Highlander's Forbidden Soulmate

by Lydia Kendall

  Ruth felt a dull throb of pain go through her at the memory of how devastated the young man Fergus had looked after knowing his lady and child were gone, taken away from him by death and robbery.

  “Fergus set fire to the West Wing, in Lady Emily’s very room, because he could not bear to remember his dead love and he wanted to hurt your grandfather in any way he could.”

  “The late Duke tried to get revenge on Fergus and his clan by sending a small army, sanctioned by the Crown, to Clan MacTavish’s castle, to put him in irons, but the Englishmen lost the battle and came home in disgrace. The Crown writ the whole affair off as a loss and moved on. The Duke, however, never got over his resentment that Lady Emily, his sole daughter, was taken from him and had born the cursed seed of a Scottish man. He did, however, go to his deathbed satisfied that he had taken one thing from Fergus. The one thing he knew Fergus would never get over – Fergus’s son.”

  “Is that why no one is allowed into the West Wing except Father?” Victoria asked.

  “Yes, My Lady,” Ruth nodded while smoothing a hand over the girl’s soft hands. “That is exactly why.”

  “So…” Victoria paused for a moment, mulling over her words, “…so, no one has found Andrew?”

  Ruth shook her head as she stood and went back to her desk, “I do not think so, My Lady, but I hope he’s alive.”

  Victoria’s next words were quiet, and Ruth pretended that she hadn’t heard them when the young girl uttered, “He must be alive, and I will find him.”

  “And I am sure you will, My Lady,” Ruth said under her breath, but loudly she said, “Now, about the French verb–Falloir.”

  Chapter 1

  Present Day, Anno Domini, 1716, Castle MacTavish, Scotland

  Hector, the tainistear of Clan MacTavish, was standing on a hillock over the Clan’s sacred burial ground. He looked down with a silent gaze at the men and women coming down the road in their separate lines. The men were in one and women in the other until they all convened on the large cemetery, mourning the death of the late Laird, Fergus MacTavish.

  The weeklong Lyke-wake had passed, days of mourning where Hector had seen Lairds and Ladies from the neighboring Clans coming to Castle MacTavish in droves with their condolences and gifts. Fergus had been a strong and charismatic leader, both in body and mind, guiding the Clan to unforeseen prosperity and tight camaraderie with nearby clans. The Laird had single-handedly forged some solid partnerships with clans as far as Aberdeenshire.

  Hector spotted his mother, Coira, clad in a plain and dark arasaid, as she led the procession of women to the gravesite. Hector’s hand tightened around the sword strapped to his side as he grimly watched the funeral for his father’s progress.

  A brisk breeze, strong as it blew upwards on the hill, ruffled his dark locks, almost identical to his father’s, and only tempered by his mother’s light brown. His eyes, however, were the same dark green of his father and rested under thick hooded brows. It pained him not to be standing near his dead father’s side, but he reasoned that he’d stayed long enough at the wake and just could not stomach more grief.

  “Da,” Hector whispered to the wind, “I miss ye. If I could move heaven an’ earth tae get ye back, I would hae done it.”

  As the hundreds of men and women filled the burial ground, the solemn sound of the coronach, the lamentation cries of the people, filled the air - an air which only made Hector sink even more into remorse.

  Temporarily ignoring the funeral, his mind went back to that night, a week and three days before, when he sat at his ailing’s father’s bedside. The older man’s frame still looked robust enough but his skin was pale, and his touch was clammy as the fever ravaged his body. Even in his pain, Fergus had pinned his son with his steady eyes and reiterated his last wish - one that Hector had heard many times.

  “I’ve done me duty fer me people, son - an’ me hands are clean o’ the task God left on me shoulders, an’ may God find me dutiful. But I’m nae at rest. Find me son, Hector, find Andrew, yer first brother, an’ make him one o’ tha Clan. Only then can I rest in peace,” Fergus had said weakly. “Look ye in C–Crowland… there is where I left a piece o’ me heart.”

  The older man had never been secretive about his former life and from when Hector was a wee boy, he had known about his missing brother, the son of an English maiden – a Sassenach – that his father had loved.

  Even after Fergus had married Coira and had fathered him, the man still searched far and wide for his missing child. Many had told Fergus that it was an impossible feat to find the boy, who had not been seen or heard of, except for the rumor that the boy had been sent to the Highlands after he had been born.

  The Laird had doggedly searched but had found nothing, no physical trace, or solid report. And though he had been cautioned that it was for the best to leave it be as no one would accept the son of an Englishwoman as their leader, Fergus had still sought Andrew.

  Now, the burden to find what seemed like a marshland spirit was placed on Hector. He knew that if he did find the man, he – Andrew – would be the Laird instead of him, but he did not care much about the lordship. He only needed, yearned, to fulfil his father’s last wish and let the man’s soul rest in peace.

  His title, or the lack of it, rather, was nothing compared to finding his lost brother, which was why this same night he and his best friend, Donald, a comrade-in-arms and a voice of reason to him, were striking out to track down his brother.

