Heart Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Thank you, sister, for your observation.” She turned to Alina with an arch smile. “I had not expected any enthusiastic takers for the task. Who wants to be a bride for the latest ambitious fortune-hunter.”

  Alina looked sad. “Exactly. You are worth more than that, sister.”

  Amabel felt her throat choke up. Her sister's words touched her deepest hurt. But she would not let herself cry. Not now. She was the lady of Lochlann Castle since her mother's passing, and she would be impassive and dignified. She inspected her nails distractedly, noticing the gold ring emblazoned with the swallow of Lochlann. It had been her mother's, and she always wore it now. It seemed an odd emblem, this delicate bird, for her mother's powerful clan. But then, she had always considered swallows magical, so it seemed appropriate.

  “Well, I'd offer to stand in for you,” Chrissie replied from the corner of the room. She stroked tangled bright curls back from her face with a little frown. “But I'm only the youngest of all us cousins, so I don't think I'd do.”

  Amabel smiled. “I appreciate the fact that someone wants to. But I am the eldest, and it has to be me.”

  Thirteen-year-old Chrissie, earnestly pretty, with a heart-shaped face, rosebud mouth and bouncy curls, was the daughter of Amabel's aunt Frances. Amabel and, particularly, Alina, felt fiercely protective of her since Frances died, leaving her an orphan. Under the protection of Lord Brien, Earl of Cawley, their ambitious great-uncle.

  “Don't offer to marry too soon,” Amabel advised her young cousin. “I'm sure your turn will come, soon enough.”

  “Really?” The girl looked at her with big eyes. She seemed excited at the prospect and Amabel wanted to weep for her.

  “Don't doubt it,” Amabel assured her.

  Alina's tranquil eyes met Amabel's and the two older women shared a more serious look. They both understood, even if their cousin did not, the reason for their uncle's insistence they marry soon. He was unstoppably ambitious, and he knew the worth of the three cousins for strategic and territorial gains. Stone-hearted, he would grant their hand to any who would make a good ally. This left all three of them, but particularly Amabel and Alina, the eldest of the great-nieces, in peril.

  They could be married to anyone. Absolutely anyone: cruel or kind, likeable or indifferent, bonny or not – at his whim. Anyone who would bring him greatest advance for his ambition. They had already had some near escapes and were not sure how much longer their luck could save them.

  “You have seen three suitors this month, thus far?” Alina asked levelly. She came to join Amabel at the window.

  “Yes,” Amabel said stonily.

  “The Thane of Lennoch?” Alina inquired. “What happened to him? I thought our uncle had settled on him?”

  “He was settled,” Amabel agreed. “Then, it seems, he decided against it. If I were to guess, I would say he discovered their laird was not that well connected.”

  “Ah.” Alina raised a brow.

  Amabel sighed. All their great-uncle cared about was ingratiating himself with King Alexander. Everything he could do to cement his influence at court, he would do. Their great uncle's only child, cousin Colla, was already married to the Duke of Athol. That gave her uncle enough of a hold at court, but evidently it was not enough for him. The sisters privately wondered if Uncle Brien did not seek the crown.

  “Uncle Brien is an ambitious man,” was all Amabel said now.

  Alina nodded. She compressed her lips to hide a smile. “Who is this one?”

  “He is... no one,” Amabel said tightly. She wanted very badly to cry.

  “No one?” Alina inquired. “How can he be?”

  “He is some minor thane from some obscure fortress on the eastern borders of our land,” Amabel said thinly.

  Alina stared at her.

  Amabel rolled her eyes. How could Uncle Brien consider some nobody? Even go so far as inviting him to dine? What was it about this nobody that interested him?

  “What?” Chrissie asked curiously. She was watching them intently, listening in even as she pretended to search through the box of ribbons on the dressing table.

  “Well… if we wish to be ready for dinnertime and halfway presentable,” Alina replied quickly, “I think I ought to untangle that cloud of curls. To the dressing table with you!”

