The Highlander's Secret Maiden: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  “It’s right clear that he loves ye, so dinnae ye worry. Over time he will come to realize it's best for ye. That time may not be until long after ye’ve wed and ye’re having little red-headed bairns who say ‘ass’ instead of ‘arse’, but one day, he will accept it,” Fiona encouraged.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “My goodness, where has all this insecurity come from? Where is me headstrong lass that came to us not so long ago and immediately made herself to be more of a Scottish lass, than a silly little English girl?”

  Both women laughed and Georgina began to realize that her thoughts had become rather dire of late. But that was to be expected after an escape to a foreign land, being chased by the affections of three men and a season of being locked away in a mental institution.

  The events of the past few months had been taking their toll. If only she could shake the feeling that everything was soon to come crashing down in the worst of ways.

  Chapter 27

  Marcas allowed his eyes to take in the vile sight of corpses. It was a horror and yet, he had seen it all before. Their army would be returning home with a fifth of their number left behind in this field.

  Nevertheless, their mourning was shared with the joy of their victory. Joined by soldiers from all over Scotland, they had been successful and had overcome the enemy.

  “Ye fought well,” Conall said, watching Marcas from the corner of his eye.

  “As did ye,” Marcas replied.

  “How’s the arm?”

  “Not as bad as me leg. How’s that thing on yer back?”

  “Just a scratch,” Conall said.

  Both tried to push the pain of their fresh wounds away. The real hurt was the number of clansmen lying as corpses on the field of battle. A solid number belonged to their own clan, but they had had fewer casualties than some of the others.

  It had turned out that Conall’s strategies of rest, solid food and minimal alcohol had been wise. Compared to the last battle he had led, the result was far better. But there were still so many wives who would now be widows, so many children who would now be orphans.

  “It hardly seems fair,” Conall said, out of nowhere.

  “What? The deaths? I ken. It should have been the English,” Marcas said.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Conall began. “It hardly seems fair that these men with wives and children should die and I’m left standing. I’m no' like them. I’ve got no one depending on me like they do.”

  Marcas scoffed and Conall glared darts at him in response.

  “Forgive me for laughing, but are ye daft? Ye’re the Laird of our entire clan! What do ye mean no one’s depending on ye? Ye’ve got all our lives in yer hands. We're all depending on ye,” Marcas said.

  “Ah yes, me clan children. Ye’ve got to admit it's hardly the same thing,” Conall said bitterly.

  “Perhaps it isnae, but it’s something, Conall. We depend on ye more than ye ken. Remember that. Stop belittling our dependence on ye.”

  “Like ye dinnae think ye’d do better?” he challenged.

  “I never said that.”

  “Come now, Marcas. We’re brothers. I got the lairdship by default. It doesnae mean people wouldn’t rather have ye. We ken some people would rather have ye,” Conall said, yet again complaining in his vague way.

  “Look here, we’re standing on a battlefield. Dinnae get all angry about this now. It’s disrespectful to those lives we’ve just lost, that ye’d rather be feeling sorry for yerself, because it’s not enough for ye to be laird. Really, what more do ye want?”

  “Ye ken what I want.”

  “Well so do I. And she made her choice and ye'd best just accept it,” Marcas said.

  “Well I dinnae. It isnae fair, Marcas. None of it. And I’ll not have ye arguing with me about it. Ye’re right about one thing. I am the Laird of our clan. And ye can shut yer mouth because we’ve got tae head back noo,” Conall said, moving his aching body toward the horses as quickly as it would go.

  Marcas watched him walk away and saw the crowd of survivors from their clan. Alpin was joking with some of the others about some heroic action he had taken, and the men laughed darkly, knowing the heaviness of the loss in the midst of their need for battle.

  Alpin had sustained barely a scratch, unlike most of the men. Even Marcas, despite having been at a distance with his crossbow as he’d hoped, had been injured quite nastily. He was lucky he’d been able to switch to his sword once his left arm was aching too badly to use the bow.

  But Alpin remained tall in the midst of it all. He was a great warrior and with his newfound appreciation for romance, Marcas was more determined than ever to make Alpin the husband of his sister.

  “And here I thought I’d been trained so well,” Marcas said, coming up beside his friend. The men all laughed, knowing that Marcas had sustained a few injuries of late despite having the training of a laird’s son.

  “Training's only half the lesson,” Alpin said. “The rest is about being smarter than them. Perhaps spending all yer time with an English lass means ye’ve lost yer native wit?”

  Marcas laughed with them, despite it being at his own expense. The cover of Georgina being from the lowlands to the south of Edinburgh had been fairly well uncovered by those who lived in close quarters with the Laird and his brother.

