A Hellion at the Highland Court: A Rags to Riches Highlander Romance (The Highland Ladies Book 9)

by Celeste Barclay

  “I’m sorry aboot what I said earlier,” Laurel confessed.

  “I’m sorry too,” Monty said with a kiss to his sister’s forehead. “Will you be all right?”

  “I always am,” Laurel shrugged as she opened her chamber door. “Goodnight, Monty.”

  “Sleep well, Laurel.”

  She doubted she would, but she appreciated the sentiment. She donned her nightgown and climbed into bed to say her prayers. The day had been too eventful for her, so despite her fears that her mind wouldn’t settle, Laurel was soon asleep.

  Four

  The hairs stood up on the back of Laurel’s neck the next evening as she entered the Great Hall. Heads swiveled and eyes bore into her as she moved toward the table where she usually sat with Blythe and Emelie Dunbar. Their older sister Isabella had once been a lady-in-waiting, but she’d married a Scottish man raised to be an English knight. They now lived among the Sinclairs, distant relatives to the Rosses through marriage. As she drew closer and more whispers rippled through the diners, she feared Sarah Anne or one of the other ladies from the day before had deduced she was the seamstress who created the gowns Sarah Anne bought.

  “None of us will ever marry if we must wait for her. Our wombs will shrivel like prunes, and our hair will turn gray, and our teeth will all fall out before anyone takes her.” Laurel heard each word as she drew closer; Sarah Anne did nothing to lower her voice.

  So word has already spread. What the hell did Monty do last night?

  “Laurel,” Blythe waved her over, sliding down the bench from her sister to make room for Laurel. She tried to stifle her bone-weary sigh, already too tired to play along with the courtly intrigue. Neither Dunbar sister nor Laurel spoke until the first course was served. Blythe kept her voice low, “The queen mentioned you would likely marry soon. When Lady Catherine asked when, the queen couldn’t give a day. So Lady Margaret asked who you were marrying. The queen admitted that the mon hadn’t been chosen, but it would be soon since there would be no other weddings until after yours. Is it true that none of us can marry until you do?”

  Laurel flinched, but nodded her head. She looked away in search of her brother. She found Monty watching her, sadness and guilt in his eyes. She wondered what he’d said and to whom while drinking the night before. It was clear the gossip had spread among the women and the men, so her shame was complete.

  “My brother will see to a betrothal, but it will be soon,” Laurel hedged. Emelie and Blythe sensed they would get no more from Laurel, so their meal continued in awkward silence among the friends. It meant Laurel heard the rumors more clearly. Her head pounded by the time the music began and servants cleared away the tables. She watched as Monty approached, but another man stepped in front of her brother at the last moment.

  “Good evening, lass.” The man’s breath smelled like onions, and Laurel fought not to curl her nose. “I’m Laird Ogilvy’s cousin. Shall we dance?” The odiferous man didn’t wait for Laurel’s answer, pulling her into the crowd that was forming lines for a country reel. Laurel thanked the heavens it was a dance that would make them switch partners often. When they partnered, the man asked her age, how regular her courses were, whether she was a maiden, and asked to see if she had all her teeth.

  “I shalln’t ask you any questions since I can already smell you’re a bilious and gaseous coxcomb. Your mouth is as fusty as your arse. If you wish to examine teeth, bed down with your horse.” Laurel pulled away and spun around to find everyone in earshot listening. Heat suffused her cheeks as she looked around, spying hands pressed against mouths in shock while others did so to keep their voices from carrying. Laurel walked toward a set of doors she knew would force people to step aside. Her humiliation was excruciating, but she wouldn’t slink away. She held her head up until she entered the passageway. She found Monty and Donnan already waiting for her.

  “What did he say to you?” Donnan demanded, looking over her head at the closed door.

  “Naught of importance,” Laurel dismissed the question.

  “Laurel, what did he say?” Monty pressed.

  “He asked how old I am, whether I’m soiled, if I bleed regularly, and he asked to see my teeth,” Laurel whispered.