  Amabel smiled her thanks. Her sister knew how overwrought she was feeling and had granted her some time to think. Lacing her fingers together, Amabel walked across the long bedchamber and headed for the far window. Looking down over the gray, rain-spotted roofs, she contemplated her uncle's harsh decree.

  How can he think of marrying me to someone with nothing to recommend him? Why would he do such a thing? Amabel shuddered at the thought of being married to some coarse countryman, someone who could barely count and certainly not write, someone with appalling manners. Someone who lived in some drafty hall with the barest amenities. Not only would she lose all chance at love, she would lose everything that mattered most to her: refinement, beauty, the good things in life.

  I wish Mother was still alive. Accounts said she was a strong woman. She had all but defied Lord Lochlann when she married their father, the French envoy at court. It was a love match, or so Amabel was told. She wished she could have the same, with all her heart.

  “...and when I marry, I know what I want!” Chrissie was saying proudly, as if she had guessed the topic of Amabel's thoughts. “I want to marry someone like Heath.”

  Heath Fraser was a fosterling from the MacConnells, a small but ambitious clan. He was a year or two older than Chrissie, and she was clearly besotted with him.

  “I am sure the family would be very encouraging of the match,” Alina said reassuringly.

  “Truly?” Chrissie frowned, her pretty face crinkled up. “You think so?”

  Amabel saw Alina sigh. “Yes, dear.”

  “But why? Why could I marry Heath, but you or Amabel has to marry someone Uncle says you must?”

  Alina teased the comb through a particularly stubborn knot. “Well, it's like this. Amabel and I are older, so by the time we are married off, perhaps Uncle will be established at court.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  Amabel grinned to see her sister so motherly. Alina had assumed the role of Chrissie's mother when Lady Frances died four years ago, though there were only six years between the two girls in age.

  “What would you want your husband to be like, Alina?” Chrissie asked.

  Alina frowned and reached up to adjust the silver fillet that held her hair back. Amabel knew she was giving herself time to think.

  “I do not know, dear,” she said honestly. “I do not think much about it.”

  Chrissie looked horrified. “But, Alina! You must! Why, I think it is all I think about some days!”

  They all laughed, and Chrissie went pink.

  “I think I would like someone... unusual,” Alina said eventually. “Someone who knew himself and who knows his mind. A strong character, but not a feckless sort. A man who spends his time thinking, as I do. Who has strong ideals, a good heart.”

  Amabel blinked. That is a wise answer. Such a man would suit Alina perfectly.

  Chrissie looked surprised.

  “But what would you want him to look like?”

  They all giggled.

  “What?” Chrissie asked impatiently.

  Alina rolled her eyes at her and then kissed her fondly on the head.

  “Never you mind. I don't. Mind, that is, about how he looks. As long as he was kind, wise, and fair of heart, I could not care less.” She finished her cousin's hair, plaiting deftly, and coiling the plaits up with some pink ribbon.

  Chrissie looked rather confused. After a moment, she shrugged and turned to Amabel.

  “What about you? What would you want your future husband to be?”

  “Well…” Amabel decided to be as broad as possible. “I want someone with a brain in his head and boots on his feet. Someone who rides and
fights but who can also talk sensibly about all types of things. Someone who has a practical bent, but who can eat at table without spilling half the contents of his bowl. Braw and strapping wouldn't hurt, either.”

  The two women looked at her. Then they burst out laughing.

  Her sister's heavy-lidded French gaze met hers levelly.

  “I don't believe a word. I am sure you want more from a husband.”

  Amabel sighed. There was no arguing with Alina. Amabel was actually very selective and so far, none of the suitors had come even close to fulfilling her hopes. I doubt this one will be any different.

  An hour later, the three women descended the staircase to dinner. Amabel had chosen a dark green velvet gown that hung to the floor, emphasizing her slender, tall body. She was a contrast beside Alina, dark-eyed, dark-haired and wearing a velvet dress in a blue so deep it could be black. Chrissie, dressed in white linen, her curls plaited and rolled into coils over her ears, walked behind them, craning to see over their shoulders.

