Highlander's Forbidden Soulmate

by Lydia Kendall

  “Not at all, Father,” Victoria replied. “I was only admiring the wildflowers on our way to Elsworth. The countryside is beautiful.”

  The Duke took a quick look out of his window but could only see stretches of scrubby green and dots of haggard flowers. “I wish I could see what you do, dear Victoria.” Geoffrey shook his head, “Nevertheless, please assume a cordial disposition. We are nearly there.”

  In concurrence with her father’s words, the carriage took a turn and entered on a secondary road that had all the markings of the entrance to an estate. The hedges were trimmed, the grass cut, and soon the carriage trundled beside a tall stone wall of deep russet as they approached the gate. The guard had a quick conversation with the driver, and then the carriage was permitted to enter the estate.

  Looking out, Victoria blandly noted that the country house was nothing more than a farmhouse converted into a manor over the years. The house, made of red brick, was two stories high with attics and tiled roofs, a U–shaped structure with wings.

  “Here we are, darling,” the Duke of Crowland said, as the driver stopped the vehicle and he alighted from his seat. The door was opened and the steps placed near enough for the Duke to step out. There, he offered his hand to his daughter and felt a certain pride. She was going to be the most handsome lady in the room.

  Victoria held out her gloved hand to her father while her other lightly grasped the skirts of her hand-embroidered muslin gown. As she was not a fan of the bold, largely patterned silks of blues, pinks, and greens, or of the cone hoops that were sewn into heavy petticoats, Victoria had chosen a soft muslin dress with long sleeves, and a delicate lace-neck.

  Gazing up at the house, Victoria could see the silhouettes of gentlemen and ladies already inside, and heard muted music and soft laughter. Straightening her spine, Victoria allowed her father to lead them forward. A livered footman was standing just outside the doors and greeted them.

  “Welcome to Elsworth Manor. May I have your invitation cards, Your Grace and My Lady?” he asked.

  Geoffrey quickly fetched the card out of his pocket and presented it to the man who then nodded and opened the door for them, “Please, enjoy the evening.”

  The entrance hall was warm and toasty with a small fire in the hearth and candle-lit sconces on the walls. Victoria spotted two ladies she had met at various balls years before, a Miss Hartford and Miss Dartmouth, ladies that, though rich in stature, were decidedly ugly no matter how many pigments they used.

  It was going to be unavoidable speaking to the man of the manor and Victoria wanted it over and done with as soon as possible.

  “Father,” Victoria said quietly. “Shouldn’t we offer our salutations to Mr. Keating?”

  “Of course,” her father said, while looking for the man he had thrice met at assemblies in London. He saw him at the other end of the room, “Certainly so.”

  The two walked over and as the conversation Mr. Keating was having with another man ended, the Duke took the opportunity to approach him. Victoria used those quick moments to observe the man. He was tall, but not gangly, with a head of dark blond hair and a regal posture, and clad in a dark blue ensemble that sported large turned-back cuffs, adorned with exquisite embroidery, and dark breeches.

  “Mr. Keating,” the Duke greeted, “What a wonderful assembly you have.”

  “I’d rather say it is modest,” the other man replied with his hands clasped behind him, “full of agreeable company, Your Grace.”

  Like all men of proper manners, he did not address Victoria until after she was introduced.

  “Very so. Mr. Keating. May I introduce Lady Victoria Moore, my daughter,” the Duke spoke.

  Victoria stepped away to curtsey just as Mr. Keating bowed. “An honor to meet you, Lady Victoria,” Keating said with a tilt of his head, “Thank you for gracing my home with such beauty.”

  The young lady’s jaw nearly dropped at the sudden twist in Mr. Keating’s manner. Such a compliment was unheard of on a first introduction. Out of the corner of her eye, Victoria saw the widened eyes of her father and knew that he was just as – if not even more – shocked.

  Instead of leaving the surprised look on his countenance, the Duke of Crowland schooled his face into one of staidness under his large wig. Tall and moderately bodied, her father was known to cut an air of dignity and pride wherever he went.

