Lusting for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  As soon as he was gone Morgana got up from her chair and raced toward the tray of food. She picked up the pitcher with her still-numb hands, and fumbled with it as she brought it up to her lips. She drank from it greedily, nearly finishing it all one long pull. Water had been given to her more scarcely than food had, and she was parched.

  When she felt she had enough she attacked the food, tearing chunks of bread off the loaf with her teeth. Nothing had ever tasted so good in her life, and she had it gone completely in a matter of minutes. When she finished, she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her dress and looked over at the wash basin.

  She could feel the grime of the journey caked over her hair and skin. The smell coming off her wasn’t pleasant either, but there were many reasons she didn’t want to wash up. She didn’t want to get naked for any reason. The more foul she was, the more likely she’d be left alone. Why should she do anything to make her existence any easier for them to handle?

  Deciding to forego the bath, she stood back up and walked around the tent to stretch her legs. As she did so, she thought of everything she had seen and heard from Nigel. There was no doubt about it in her mind now. The man was not what he wanted everyone to think he was.

  From what she had gathered from Bartholomew, she wasn’t the only one starting to see that either. His behavior was fringing on lunacy, far beyond the standard kind the church was known for. Moving past that, Morgana’s mind flashed back to the sigil she saw on Fordun’s side.

  At first she had thought it was just an odd-shaped scar, but when he had leaned in to degrade her she had gotten a better look at it. It was indeed a scar, but it was obviously an intentional one. The mark was a spiral inside an upside down triangle.

  Whatever it means, I can bet it is nothing good.

  Chapter 28

  The next morning, exhausted and beaten down, Morgana arrived with Fordun at the Magistrate’s door. Word had spread that she had finally been caught, and crowds had gathered to watch her being brought in. From all around her Morgana heard the boos and screams of displeasure at her existence. Some were even bold enough to throw food.

  No matter what the crowd did though, Morgana walked, bound and gagged, with her head held high into the building. Inside she was treated little better. Roughly she was thrown into a jail cell, but she was so happy to have something between her and Fordun that she didn’t mind at all.

  “Look who you finally brought back to us,” the jailer praised, looking at her through the bars as Fordun drained a glass of red wine. “My, she’s a beauty isn’t she? No wonder you didn’t want to bring her in.”

  Morgana watched the man’s eyes roam over her and her stomach rolled. He was a rather tall, rotund man with an odor worse than hers emanating from his person. His small, beady head had been shaved smooth, and his bare arms shone with a grimy sweat.

  The man was looking at her like she was the only drink in a desert for kilometers, and to Morgana’s surprise, Fordun appeared to like it even less than she did. He strode up to the large man, seething with fury and poked him hard in the chest.

  “Listen here, you imbecile. You stay away from her. You understand me? I didn’t want to bring her in because she is dangerous to our society,” Fordun shot back, clearly not a fan of the man. “It is only by God’s grace that she is still alive and not a pile of ash at this very moment.”

  “Alright, easy mate,” the jailer chuckled, easing back a bit. “Listen, the Magistrate has been waiting for you,” he told Fordun. “I would suggest you get upstairs to talk to him as soon as possible.”

  He lowered his voice, then took a step closer to Fordun as if he was trying to relay a secret.

  “The King’s army has been made aware of the three girls you took care of some months ago. Nearly the entire village rode in to tell the Magistrate what you did.”

  “And?” Morgana heard Fordun snarled. “Is that not what God has asked me to do? Am I not a witch-hunter? Is my sole purpose not to protect the innocent lives that live in our glorious country?”

  The jailer took a step back, obviously afraid of Fordun’s growing temper. When he spoke next his words came out in a stutter, and he could barely keep eye contact with Morgana’s captor.

  “Yes sir, of course. I wasn’t trying to suggest otherwise. Of course not! I was just following orders you see. We were all told to send you to the Magistrate when you arrived.”

  Through the bars Morgana watched the interaction intently, wondering if Fordun was going to lose control and strike the man or not. She was rather surprised, and a tiny bit disappointed, when Fordun decided to simply turn on his heel and walk away from the man.

  As soon as he was gone the jailer went back to her cell, leaning heavily into the bars as he stared at her lustfully. Even without a bath and covered in bruises, the man still found it necessary to describe all the vile, sadistic thing that he wanted to do to her if he could just have five minutes in her cell with her.

  “Would you like that?” he asked. “I bet you would, wouldn’t you, you wild little thing.”

  “No thank you,” Morgana replied primly. “I would prefer to be left alone.”

  “You might be surprised,” he told her, smiling wide to show off his brown, nearly toothless gums. “What witches like you will beg for when they know they only have a few days left to live. They start thinking of all the last comforts they wished they could have, and I’m just a kindly man trying to ease their pain. I’m rather good at it.”

  Morgana’s stomach rolled at the same time her eyes did. She didn’t believe a word of what the jailer was saying. Even if she did, she wouldn’t willingly go anywhere with him and certainly would not allow him to touch her in any way. When she didn’t respond, the jailer chuckled again, but stepped back away from the cell.