  “I’ll kill him,” Monty declared.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He asked naught that most prospective grooms wouldn’t. I’m six-and-twenty and of middling looks. I may have been taken aback, but I don’t have a right to be offended. My future husband will want to ensure there is naught wrong with me since I’m well past my prime. I spoke without thought.”

  “Laurel, those were not appropriate questions, and he did not have a right to ask them,” Monty disagreed. “I’ll speak—”

  “Nay, you won’t,” Laurel interrupted. “Maybe you won’t consider him, but you have to consider someone. I’ve made enough of a scene. Making a bigger one will only prolong your search. I’m retiring now, and I shall plead my courses in the morn. It will give me an excuse to remain out of sight and reassure potential suitors that I can breed.”

  “Laurel?” Donnan spoke up. “I’ll marry you.”

  “What?” Laurel and Monty spluttered.

  “I’ll marry you. You can come home, and since you already know aboot Monty and me, and since he’s your brother, he would be welcome in our home without question,” Donnan explained. Laurel stood mute as she considered what her friend offered. She could see the merits of his suggestion, but one thing stood in the way.

  “What aboot when I never provide you with children? You will live not only with the shame of having the Shrew of Stirling as your wife, but you’ll also live with the pity people will give you for being married to a shew who’s barren.”

  “We—we could—” Donnan stuttered. Laurel shook her head and smiled sadly.

  “You shouldn’t both have miserable marriages. I would do it if I thought it would make both of your lives easier, but it won’t. People will talk more and pay more attention to you, Donnan. Even if we had a cottage where you and Monty could meet, people would still talk aboot us. I thank you for your offer. I know you do it out of kindness.” And pity.

  “Laurel, we’ll sort it out. I promise,” Monty swore. He hadn’t a clue how he would go about it, but he would ensure Laurel married a man he trusted and respected. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to scour the Highlands for a man who would meet his expectations. He would have to settle for a Lowlander, which made his heart ache for his sister even more.

  “Thank you both,” Laurel mumbled before hurrying to her chamber, only to toss and turn that night.

  “What do you think?” Monty asked Donnan over the rim of his mug. They’d returned to the Crosspool Tavern after watching Laurel flee down the passageway.

  “I don’t ken, to be honest. I still think you both should consider my offer. I can protect her from your family and give her a home where she’ll be treated well.”

  “But can you give her bairns? Do you wish to?” Monty asked.

  “You ken the answers to both of those. Aye, I can, but nay, I don’t wish to. But if that’s what she wishes, if it would make her happy, you ken it doesn’t mean aught else changes,” Donnan reasoned.

  “I ken that, and I ken Laurel would understand too. But she won’t agree. She’s right that people would talk. You wouldn’t be able to protect her from that, and if she doesn’t have your bairns, it will only make things worse for her. You’ll be pitied, but she’ll be scorned.”

  “And if we said it was my fault?” Donnan pressed.

  “Do you love her?” Monty asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

  “Of course I do. But only the way that you love her. She’s as much a sister to me as she is to you. And I fear for her. I fear she will marry a mon she despises, and he’ll beat her for her loose tongue. You ken I would never harm Laurel.”

  “I do. I shalln’t say never, but there must be another option before it comes to that.”

  The men turned as the door swung open, and a
contingent of Campbells walked into the inn. The Campbells were one of the most powerful clans in Scotland. The Rosses, Sutherlands, Sinclairs, and Mackays dominated the northern Highlands, but the Campbells claimed much of the southern Highlands as their own. They’d fought alongside the Bruce from early on, and they’d been generously rewarded for their loyalty. In the king’s highest favor, the Campbells expanded their territory, bumping the MacGregors off their land and claiming it for themselves. Members of the laird’s extended family served among the king’s closest advisors, and they held the finest suites at Stirling Castle.

  Monty and Donnan exchanged a glance as they waited to see who led the Campbells that night. They both breathed easier when they recognized Laird Brodie Campbell of Glenorchy, leader of the largest cadet branch of the clan. He was a more even-tempered man than his father had been, and while he was as ambitious as the previous laird, he was more diplomatic. He’d come to his position later than many other lairds, already well into his thirties, but he was as active and agile as he’d been when he was a young man. His swordsmanship was renowned, and few who underestimated him on the battlefield lived to tell the tale. He was a few years older than Monty and Donnan, but the three men were well acquainted. Monty raised his mug in salute when Brodie caught sight of the Rosses.