  Many people took Geoffrey Moore’s quietness as an indication of meekness, but those who dared to debate with him at Parliament knew otherwise and didn’t dare make the same mistake twice. His cutting words and scathing rebukes had earned him a name in London - ‘the Ripper’.

  Some might have forgotten that before the Duke had taken up his lofty position, he had spent a year in the British Army, training for war. In all areas, physical and mental, the Duke was no pushover.

  As the King’s right-hand man, with unbelievable power at his fingertips, those who crossed the Duke were bound to regret it - which was why Victoria was surprised when the Duke didn’t take Mr. Keating to charge at his blatancy. A spark of suspicion was lit in the young lady’s mind.

  “You have a lovely home,” Victoria rebounded smoothly as she realized that her father wasn’t going to say anything. The Duke knew that his daughter could hold her own in a battle of words and wits, “One which I fain to think is enhanced any by my visage.”

  The smile that crossed Mr. Keating’s face was neither comforting nor distressing to Victoria, and she wondered how many layers there were to this man. Just before Mr. Keating was about to reply, an announcement regarding the readiness of the dinner was heard, and all attention turned toward it.

  “May I escort you to the dining hall, My Lady?” Mr. Keating asked, with a proffered arm.

  Looking at her father for permission, Victoria was met with a stately nod. Smiling at her newest suitor, Victoria replied, “Yes, you may. Thank you.”

  Resting her fingertips lightly on his sleeve, Victoria allowed herself to be led into a large room with red paneled walls that was lit by a wondrous chandelier holding over a hundred candles. The table was large, covered in glorious white for the first course but Victoria could see the green cloth for the meat course underneath.

  “Your seat, Lady Victoria,” Mr. Keating said, as he led her to a chair at the table just below the host’s seat. Victoria felt a churn in her stomach as she sat. It seemed her suspicions were right - this was much more than a simple dinner, wasn’t it?

  Chapter 3

  “Blast it tae hell,” Hector swore, as he swatted another limb of a wispy willow out of his eyes.

  It was nearly midnight when Hector and Donald left Clan MacTavish Castle, and they had anticipated three days to get to the main city only to be forced to spend five. The first lake they had to cross, Loch Lomond, was flooded, and they had to wait until they were sure they and their horses wouldn’t drown before crossing it. Then, Hector had a near fall on a rocky cliff, only to meet more trouble in the mucky marshlands of Luss.

  To add more salt to their wounds, when they did get to the big city, every inn was filled. Not even the privilege of hosting a Laird was enough incentive to have a room vacated for him and his companion, and so they were forced to sleep in the nearby woods on the horses’ blankets.

  Grumbling to himself, Hector swatted the dangling branches once more and hissed to Donald who was laughing at him, “Oh, haud yer wheesht!”

  “I dinnae ken so,” Donald snorted, “Yer all a ragin’ because tha inns wouldnae gie ye a bed fer tha night. Dinnae ye recall hours o' campin’ in the forest as a lad? I was right there aside ye.”

  Hector glared, even though there was no hope of Donald seeing it through the darkness, “Are ye sayin’ I’ve gone soft? Choose yer words carefully, me friend.”

  “Soft like a bucket o’ crowdie,” Donald replied, unrepentantly. “Or like a yaird o' moleskin.”

  Huffing, Hector allowed his friend his amusement and pressed his back further into the bark of the tree behind him. He liste
ned to the tethered horses munching some feet away from him before he spoke.

  “D’ye ken that we’ll find him – Andrew? Me Da was so sure that he was alive, even after all these years.”

  Donald seemed to sober. “Can ye count how many times ye’ve seen yer Da wrong aboot somthin’ or tha other?”

  Hunched in the crevice of the roots of a tree, it did not take long for Hector to answer, “Nae, no’ even once. Me Da had this…sense aboot him, he just kent things.”