  In the doorway of the dining room, Amabel halted.

  On the dais, at Lord Lochlann's table, sat a small delegation. Two men-at-arms, a monk. And a fourth man. The reason for her pause was the fourth man.

  He had dark eyes, close-cropped hair, and a neatly trimmed black beard. He wore a black jerkin and trousers, the jerkin tight over his wide shoulders, loose over his trim waist. He looked into her eyes, and she saw his gaze widen, surprise written on his face, and something that looked like fear or wonder – she was not sure which. But it moved her heart.

  An instant later, the peace was shattered as a man ran, shouting, into the room.

  “Lord Lochlann! Help! We are being attacked!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A SUDDEN SHOCK

  A SUDDEN SHOCK

  “My lords! My ladies! The castle is being attacked!”

  Broderick MacConnaway, seated on the dais, heard the shout somewhat dully through the fog in his brain. He shook himself, trying to drag his gaze from the woman opposite him. From the moment he had seen her, he had not been able to look anywhere else.

  Her rosy, glistening mouth, her wide, gray eyes, her sweet body. She stood there like the sweetest images of his dreams and looked at him, pink, plush lips parted. From the moment he had seen her, everything else had disappeared.

  I didnae think I would ever feel this way. The strange tightness in his chest, his dry mouth... All thoughts of meeting his new wife had been of duty and vengeance, not... whatever this was. Her uncle had not yet introduced them, but he recognized her from a small portrait her kinsman, the Duke of Athol, had shown him. It had been he who suggested the match when Broderick went to him asking for assistance. All he could say was that the colors and lines, while capturing the outer semblance of her, did not come close to showing her in her true form. She was overwhelmingly beautiful, and he had not expected it.

  As he sat there, fighting to control the fire that she lit inside him, the shouting finally registered. “My lord! The castle is under attack!”

  Broderick turned to the man in the door, chain-mail damp from the drizzle, eyes wide.

  Lord Brien was already standing.

  “Explain this disturbance,” he demanded, eyes blazing.

  “Lord, the sentry! He saw raiders.”

  Lady Amabel. She could be in danger. Without any further warning, Broderick walked briskly from the dais. He went straight toward her and grabbed her wrist.

  Her bones are as slender as withies. He could feel the pulse below the pearl-pale skin. Her eyes widened in shock. This close, they were blue and gray mixed, the lashes long, dewy lips enticing.

  “Lord Broderick?”

  “Hush,” he said briskly.

  He dragged her with him as he ran to the doorway, the one behind her. He reached it and pushed her through.

  She stared up at him, face flushed, lips parted. She was angry. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “Saving your life,” he said grimly. She spun round angrily, red hair whirling as she did so. He kept his grip on her wrist and the soft flutter of her pulse reached through his fingertips to stir something in his heart.

  “I don't need you to save me,” she said angrily. “Not in a castle full of soldiers!”

  He sighed. “My lady, soldiers can be overpowered. Yer best hope is to run, now. Take a horse and leave.”

  She turned back and glanced into the hall. Broderick looked with her.

  All around them, the hall had erupted into noise, men asking what the matter was and ladies standing from their places, some gathering smaller children. Servants running, panicked, to the doors to the courtyard. Screams and shouts and feet on flagstones, slipping on the rushes in their haste to escape the hall.

  Broderick leaned toward her in the archway. He felt her slim thigh against his and stiffened, trying to control his raging thoughts. Stop it! Ye just met her. He had never felt such an instant connection to anyone. He fought to control himself.

  It must be her hair. It reminds me of Aisling. Aisling had died and this time, he had a chance to save her.

  “Run,” he whispered. “My lady, for yourself and for me. Do not stay. Run.”

  She turned toward the door.

  “Run!”

  As she ran, he heard her uncle shout.

  “I demand an explanation. What is the meaning of this?”