  “You’ll change your mind,” he promised her, walking away.

  Morgana moved up to the front of the cell to watch him walk down the long corridor of cages. When she was sure he wasn’t going to come back any time soon, she finally let herself breathe, and sat down on the only furniture in the tiny room; a sleeping cot.

  “Gregor, please hurry,” she whispered, look around the dark, filthy stone walls. Her fear was starting to mount more than ever. It was the first time since Fordun had captured her when she was twelve, and it brought back all the horrendous pain she felt the last time she was in one.

  Tears pricked at her eyes as she trembled on the cot, not able to keep them back any longer. “Please don’t be too late,” she prayed, hoping that somehow Gregor could hear her.

  Although Zeus had been instrumental in leading Gregor to the right path in Scotland, his tracking skills were no longer needed the moment they crossed into England. A buzz of excitement was traveling through all of the villages, and all anyone could talk about was the fiery-haired witch that Sir Nigel Fordun had finally captured.

  The news of Morgana’s capture was all anyone wanted to talk about, and it was far too easy to find out just exactly where Fordun had taken her. His anger pulsated off of him any time they had to interact with someone. Strangers who had never even met Morgana were excited for her execution.

  “Damned English,” he swore often. And they thought Scotland was barbaric! Gregor had witnessed many an execution in his day in what was considered the ‘wilder’ country, but each and every one of them had been for justice.

  Though he had been worried about his uncle at first, he had soon become grateful that he had chosen to come with him. The rumors he was hearing about Morgana were driving him to a frenzy, and it was Jamie’s words of wisdom that kept him focused on the mission.

  When they finally arrived at the Magistrate’s Office, Gregor slid off Hermes and took a stride toward the door when Jamie reached down and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Where do ye think yer going lad?” he asked.

  “To get Morgana out right now,” he fired back. Why was his uncle suddenly asking stupid questions? There was no time!

  “Aye, ye canna
e do that lad,” Jamie replied, and then quickly explained. “We’re not in Scotland where every other noble kens yer name, and we’re not in a field trying to find a tent with Morgana in it. This is English law territory now. If ye want to go in there, ye have to get yerself cleaned up and put on yer best airs. We need to be able to plead with the Magistrate, and he’s not going to hear a word ye say if ye storm in there looking like a messed-up farmer swearing to be a noble.”

  Gregor looked furiously from his uncle to the Magistrate’s building. Morgana was in there, not very far at all away from him. The likelihood of her in there sipping tea and laughing with the Magistrate was nonexistent. He knew she was frightened, most likely a little roughed up, and in need of him.

  He didn’t give a damn about propriety, not with Morgana’s head potentially moments away from the chopping block. But he knew his uncle was right. The English thought the Scots wild, savage. If he went in there looking like he did now he’d only make matters worse. Begrudgingly, he nodded his head.

  “Come on then,” Jamie urged, guiding him toward the stables. Above them the two travel worn men scrubbed themselves vigorously, trimmed their hair, and shaved their beards. Gregor stuffed their filth-ridden clothes into his sack and Jamie pulled out the noble robes and garments he had so wisely packed before coming to get his nephew.

  “I look like a damned fool,” Gregor growled, taking in the copious furs, tartan kilt, and plumed shirt.

  “Aye, but ye look like a noble damned fool,” Jamie shot back, adjusting his own tartan uncomfortably. “Now come on, let’s go get yer bride.”

  Gregor had to admit that their appearance had made a difference as to how people treated them immediately. What had first been jeers and twisted, angry faces were now respectful nods, head bows, and people moving out of their way. At the Magistrate’s Office however, they were still greeted with hostility.

  “What would bring you Scottish pricks down ‘ere to us?” the guard sneered, looking up at Gregor who was a good four inches taller than he.

  Something in Gregor’s mind went off just then and the small portion of his patience exploded into thin air. Gregor’s hand shot out and slammed into the guard’s throat with so much ferocity that it slammed him into the stone wall.

  “Listen to me, ye wee English bastard,” Gregor seethed, his voice deadly. “I am Gregor Reid, Laird of the Henwen. Me family has been of noble blood long before yer people knew how to shite in a hole outside. Now ye will address me and me uncle, Sir Jamie Reid, as Laird’s. Ye understand me, balach?”

  The guard’s eyes were as large as saucers as they stared up at Gregor in utter terror, and for a moment he simply stood there, mouth agape. A moment later some semblance of intelligence glowed back into his eyes through the fear, and he gave a quick nod.

  “Good lad,” Gregor praised, tightening his grip on the guard’s throat again. “Now here’s what yer going to dae. Yer going to open the doors for us nice and gentlemanly like, and take us personally to the Magistrate’s Office. He has me betrothed. And I want her back.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Laird,” Gregor snarled back.

  “Yes, Laird Henwen!” the guard stammered.

