Highlander's Hidden Destiny: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel
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Highlander's Hidden Destiny
A Historical Scottish Romance Novel
Maddie MacKenna
Edited by
Robin Spencer
Contents
A Gift from the Highlands
Scottish Brogue Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Highlander’s Untamed Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Maddie MacKenna
About the Author
A Gift from the Highlands
Thank you very much for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love and support!
As a way to show you my gratitude, I have written a full length novel for you, called Highlander’s Untamed Bride. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping the image below or this link here.
Once again, I can’t thank you enough for your support!
Maddie MacKenna
Scottish Brogue Glossary
Here is a very useful glossary my good friend and fellow author Lydia Kendall sent to me, that will help you better understand the Scottish Brogue used:
aboot - about
ach - oh
afore - before
an' - and
anythin - anything
a'side - beside
askin' - asking
a'tween - between
auld - old
aye - yes
bampot - a jerk
bare bannock- a type of biscuit
bearin' - bearing
beddin' - bedding or sleeping with
bellend - a vulgar slang word
blethering - blabbing
blootered - drunk
bonnie - beautiful or pretty
bonniest - prettiest
cannae - cannot
chargin' - charging
cheesin' - happy
clocked - noticed
c'mon- come on
couldn'ae - couldn't
coupla - couple of
crivens - hell
cuddie - idiot
dae - do
dinin' - dining
dinnae - didn't or don't
disnae - doesn't
dobber - idiot
doesn'ae - doesn't
dolton - idiot
doon - down
dram - a measure of whiskey
efter - after
eh' - right
'ere - here
fer - for
frein - friend
fey - from
gae - get or give
git - a contemptible person
gonnae - going to
greetin' - dying
hae - have
hald - hold
haven'ae - haven't
heed - head
heedstart - head start
hid - had
hoovered - gobbled
intoxicated - drunk
kip - rest
lass - young girl
leavin - leaving
legless - drunk
me - my
nae - not
no' - not
noo - now
nothin' - nothing,
oan - on
o' - of
Och - an Olympian spirit who rules the sun
oot- out
packin- packing
pished - drunk
scooby - clue
scran - food
shite - shit
sittin' - sitting
so's - so as
somethin' - something
soonds ' sounds
stonking - stinking
tae - to
teasin' - teasing
thrawn - perverse, ill-tempered
tryin' - trying
wallops - idiot
wee -small
wheest - talking
whit's - what's
wi'- with
wid - would
wisnae - was not
withoot - without
wouldnae - wouldn't
ya - you
ye - you
yea - yes
ye'll - you'll
yer - your
yerself - yourself
ye're - you're
ye've - you've
About the Book
She found him both dismaying and utterly attractive, in an enticing yet forbidden way...
Trapped in an engagement she never wanted, Amelia Barton, daughter of the Earl of Workington, feels her life is finally over. Until the day true love comes knocking on her door in the face of a dashing Highlander...
Orphaned by his mother since birth, Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira, travels to France to stop the Jacobite cause. When called upon by the Royal Court, the most beautiful lass he has ever seen enters his life like a bolt of lightning.
When Amelia gets kidnapped, Feargan is accused of the crime. Determined to prove his innocence, he will stop at nothing to find her.
Amidst this desperate hunt, love and lust are not the only things that come to light. Feargan has been living a lie and the truth about his parentage lies in an old handkerchief that everybody thought lost.
1
France, 1745
That day the snow lay thick upon the road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye and the carriage was stuck fast in the mud churned up by its own wheels. The horses were cold, stomping their feet, their long plumes of breath rising into the icy air like a mist on water, as the driver patted their manes.
“Zi horses are cold, monsieur,” he said, casting a nervous glance at his patron, who was pacing up and down beside the carriage.
“Ye assured me that this carriage would make the road from Paris, even in the snow. It will be nightfall soon and I daenae wish to be stranded out here at the mercy of thieves and robbers. Is there nae way to move it?” the man replied.
The driver muttered something inaudible in French and retreated around to the rear of the stranded carriage. Feebly, he pushed at the wheels, which were already beginning to freeze in the mud, twilight descending around them.