  “Campbell,” Monty greeted Brodie.

  “Ross, what’re you doing in this neck of the woods?” Brodie grasped Monty’s forearm in a warrior handshake before doing the same with Donnan.

  “We’re having another spat with the Mackenzies over land the bluidy bastards keep trying to claim,” Monty explained. Seeing Laurel hadn’t been his original reason for the journey, but he was glad that he was present, lest the king choose a husband for her.

  “Have you been here long?” Brodie wondered as he looked around, accepting a mug of ale from a wench who winked at him. Monty and Donnan watched as he took no notice of the woman, looking weary from his own journey.

  “Not even two days,” Monty answered.

  “Just enough time to get into trouble?” Brodie grinned.

  “Not this time,” Monty chuckled. The men moved to a table, and another woman brought a bowl of pottage to Brodie. He handed her coins but didn’t look at her. Monty observed, curious why a man as attractive and virile as Brodie took no interest in the serving women. He could have gone to court and had food sent to his chamber; instead, the Campbells came to an inn. It struck Monty as odd. He’d known Brodie long enough to have seen the man had a healthy and genuine appetite for the opposite sex. “What have you been up to of late?”

  Brodie sat back and looked around. Dark circles cast shadows beneath his eyes, but he was alert to those around them. He leaned forward once more. “There was an incident recently that I need to make the king aware of.” Without saying more, Brodie returned to his pottage. When he finished the bowl and the heel of bread that was served with it, he shook his head and sighed. “People will hear of it soon enough. I married Eliza MacMillan a fortnight ago.”

  “A newlywed!” Monty crowed. “No wonder you look exhausted, mon.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “What?” Monty stared at Brodie before glancing at Donnan.

  “The marriage to Lady Eliza meant my clan would increase our lands along Loch Sween. Since the MacMillans have supported the Bruce since the beginning and the MacMillans’ land sits between two parts of Clan Campbell’s territory, the marriage made sense.” Brodie sighed and ran his hand over his face, closing his eyes for a moment. “We had the wedding, but the lass was very young.”

  Brodie gave Monty and Donnan a pointed look, and the men knew Brodie meant she was little more than a child compared to Brodie. He hadn’t bedded her, so it was little more than a betrothal, but the couple exchanged vows within a kirk.

  “We were on our way to Kilchurn when David Lamont attacked. Eliza panicked and tried to ride out of the fray rather than remaining in the circle. She spurred her horse through my men as they fought, and David Lamont took her head from her shoulders before my eyes.” Brodie looked down at his empty trencher, reliving the attack for the umpteenth time since it had happened. He could see Eliza’s terrified expression, could hear himself yelling to her not to move. He could smell her blood in the air as David held up her head and threw it at Brodie. It had horrified him that David would attack Eliza, who was clearly more of a girl than a woman. But guilt plagued him that he didn’t feel guiltier about her death. He regretted it since she’d been a sweet lass, but he didn’t feel any significant loss. And he was certain he should have.

  “Why did Lamont target you? Are they still bitter that the stand they made with the MacDougalls of Lorne did naught to stop the Bruce becoming king?”

  “Aye, there’s that. But they also don’t want us to increase our holdings, especially since it will diminish their influence along the Cowal peninsula and the Firth of Clyde. They sought to end the alliance, and they succeeded,” Brodie scowled. “I have the MacMillans up my arse, and rightly so. The Lamonts aren’t satisfied with killing an innocent girl, and the Bruce expects me to provide more men to fight against the MacDougalls. Bluidy bleeding hell.”

  “Sounds like you’re deep in the shite,” Donnan mused.

  “Aye. You’d think my eyes were brown for how deep I’m in,” Brodie huffed. “Before I go before the Bruce in the morning, I decided a hot meal without prying eyes would put me in a better mood.”

  “A willing woman helps, too,” Monty said before taking a long draw from his ale. He watched Brodie’s reaction, but there was none.