  “Ye do ken that yer needed at yer Maw’s side,” a humored voice said from behind him. “Yer Da would hae preferred ye there, standin’ wi’ her.”

  “Speak o’ tha devil,” Hector snorted while turning on his heel, the feel of the gravelly dirt under his boot, as he turned to see Donald.

  The man, a scant two years older than Hector’s five–and–twenty, was of a tanned complexion, just as Hector was, with dark hair and riveting blue eyes. Just like the rest of the funeral party, he was in a dark kilt, black shirt with billowed sleeves, and a pin with the emblem of Clan MacTavish on his soft woollen bonnet.

  Donald was not of the Clan, but by the years he had stood beside the young heir’s side, he might as well have been born of the same blood. Donald was an orphan boy, raised by an old woman, until her strength gave out and she died, when Donald was only six years.

  No one had noticed the boy until he had run right into Hector one morning while chasing after a chicken in the Castle’s courtyard. The pain cutting through Hector’s head had paled in comparison to the boy groaning on the dirt floor. Hector had taken one look at the boy, his wide, frightened eyes and fearful tremble, before silently extending his hand, helping him up. From that day, Donald had become Hector’s friend.

  As he aged, Hector had sworn to himself to allow the orphan boy - his dutiful friend - the same privileges he had; and by irrefutable orders had made Donald train with him, eat with him, and even stay in his quarters.

  “I ken,” Hector replied while looking back over the gathering. “But I cannae…me Da–”

  The words he wanted to say were stuck in his throat, and no matter how he tried to express them, they would not come out. Donald, however, did not need an elaboration. The man had been there for years, and was a living witness to how close both father and son were.

  Fergus and Hector had hunted together, sparred together, and were a unified front as they cared for their people. The two were tightly knit, and it had to pain the remaining half when the other one was gone.

  Scrubbing a hand over his windswept hair, Hector decided to focus on their plans for the night. “How are we on tha horses?”

  Donald stood beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and looked over the mourners. “Fed an’ watered, ready tae be saddled an’ ridden, when we’re set.”

  A low hum of Latin chants, coming from the people gathered around the grave was filtered up to the two by the wind. The Christian Minister was closing the ceremony while men wielding shovels started to heap mounds of dirt over
the casket.

  Hector was immobile as he disregarded everything around him, Donald included, to memorize every last moment of his father’s burial. His expression was tight as the last heap of dirt was dropped on the slight mound. The Minister pronounced a blessing upon the people, closely followed by a dismissal, and only two watched in silence as the amassed people dissipated in twos and threes to go back to the castle.

  Hector stood there, in silent company to his mother who had not moved from the graveside even when the others had. Only when she made to leave, did Hector turn.

  “We best get back,” Hector said, his face fully turned away from the cemetery. “The feast is aboot tae start if it hasnae begun already.”

  On the way back to the hilltop citadel, the two chose to take a shortcut through the wooded area behind Clan MacTavish’s castle. It was one of many paths the villagers took to get to the castle in case of a raid, or flooding from the nearby loch, or other emergencies.

  As they approached the back gate, the sound of bagpipes, fifes, and flutes turned the solemn air into a merry one, where the sounds of laughter and merriment were its companions. Hector vaguely remembered that Scottish funerals soon turned into merry occasions, as it was thought that merriment was best to celebrate the memory of the deceased, and to make the house of sorrow happy again with the sound of joy, even if it extended to debauchery.

  As they entered the courtyard, they saw tables packed with jugs of wine, and men and woman alike already celebrating. Liquors, some even gotten from Ireland, were set flowing in the greatest profusion. Cooks and confectioners had been brought in from the village and the nearby towns and tasked to use the amassed meats and sweetmeats in every way possible to please the guests.

  Hector grabbed a goblet from the nearest table and filled it with spiced wine just as Donald did the same. The evening was settling in steadily and the servants were lighting torches at the edges of the large courtyard.

  The mouthwatering smells of roasted beef, sautéed in succulent sauce, with sides of boiled tubers and stewed vegetables was in the air. Fish and chicken were also being offered, and the numerous trenchers were distributed in abundance.

  Hector looked around for his mother through the crowd and spotted her to the side, speaking to a man from Perth named Percival Jacobs – a head trader of exotic cloth. With a tap to Donald’s shoulder and a gesture over to his mother, Hector moved over to find his mother now alone.

  Kissing her on her cheek, Hector said, “How are ye, Maw?”

  Coira’s smile was a bit tight and tired, an expression mirrored in the weary look in her eyes, “Tryin’ tae swallow me husband’s death, Hector. I still cannae believe he’s gone.”

  The widow wrapped her arms around herself and looked over at the revelling masses in her courtyard. “I…I am in pain, son. I loved him wi’ all me heart. Tha only comfort is that he’s in a better place.”

  Hector could only agree, “I ken, Maw.”

  Coira turned to look at her son, craning her head fully back as he was much taller than she. “Yer leavin’ tonight.”

  “Yes, Maw,” Hector replied, a bit ashamedly, “I came tae tell ye that Donald and I are goin’ tae fulfill Da’s request, findin’ Andrew.”