  Amabel stopped running. Everyone in the hall froze where they were, waiting to hear whatever he had to say. Broderick wanted to scream. She had almost run away! A pox on her uncle.

  Amabel had hesitated where she was in the hallway, red-gold hair swinging as she turned, a wing of tawny satin. Even though he wanted to grab her hand, pull her through the door, he felt rooted to the spot. He could look nowhere else.

  She was beautiful. Caught in that moment of hesitation, hair loose, slim body framed in the red cloud. She was so beautiful. Her finely-chiseled face, wide blue-gray eyes, pale skin all struck him the instant he had seen her. Not to mention her body! He had been alone for five years now and the sight of her slender form was setting a fire in his loins.

  “Run,” he whispered, fighting his own desires. Now, while there is still time! She took two steps and then stopped once more. Her uncle had shouted again.

  “Broderick MacConnaway! Why have you run away with my great-niece?”

  Broderick stared. He had been so intent on his prospective bride that he had not noticed that the guests and servants were now slowly returning to the table. He felt his cheeks burn.

  He bit his lip, feeling ashamed. What have I done?

  Amabel had stepped back into the hallway. Her face was neutral but those blue-gray eyes scalded him. Strangely, she directed all the blame to him.

  Her uncle laughed. “You laid harsh hands on my niece without permission. And then you ran from the hall with her, as if you plan to carry her off? Is this the sort of dealings we can expect with the MacConnaway clan?”

  Broderick gasped. Of all the things that could have happened, this was the worst. He could see how the man could interpret his actions like that. But that really was not his intention!

  “Lord Lochlann,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “My lord, I can explain.” He looked around the hall. “But should we no' first vacate the hall?” He was baffled. “Have we forgotten the threat of the attack?”

  Her uncle smiled thinly. “It was a false alarm, my lord. I questioned the sentry more closely as you fled. The guards are overly-excited following raiding at the border post. The man will face the consequence of my wrath for disturbing our repast. As will you, doubtless.”

  Broderick stared at him. That was too much. He felt as if he had been slapped. He had been offered a rebuke a child might warrant. And yet he could not insult Amabel's uncle! His prospective bride was already looking daggers at him, a mixture of shock and disgust on her face, and the whole hall was staring at them both.

  “My lord.” His voice was hoarse with emotion and he winced, clea
ring his throat. “I can offer no explanation tae match to the charges ye have laid on me. But allow me to say only this. I didnae intend to carry away your niece.”

  Someone tittered. Amabel's eyes blazed. Broderick saw angry tears form in her eyes. She was clearly embarrassed. He wanted to reach out to comfort her but she had turned away from him. She looked at the ceiling, her body stiff. He turned from her and sought the group who was laughing and stared them down. Slowly, they stopped.

  Good.

  He felt utterly reduced and was glad to see, despite the horror of what had just happened, he was still Broderick MacConnaway. He was still granted some little respect.

  “Well, that's what it looked like,” Amabel's uncle said roughly. The whole hall laughed.

  Amabel looked down. A tear did trace her cheek, then, and she raised a hand to stifle it. Seeing her cry loosened the last edges of Broderick's anger.

  “My lord,” he cried. “I acknowledge what I did was wrong in this matter. But let us end this now.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  Broderick wished the floor would open and swallow him but he held his ground. “I will make what amends you ask for my actions. But now we should either settle down to eat, or end this dinner. I am sure we would all welcome a moment to calm ourselves.”

  The old laird blinked at him. “I put the decision to the hall. Shall we leave to calm ourselves, as our lordling requires, or shall we stay and eat?”

  As the hall exploded into happy laughter and cries of “Dinner!” Broderick closed his eyes. He had tried.

  Beside him, he heard Amabel suck in a breath. Evidently, he had failed. He had hoped to recover the situation, reduce her shame. But somehow, he had made matters worse. Silent and regal, she turned and walked from the hall, leaving the shouts and laughter behind her.