was beginning to turn from dark blue to a light purple, signaling the arrival of a new day. For a long time, Gregor had hopes that the beautiful purple light would bring him some peace. That he’d wake up and see its beautiful hue and somehow feel ready to move on. But that time had passed, and he had accepted his life as a widower. Now it was simply a sign that it was time to visit the graves of his son and wife.
The journey out to the graveyard was a long one. When he walked it took him nearly two hours, but on Hermes it took just three quarters of an hour. Although most would find it an inconvenience, Gregor appreciated the distance between the castle and the graveyard. It gave him the space to prepare.
The other nobles on the castle grounds had been in an uproar when he had informed them that Isabel and Ian wouldn’t be buried in the royal tombs. They had demanded that they be put there for the sake of tradition, but he knew his beloved better. She may have married a royal but she had been a clanswoman through and through. She and their son needed to be put to rest in the wild, where they could be free.
It was only when the wrought-iron fences came into view that Hermes started to slow down. The steed knew the path well now, as well as what his master wanted. When Gregor hopped down from his saddle, Hermes simply lowered his head to the grass and began to graze without being staked down.
Gregor had marked Isabel and Ian’s graves with a hand-carved cross and a smoothed, rounded granite stone he had carved their names into. The wrought-iron fences had been put up next, as well as the small pathway. To complete the place of rest, he’d sown Isabel’s favorite plant, the cuckooflower beside her headstone, so that she was surrounded by comfort. It was perfect place for her and their boy to rest.
“Good morn, me loves,” he said aloud, his Scottish brogue husky and thick. He kissed the top of the cross, and then knelt down to kiss the stone before he bowed his head and began to pray.
God was an illusion to him by now, a fallacy for those that hadn’t lost something dear yet. Still, despite his lack of faith, he prayed over their graves every morning, no matter the weather. It was the only time in the day that he truly felt he was talking with them again.
Gregor didn’t stop praying until the orange sun had turned a glimmering gold and the purple sky had burned into a bright pink. Birds began to sing in the brush, and the world around him was awake once more. Which meant that duty called. The blood right of the village’s Laird waited for no one, and he had people to govern.
“Until tomorrow, me loves,” he whispered, kissing the cross goodbye.
At a much slower pace, Gregor began to guide Hermes back to the castle. As he looked throughout the wilder scenery of his land, he was reminded of the death of his father’s dear friend, Waryn. The two men had fought many wars in the Highlands together, but no matter how hard Gregor’s father had tried to convince them, Waryn and his wife Tily had always refused the invitation to live in the castle with their family.
When Waryn had first passed, shortly after his own father, Gregor had pleaded with Tily once more to move into the castle. She was older now, and with no one to tend their farm or protect her, he had feared she’d be victim to the wild animals or worse, thieves.
Yet despite the possible danger she had stayed, and done the best she could on her own. With her stubborn attitude, she had chased off anyone or anything that even so much as breathed in her direction. Even without Waryn she still produced plenty of crops in her fields, which he and the entire village were quite grateful for.
Gregor realized that it had been weeks since he had visited to check up on her. Of course, Tily always pretended to be annoyed when he showed up. She’d curse at him, tell him she was fine and tell him to look after the rest of the village. He never would though, and they always ended up laughing and having a good visit. Perhaps it was time for another. Using his strong, muscular thighs, Gregor steered Hermes toward Tily’s farm and further into the forest.
The morning chill was burning off earlier by the hour, and by the time he reached the edge of her property, his simple white shirt with leather lacing up his chest was moist with sweat. Between his thighs, he could feel Hermes’ flanks radiating heat and knew the beast needed a drink. In fact, he could use one too.
Knowing there was a brook that ran just within Tily’s property line, he shifted direction slightly so he could come in from the East. When they were nearly there he slowed Hermes down and hopped off his back, walking him the rest of the way toward the fresh water.
As soon as they arrived at the brook, beast and man dropped to their knees, and drank greedily. The cool water was a welcome reprieve, and Gregor took his time quenching his thirst. When he had his fill, he lifted his head and scooped a handful of the cool water and slid it through his hair, gliding over his scalp, down his neck, and over the sweating muscles of his back.
As he lifted his head, he looked toward the old cottage that stood just a few hundred yards away from the brook. No one had lived in it in years, even way before Waryn died
. From what he recalled, the old man used it more as a shed and hunting lodge than an actual home.
But this morning a young woman with fiery curls down to her waist stood on the old thatched porch covered in wisteria vines. They would be full of white and purple blooms in the coming months, but for now they were still the gnarled brown vines of winter. The woman was wearing a maroon dress, providing a brilliant burst of color amid the dreary browns and grays; her hair like a flame of life in the early morning light.
Even from the distance he could see she was a woman of great beauty. Delicate cheekbones emphasized a button nose and almond shaped eyes. Her neck, long and graceful, gave way to an ample bosom that tapered down into a thin waist. Too thin, perhaps, but there was strength in her form.
In her arms she carried a bundle, and by her side stood what looked like a black pony with fangs. Gregor had never seen a dog that looked quite like that one before. It was as big as an Irish Wolfhound, but sleek and shiny as a hunting hound. It was a beautiful animal, though slightly terrifying at first glance.
Lusting for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 2