  The lady stepped back and looked around, “I hae me doubts aboot this venture, son, but it is what yer Da tasked ye tae do, so I’ll gie ye me blessin’. Ride well an’ ride strong. I’ll hold tha ceremony until ye’ve found him or no’.”

  “Thank ye,” Hector replied. “May I dance with ye, Maw?”

  “Aye,” Coira replied.

  Taking her hand, Hector pulled his mother into his arms, glad to feel Coira’s wiry strength under her clothes. It was a slow dance, and Hector took the time to savor this connection with his mother as he did not know when he might have the chance to do so again.

  The sound of the bagpipes slowed, and Hector kissed his mother in the center of her forehead. “Sir Donnchadh, will take care o' tha Clan’s workin’ while I’m gone. He was at Da’s side all these years an’ he kens what tae do. I’ll be goin’ noo, Maw. Take care o’ yerself.”

  “As should ye,” Coira replied.

  Walking away, Hector found Donald at the side of the courtyard, watching the revellers with a wary eye. He tapped him on the shoulder, “Time tae move, me friend. Let’s pray we’ll come back wi’ oor prize.”

  “Agreed,” Donald replied, as they hurried to the innards of the castle to change into hardy riding gear before getting the horses. “May luck go afore us.”

  Chapter 2

  “That will be all, Amelia.” Victoria smiled at her young maid, “Thank you.”

  “But, My Lady,” the tiny brunette replied with a worried look on her face, “Your hair, won’t you need help to set it for tomorrow’s outing at the Hardings?”

  Waving the younger woman’s concern off, Victoria said, “I am more than capable of setting my own hair, Amelia. Not to say your efforts are not welcome, but I pride myself on doing the few things that are in my power to do.”

  Even with the look of uncertainty on her face, Amelia nodded and curtseyed, “Very well, My Lady. Good night to you.”

  With the maid gone, Victoria turned to the large mirror of her vanity and took up the hairbrush laying there. By the light of the lamp, she parted her thick golden mane, the ends of which trailed to the middle of her back, and brushed the tresses out.

  Now one-and-twenty, Victoria sighed, knowing that the outing at the Elsworth estate was going to be a tiresome affair. Her father was bothered that she hadn’t chosen a suitor after three years, despite the many who were eager to marry a Duke’s daughter.

  Elsworth Manor was noted as unlucky, with two of its owners passing away, by natural death and suicide, but it was a manor with means. The current owner, a Mr. Keating, had let out the manor’s land to farmers and was collecting over ten thousand pounds per year. Despite its unfortunate state, no one scorned that amount of money.

  Victoria knew that her father was hoping that this outing would foster another visit and he would then be the recipient of a formal notice of her courtship. Victoria, on the other hand, had no intention of engrafting herself into the man’s presence deep enough to afford such a notice.

  “I know Mr. Keating is only a landowner, but even if he was the Prince of the Crown, of a noble mien, and fortunate in the way of possessions, he would not gain my affection,” Victoria said to her reflection.

  The young lady was not sure why she never connected with the men her father insisted on parading her before. It was a shameful affair in her opinion, yet she had no desire to disappoint her father.

  “What is necessary must be done,” Victoria said, while wrapping her hair around the thick rags. It was hard to do with the bulk of her hair and the rags, but she went through her strands little by little, and just as the lamp was dimming, she sat proudly before the mirror with her hair all done.

  Blowing the flicking light out, Victoria crossed the bedroom’s floor to the large window that looked out to the front grounds. The lawns of the manor always seemed magical at night, with soft threads of mist that hovered over the grass, and deep shadows made by the large trees rendering some parts of the lawn black as an abyss.

  The ivy climbing the walls of the manor were long ropes of beautiful foliage. It did not take much for Victoria to imagine a suitor, clad in clothes as dark as night itself, climbing up the walls to secretly court her.

  “Rather I a hidden sin, a secret love spun at night and ring-less hand at morn, than wed to one that I knew I would scorn,” Victoria whispered to herself. “Rather I a romance of ages, elopement by moonlight, ladder, and rose, than correctness and propriety hemmed in mercilessly and measured by morals.”

  It was a poem she had written after her first engagement with suitors, who, though titled, were as bland as white soup. Their conversation lacked all incentive for her to keep speaking to them.

  This disappointment was probably the same emotion her Aunt Emily had
felt before her liaison with the Scottish Laird, before she had tasted the freedom from all the correctness of her culture. Turning to her bed, Victoria prayed for strength to endure the next day.

  “You are not glum, are you Victoria?” The Duke asked, while casting an exacting look on his daughter, who was sitting next to him in the carriage. “This is a happy occasion. Please put any morose emotion out of your spirits.”

  Turning from the carriage window Victoria was looking through, she gave her father a small smile. The older man was dapper in a dark suit that fit his trim person perfectly, especially his elaborate turned-back cuffs, adorned with buttons and embroidery,

  The Duke of Crowland, Geoffrey Moore, Member of Parliament for the Huntington seat, and its surroundings of Crowland, a title inherited from his father Barnard Moore, was looking at his only child with a level gaze.