“I cannae have further delays. Is there nae way ye can move it tonight?” the man said, his voice rising in exasperation at the man, whose promises in Paris had come to nothing.
“There iz an inn nearby, monsieur, just along zi track. They would give you a bed for zi night and tomorrow we may dig zi carriage out,” the driver replied, shaking his head, as he pushed hopelessly once more at the wheels.
“Aye, so be it then. It daenae seem like we shall have any luck tonight. If ye need help in the morning, then come and find me
at the inn,” the man said, as he clambered into the carriage to retrieve his bags.
“I am sorry monsieur, I cannot help zi weather. I, too, am stranded ‘ere for zi night, my wife shall worry, and my children go hungry,” the driver said, looking mournfully at the man, who now threw a thick cloak about himself and turned along the road.
“Make ye bed at the inn, too, and tell the innkeeper to charge it to me. As for yer wife, she shall have to sleep in a cold bed tonight, just as ye and I will,” the man replied, and without looking again at the driver he strode purposefully down the track, as a fresh flurry of snow began to fall.
The road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye was rough and ready at the best of times. Unlike the court of Versailles, the exiled Stuarts had not the luxury of fine, carriage-worthy boulevards, to connect them with the French capital. The court of the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, was somewhat hidden away, lying at the end of a long road, west of Paris.
They were sojourners in a foreign land, awaiting that glorious day when the line would be restored, and a Stuart monarch would once again sit upon the thrones of England and Scotland. At the Château de Saint Germain-en-Laye, they bided their time, playing host to countless visitors and well-wishers who made the bumpy journey from Paris to pay homage to the man they believed was rightly King across the channel.
It was for just such a reason that Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira, in the far north amongst the Scottish hills, had come to Paris two weeks ago. The journey south had been long and treacherous, and he had already been away from home for several months. He was tired, and now that the château was almost in sight, his frustration at this latest setback was clear. He stomped along the darkening track, his bags slung over his shoulder, cursing the weather on that treacherous night.
The snow was falling thickly now, and as he approached the lighted inn he shook off his cloak and stamped his boots. The lights were a welcome reprieve from the darkness of the track.
“Another foreign bed,” Feargan muttered to himself, as he pushed open the door and was met by a rabble of rousing voices and the sounds of singing and merrymaking.
Inside, the inn was brightly lit by oil lamps, a large fire burning merrily in the grate, and all manner of people sat around in varying states of array. Several eyed the newcomer with suspicion, but quickly returned to their drinks as Feargan cast a contemptuous look around him.
He was a man of noble blood, who had little time for sensuous pleasures, nor the inclination to associate with those who frequented places such as this. The proprietor of the inn spoke rapidly to him in French, a language which, thanks to his dear departed mother, he knew well.
“You wish for some food, monsieur? A bed for zi night, or just a drink to warm you on zis cold night?” he said, laying his hands on the bar and smiling a toothless grin at Feargan.
“Aye, a bed, and some food if ye have it, and a drink, too,” Feargan replied, glancing around the room again.
“You are travelling to zi château, monsieur?” the proprietor said, as he ladled a sludgy brown stew into a bowl from a steaming pan set above the fire.
“Me business is me own,” Feargan replied, looking with some disgust at the meal now set before him.
“We have a lot of travelers along zi road, monsieur. Even zi young Prince himself has graced zis humble abode,” the proprietor said proudly, and he poured a glass of wine for Feargan, looking at him with interest as he ate.
Feargan made no reply, and after taking a few spoonsful from the foul-looking concoction, he pushed it aside.
“Zis is just a humble inn, monsieur, I am sorry if we cannot satisfy your tastes.”
“Just bring me somethin’ drinkable and leave me alone,” Feargan replied, pushing the glass and dish across the bar.
The proprietor went off, tutting to himself, emptying the half-eaten bowl of stew back into the pan from whence it came and wiping his hands across his greasy apron, an act which caused Feargan to look away in disgust. He was about to forgo another drink, and demand his bed, when a voice at his side caused him to turn.
“Ye are a traveler in these parts like meself, aren’t ye, lad?” the man said, setting down a glass of wine at Feargan’s side.
“And who might ye be?” Feargan said, eyeing the man with suspicion.