  The minute Gregor let the guard go he turned on his feet and pushed the large doors open wide for them. Gregor glanced over to his uncle, and noticed a rather bemused look on his face.

  “What?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders.

  “So much for subtlety, lad,” he grumbled, following the guard.

  As commanded, the guard led them straight to the Magistrate’s Office and opened the door on their behalf. As they parted, Gregor caught sight of Fordun’s face, and every cell in his body burst with anger. At his sides, his hands began to vibrate from fighting with control.

  Every part of his being wanted to fly into the room and rip the demon apart with his bare hands. But he couldn’t. Not yet at least. Jamie was right. The English were expecting savages, and if he behaved so now, he would seal Morgana’s fate and possibly even risk another war with England.

  “Aha,” Fordun laughed, clearly amused. “Gregor Reid, Laird of Henwen,” he mused. “How convenient that you are here.”

  “Ye’ve kidnapped me betrothed under false pretenses and ye plan to hang her as a witch,” Gregor replied, his voice steady. “I’ve simply come to clear her name and bring her home.”

  Fury burned through Gregor when Fordun began to laugh at him, but he kept his calm. Refusing to give in to his pithy games, he turned to the Magistrate and approached his desk. When he reached it, he knelt down on one knee and bowed his head respectfully.

  “Yer honor, as a Laird, I extend me protection over her and demand ye set her free at once. She has been nothing but a savior to our people. When disease struck, it was her knowledge of medicines that kept everyone alive. Including me dear niece, who’s barely a bairn of four. There is nae an ounce of evil in this woman, I swear me own life on it.”

  A look of concern came of the Magistrate’s face as his glanced traveled back and forth between Gregor and Fordun. A slither of hope shot through Gregor’s heart. He hadn’t dreamed it could be that easy, but what if it could?

  “Is this true, Sir Fordun?” the Magistrate asked. “She saved an entire village?”

  “Nothing but hearsay,” he replied, not at all ruffled.

  “Sir,” Jamie spoke, stepping forward. “I am Jamie Reid, this fine man’s uncle, and I can bear witness to this. There was nae witchcraft in how she saved our village from death, it was mere knowledge of the land and the plants that grow on it tis all. All male healers ken this. Is it so farfetched a woman would?”

  Fordun, as if sensing he was losing ground, inserted himself between Gregor and the Magistrate.

  “Your Honor,” he intervened. “This man is not at all who he appears to be. I spoke with him the first night I tried to capture Morgana and he acted like a complete barbarian. I assure you these airs are just an act.” He looked down at Gregor, and shook his head.

  “And we are speaking of a witch that we have been tracking for years. She is a daughter of a warlock that had caused us great trouble. How do we not know that she hasn’t simply put a spell on the lovestruck Scottish laird and is acting on her behalf to try to gain her freedom?”

  In an instant Gregor was on his feet and going toe to toe to Fordun. Behind him his uncle Jamie laid a firm hand on his shoulder and whispered for him to be still. Across from them, the Magistrate was watching the entire scene unfold, not trying at all to step into the middle of it.

  For a long moment Gregor struggled to fight the swirling anger that thrashed violently within him. He wanted to take Fordun’s head and smash it into the edge of the Magistrate’s desk until it exploded. Despite how much he wanted it though, he had to maintain his temper and prove himself.

  The moment I have Morgana safe and out of this God-forsaken country.

  Gregor stared Fordun down.

  I’m going to rip ye from limb to limb and make ye suffer for the ways ye destroyed her life. For the way yer trying to destroy mine. I’ve lost one love of my life. I will nae lose another to the likes of ye.

  The truth rang out in his head like a clear bell. This was no mere infatuation with Morgana. He loved her. He loved her with all of his being, and had finally been able to put Isabel and Ian’s memory to rest. The realization spread a calmness through him like a soothing bomb, and he began to think rationally again.

  “Yer Honor,” Gregor said, ignoring Fordun. “There’s something wrong with this man. I ken it. Ye do too. The entire English countryside from our border to here knows it. This menace may have been a witch-hunter at one time, but all he does now is go after innocents.”

  Fordun snickered. “Your Honor, you can’t really…”

  “Silence, Sir Fordun,” the Magistrate commanded. Immediately the man shut his mouth. The Magistrate looked from Fordun to Gregor, then back to Fordun again, where his gaze lingered for several moments.

  “V
ery well,” he said after a while, crossing his fingers in front of him. “I revoke my waiver to a trial. Laird Henwen, you may have three days to prepare.”

  Gregor shook his head. “Trial? Nae, yer honor, please just set her free.”

  “Laird Henwen,” the Magistrate addressed him, leaning forward. “While I admit that I have heard some rather unsavory rumors about Sir Fordun’s performance of duties as of late, I will not forget how many times he has saved our country from peril. If he has been chasing this…Morgana for twelve years now then he must have a good reason, and I want to hear it. Now you can have three days or you can leave now. What do you choose?”

  Gregor told him he’d take the days, though his voice vibrated with rage as he said so.