  Despite that, Marcas knew he had to return home and protect her. It wasn’t right leaving Georgina with only a few select guards at a time when Morgan Bolton was most likely craving to strike at them.

  What were the chances that he might try while the brothers were gone? Was there any way for him to know?

  Morgan Bolton stared into the fire, creating a harsh glow around his bulbous, red face. The dogs at his feet rested, but he found that he could not rest or be at peace until he had retrieved what was his.

  Those foolish brothers, taking what belonged to him as if they deserved anything more than an English boot to the face. And Georgina, still a child, clearly. He could sway her, he was certain.

  Morgan swirled the whisky in his glass and downed it in one go, hoping for a quick escape from his senses. If he could let go to the alcohol and anger, let that drive him as he so often used to do so, he would find a solution.

  Clearly Georgina’s father was useless at this point. He hadn't managed to do more than try to sweet-talk Morgan into forgiving Georgina and giving her time to come to her senses. But Morgan didn’t have time. He wanted her. He wanted her now.

  He looked down at himself and realized that even at this moment, his desire for her was enough to drive him mad.

  Bolton called for one of his footmen and the man came rushing in to accept the order to find a woman selling herself on the street. Unceremoniously, he handed the footman a few coins to give to the unfortunate lady once he found one.

  It was not long before the footman returned with a heavily-painted thin woman in her thirties.

  In his room, Morgan threw off his garments without a word and the deed was done in a matter of minutes. Despite finishing his work, he hardly felt satisfied.

  “You can go,” he said bluntly and the woman silently departed once her skirts were back in place.

  Morgan rolled himself on the bed and tried to sleep but was tormented by his lack of Georgina. It hardly seemed right that she would end up with the lowlife Scots while he was stuck here with a whore. Didn’t she know who he was?

  Morgan Bolton. A soldier.

  His age was beginning to show, and his face was expanding through a bit of weight-gain but he had stayed fairly trim in his desire to be battle-ready at all times.

  Georgina had to see that. He just had to figure out the best way of showing her.

  He had wounded the younger brother while rescuing her from the asylum but then they fooled him and managed to take her anyway.

  Perhaps if he learned to play the game better than they had, Morgan would have a shot at getting Georgina’s hand back in his and getting her body in his bed.
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  He was, after all, one of the top military men in the entire country with an army at his disposal. So, it would be fairly easy to recruit a hundred select men and charge Carnarvan to reclaim Georgina.

  He couldn't plan it all in one night, however. He wanted to but knew that battles are never won when they are planned in haste.

  So perhaps the next day he would gather his crew of finest men and they would strategize together.

  And soon enough, it would all be over.

  Chapter 28

  “They’re coming, they're coming!” Fiona exclaimed loudly, bounding toward Georgina where she sat in the library.

  She immediately stood and rushed to the window to watch as the mass of blurry figures came toward the village.

  “Have you heard any news? In terms of who was victorious or who of our clan survived?” Georgina asked.

  “Firstly, lass, I’m loving that ye said ‘our’ clan. Second, I’ve no' heard anything yet. But I think it's best we wait and find out from the very men themselves!” Fiona replied.

  They exited the library and made their way to the stairs outside the castle, sitting and waiting until the men were closer in sight. The majority separated off and made their way toward the village, but the two women could see a dozen silhouettes coming their way.

  “Who is there? Can ye see yet?” Georgina asked, straining her eyes.

  “No, lass, not yet. Although I do see some red hair that looks like it could be from either of me brothers,” Fiona replied.

  Please be Marcas, Georgina thought guiltily.

  With each step, the figures became clearer and finally, Georgina knew with certainty that the fiery hair did indeed belong to Marcas. She let out a squeal of delight and Fiona smiled in her relief.

  They identified several of the men, including Alpin to Fiona’s delight.

  “Where's Conall?” Fiona asked, finally, seeing that none of the men were the Laird.

  “I’m not sure, but don’t fret. We will ask as soon as they get close enough,” Georgina said.

  With the men closing in the distance, the two women finally stood and ran to them to deliver their greetings.

  Marcas swept Georgina into his arms and spun her for a moment before kissing her lips with excitement and passion.

  Fiona greeted each of the men and Alpin looked at her with a strange question in his eyes.

  Before he had a chance to express what he wanted, Fiona asked, “Where is Conall? Why is he not among you?”

  “Dinnae ye worry,” Marcas replied, letting go of Georgina long enough to give his sister a hug and proper greeting. “He has sad business to attend to. We lost a good number of men and it’s his duty to let their families ken. I dinnae envy him just now.”

  Fiona frowned. “Nor do I. Miserable, that must be.”

  “Aye, right enough it is,” Marcas said.