  “It’ll ease your mood,” Donnan suggested.

  “I’d been prepared to set those days aside when I married. I find I’m not in such a rush to return to them,” Brodie frowned.

  “How old was Lady Eliza?” Monty wondered.

  “Four-and-ten,” Brodie answered.

  “Plenty of other men would have seen that as a fine age for a bride,” Monty pointed out. “Both of my aulder sisters were married close to that age and had their first bairns within a year of their wedding.”

  Brodie didn’t respond. He couldn’t admit that bedding any female young enough to be his daughter made him feel ill. And he couldn’t admit that Eliza’s plain face and grim expression had done nothing to entice him. When he remained quiet, Donnan asked, “How long did you plan to wait?”

  “At least two years,” Brodie replied.

  “Two years of living like a monk?” Monty chortled. “That doesn’t sound much like you, Brodie.”

  “Maybe I grew up. I am nearly forty,” Brodie retorted. “Anyway, what brings you to Crosspool? I would think you would prefer a rowdier tavern if wenching is how you pass your time.”

  “Nay,” Monty responded without hesitation. “We’re not interested in getting the pox from a Stirling whore.”

  Brodie glanced between the two men, his eyes narrowing for a flash when Monty answered for himself and Donnan. He didna say neither of us. He said, “we.” Interesting.

  A group of courtiers arrived, already intoxicated, curtailing the three men’s conversation. They watched as the men staggered in, waving to Monty when they recognized him.

  “Run away from your sister, have you? Tongue like a silver blade, she has,” one courtier babbled. “Did she cut off your cods like she did Ogilvy’s?”

  “Are your bollocks as big as your sister’s?” A second drunk man clapped the first one on the shoulder as they both laughed. Brodie looked at Monty and Donnan, waiting for them to defend Monty’s sister. Brodie had a vague memory of Laurel, remembering her distinctive hair color more than anything. He leaned forward when neither Monty nor Donnan spoke up.

  “Leave it,” Monty whispered.

  “Looks like Lady Laurel cut off your tongue and your bollocks, Ross,” the first man chortled.

  “Oliphant, enough. Your breath stinks from here,” Monty mused and wafted his hand before his nose. Monty watched Liam Oliphant, cousin to Laird Oliphant, drag a chair over to their tab
le. He wanted to groan when Liam’s companion, Nelson MacDougall, joined him. Monty feared a fight might break out between Nelson and Brodie from the sneers and mocking looks Nelson cast Brodie.

  “Shouldn’t you be searching down every rabbit hole for some unsuspecting sod to marry your sister?” Liam asked. “I’d wager a hundred pounds that you can’t find a mon in all of Scotland willing to take on the Shrew of Stirling.”

  Brodie ignored Nelson and listened as Liam continued to insult Laurel, with Monty refusing to take the bait. Brodie drained his whisky thrice in the time Nelson and Liam spent antagonizing Monty and Donnan, and neither Ross men became riled. Brodie felt the effects of the whisky despite the pottage, since he’d already had several drams as he and his men approached Stirling. He’d considered it fortification at the time, but now he merely felt sleepy. The droning conversation around him only made him want to seek a bed—alone.

  “Sounds to me like the woman needs taming,” Brodie mused before hiccupping. Four sets of eyes turned toward him, all with speculative gazes. Brodie shook his head. “I didn’t say I was offering. I just made an observation.”

  “Someone needs to marry the lass. Otherwise, no one else will be married,” Liam grumbled.

  “What?” Brodie asked in confusion.

  “King Robert decided that none of the other ladies can wed until Laurel does,” Monty said, keeping his voice low. But he knew there was little point, since plenty of people overheard Liam and Nelson.

  “Aye, your bitch of a sister is keeping every woman’s dowry hostage, and she doesn’t even have one of her own,” Nelson spat. Monty and Donnan pushed back their stools, but Brodie—despite being two-and-a-half sheets to the wind—was faster. He grasped Nelson around the neck and shook him.

  “The Rosses are more patient and forgiving than I am. I would have beaten you already if you’d been discussing my sister. You go too far, MacDougall,” Brodie warned.