His accent betrayed his heritage and his face had all the hallmarks of one who has been raised amidst the hills and glens of Scotland, weather-beaten and furrowed. He was old, and slightly hunched over, but his eyes were keen, as though behind them lay a mind which was sharp and active. He smiled again at Feargan and extended a gnarled hand.
“Hamish McBride, a tutor at the royal court. I am returning from Paris, where I have just heard Voltaire speak. The snow has caused me to take refuge here, but in the morning I shall go to Saint Germain-en-Laye. Is that yer destination, too?” he said, fixing his eyes on Feargan.
“Feargan Galbreth, I go to speak with our Regent at the château,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand and relaxing a little in the company of one who claimed to be a friend.
The young Laird had learned to distrust men over the years, and ever since his father’s death he had found his own counsel to be of advantage to that of others. His mother had died when he was young and he had few remaining memories of her.
The absence of a mother had left a void in him, such that the fairer sex remained something of a mystery. As a child he had been a loner, and despised the woman his father married just a year after his own mother’s death. He had grown up forced to call her Mama, an act he resented to this day.
The life which Feargan had led was a lonely one and despite his inheritance, he had few men to call his friends. That is, except for his Godfather, Alexander Galbreth, with whom he had trusted his Scottish estates whilst he made the journey to France, and who this old man resembled remarkably.
“The Regent? He has little time for anyone now,” the old man said, taking a seat at the bar, and signaling to the proprietor for more drinks. “What is it ye wish to speak with him about?”
“That is a matter between the two of us,” Feargan replied, as the proprietor presented them with a bottle of wine that appeared to have better pedigree to it than the muck he had served before.
“I am nae interested in yer business, lad, but I ken the Regent and I ken the court, too. I have been tutoring there these many years past. I was the Regent’s tutor in philosophy when he was but a wee lad,” Hamish said, looking with interest at Feargan who sighed, realizing he was going to get no peace that night until he explained his business and took the man into his confidence.
“What dae ye ken of the Regent’s plans for a rising in England and Scotland to the Stuart cause?” Feargan asked, laying out his cards.
The old tutor looked surprised for a moment, as though he, too, were weighing up the consequences of betraying what he had heard whispered in the corridors of the Château de Saint Germain-en-Laye.
“Now I must ask ye if ye are a spy,” Hamish replied, smiling nervously at Feargan, who laughed.
“Dae ye ken who ye are addressing, old man?” he said, shaking his head. “I am Laird of Loch Beira and as loyal to the Stuart cause as any man on either side of the border. A spy, indeed, what nonsense. And if I were, would I tell ye so blatantly?”
The man’s face changed, and he visibly relaxed at Feargan’s words, smiling and laughing to himself, as he agreed that no, the Laird would not tell him if he were a Hanoverian spy.
“I can only apologize for my suspicions, Galbreth, but there are many who would wish to ken the Regent’s secrets, and many who would wish to see him dead,” Hamish said.
“And I am not one of them. What dae ye ken of the Regent’s plans?” Feargan repeated.
“Not a lot, only that the château is filled with exiled Stuarts, eager to return to their homeland, and many visitors loyal to the cause who bring news of Hanoverian insult from across the channel. Ye must be well connected, and I need not tell ye of such things, ye wi
ll nay doubt ken many of those who reside there from time to time.”
“Ye shall meet the Marquess of Torbay, betrothed to Lady Amelia Barton, the daughter of the Earl of Workington. I tutor her in Latin and philosophy, she is a most able student; and the Duke of Rothsay; alongside Lady Peal of Northumberland,” the man replied, warming to his subject.
“I have no interest in acquainting myself to others,” Feargan said, cutting the man short mid-speech. “My purpose is to speak with the Regent on the matter in hand. I am not interested in English aristocrats and ladies.”
His quest lay with the Regent and once more he questioned the elderly tutor as to Charles Edward Stuart’s plans for England and Scotland.
“The Regent has every intention of regaining the throne, there is nay question of that, but why are ye so interested in such matters? Surely ye should have remained in Scotland to see to yer estates,” Hamish said, pouring another drink for Feargan. “Or does the Laird of Loch Beira have a lackey to see to his crofters?”