  “Tell me, who did we lose?” Fiona asked with concern in her eyes as they darted between Alpin and Marcas.

  “Colin McPhee and Arthur Dale. Also, Alistair McCain and Wally Gunn. Honestly, lass, it’s a long list,” Alpin replied. His pain was evident.

  “And your injuries?” Georgina urged, wondering how close their men had come to their own demise.

  “Alpin here scarcely sustained a scratch. I’ve got a nice new scar on me arm to match me leg,” Marcas confessed.

  “What?” Georgina nearly shouted.

  Marcas laughed. “Dinnae worry, lass, it’s nowhere near as what me leg was, and it wasnae me only injury, but it was by far me worst. In the end, we were the victors but it doesnae feel that way when we’ve lost so many of our own.”

  Georgina nodded sympathetically, again recognizing that she could not fully share in their pain, being so new to the clan. They had quickly become like family but seeing the agony in Fiona’s eyes at hearing the names of men Georgina had never met, it was a painful reminder that she was still a stranger in some ways.

  Despite her misgivings about the destiny she faced in England, there were days she missed her home and, of course, her father. Some days she missed the proper, fancy meals and the fantastic gowns she wore at balls, although she was grateful to not be wearing the corsets anymore.

  Georgina snapped her attention away from such thoughts and remembered that she was here, with Marcas and his family, free of the nonsense that was expected of her back in England. Here, in the roaming hills of Scotland, this was her life now, and it was glorious.

  As if on cue to remind her, a fresh breeze swept up around her. It was so unlike the smog of London. Georgina breathed deeply and laid a hand on Marcas’ shoulder.

  “Do you need me to nurse your arm back to health as I did with your leg?” she asked playfully.

  “I’d love nothing more, lass,” Marcas replied.

  They made their way inside the castle and up to Marcas’ room. Georgina had not gone in his room during the week that he had been away, but it was a constant temptation to visit and imagine he was there.

  Marcas sat on his bed and let his aching body relax. Georgina came and sat beside him, undressing the wound and putting aside the desire to undress anything else.

  “Oh, Marcas, whatever did you let them do to you? Certainly, you could have avoided all these injuries?” she asked, looking at the primary cut and all the minor wounds around it.

  “Aye, of course, lass. I could have just walked away, but I stood there and let them all come at me,” he said sarcastically. “It’s battle, petal. War. This is what happens. I got off lucky with these little things. And ye havnae seen them all. As I said, this was just the worst of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Georgina replied, feeling foolish for having suggested he should have been fierce enough to prevent the injuries.

  Marcas was irritable. She knew that between his injuries and losing friends, this was to be expected, and yet, she hadn't expected it at all. She had only thought about the joy she would feel seeing him.

  For Marcas, it seemed, the battle was still playing again and again as he watched his friends fall.

  She put the herbal balm on his arm quietly and let him stew in his thoughts. For Georgina, it seemed the best route to take was to be present, but not push. So, she finished with the wound and wrapped it before settling herself to just sit beside Marcas.

  Finally, he turned to her. “Thank you,” he said as he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Anything for you, my love,” she replied.

  Marcas took her face in his hand and gave her an eager kiss, parting her lips with his tongue instantly as they made contact.

  While it was full of need, the kiss was brief, Marcas having been too exhausted to allow his body anything further. He broke away and Georgina remained close by, hoping he might take her in his arms and show her the same affection he had once before, and yet, she fully understood that it was not likely to happen just now.

  Marcas laid his weary body down and she laid herself beside him. He pulled her close and they held one another until a deep, peaceful sleep overtook them both.

  Marcas and Georgina woke to a pounding on the door of his bedroom. Before there was a chance to reply, Conall came barging in as he always did.

  The two bolted upright on the bed. Despite the fact that nothing had happened which needed to be hidden, Georgina felt ashamed for being caught in bed with a man. It was so improper and especially to be caught by the laird as she was with his brother, a sick dread washed over her.

  “Ah, I suppose ye were in a hurry to get back after all. This was certainly fast work,” Conall said bitterly.

  “Hald yer wheest, it isnae anything at all. She tended me wounds an' we fell asleep, an' what’s it to ye anyway?” Marcas replied.

  Georgina pushed past the blush in her cheeks.

  “For a man so constantly speaking to me of the ways of men and women, it would be quite the shock to find that you are really a prude about it,” she accused, trying to wound him slightly. She was frustrated that her time with Marcas
had been interrupted and more so that she was being judged.

  “A prude is one thing I’ve never been accused of and it’s something ye’ll never be accused of again either,” he teased with an undertone of threat.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I leave the two of you,” she said, knowing it was useless to try and compete with the banter when it made her so angry.