  “If ye dinnae doubt him then, then dinnae doubt yer faither noo.” Donald replied, “Tha man was a canny one. Let his soul rest kenning that ye dinnae doubt him.”

  Donald’s words were sound, and as the silence of mutual companionship descended on the two, Hector decided Donald was right. Fergus had always had this quality to him, a sense of foresight and wisdom that Hector wished he had.

  The heir was not ashamed to admit that he was a rash man at times, more prone to jumping into the raging fire and beating it down with his bare hands than considering how it might be tamed in other ways. Hector knew that if he lost this search and was fully made Laird, he would need a lot of men at hand to seek advice from and to contest his flighty decisions. Knowing about that fault was one of the reasons he needed to find Andrew.

  He had never admitted it to anyone, but the very thought of being the Laird worried him. On a general perspective, he knew that, if called upon, he would make a good leader having had the privilege of sitting at his father’s right hand for years and learning from him. But becoming the Laird still concerned him.

  Hector could see through the shifting boughs and leaves above him. Looking up at the slivers of the dark sky, he silently prayed for strength and direction. He also prayed to inherit his father’s good sense and sensibility when it came to the life and livelihoods of his people if he did assume the position.

  “What ye ken aboot this Andrew?” Donald asked from his side.

  “Nothin’ much,” Hector replied quietly, “Da told me that he was tha son o’ tha Sassenach that he loved, a Lady Emily Moore; a Duke’s daughter. He told me that he kent that he would never get any headway wi’ her faither tae court her, so he went into England an’ stole her from her bedchamber an’ took her back tae Clan MacTavish.”

  “Then tha Duke o’ Crowland, took her back, aye?” Donald added.

  “Aye,” Hector replied, “Me Da ne’er got tae see her again or tha child because she had died in tha birthin’, an’ tha boy was sent away, supposedly tae Scotland, but he ne’er arrived.”

  A short silence ensued, one heavy with strong contemplation on both sides before Donald said, “Well, it seems tae me that tha best way o’ findin’ this Andrew would be tae start at tha beginnin’, Hector. Ye must find this Moore family an’ demand answers.”

  Hector’s dark head met the bark behind him, “Was thinkin’ tha very same, Donald. But how are we goin’ tae get Moore tae admit tae his deeds, aside from holdin’ him hostage under oor blade?”

  Donald hummed, “What d’ye suppose yer Da might hae done in this situation?”

  Damn it! Those words forced the young warrior to temporarily discard his thoughts about a brute-force maneuver and think strategically in other ways. How could he find out about his brother without any bloodshed?

  “Someone must ken o' it,” Hector replied. “Someone o' tha family or tha people ‘round him must ken aboot it an’ can tell us somethin’. We should find oot what we can afore gettin’ tae tha place, I ken, afore takin’ any drastic measures.”

  “An’ if it comes tae those drastic measures?” Donald prodded, “D’ye hae any qualms in takin’ vengeance fer yer Da?”

  “No’ at all.” Hector replied stonily, “Me Da was in tha wrong tae take tha lass without permission, but who can rule o’er what tha heart does? E'en if he was wrong, was deprivin’ him o' his flesh an’ blood any better?”

  Donald sighed, “I cannae answer that, me friend. I can only tell ye tae do what tha best course fer ye is. God will be tha judge.”

  The words were not much of a comfort to Hector as his mind still warred between questioning this Duke of Crowland and seeing him swim in his blood. He forced himself to go on the more sensible path.

  When they did get to England, he was going to find any information on his lost brother he could get before going to Monstall Manor. Donald, Hector knew, was going to be right beside him as they tried to right this wrong that had been sitting overdue for two decades.

  “Aye,” Hector replied uneasily, “But, suppose we do find him among tha English? D’ye ken he’d be willin’ tae leave all he knows an’ go tae a foreign land where people might no’ accept him? An' tae be their Laird, e'en more?”

  “If he is o’ true Scottish blood, I doubt he’d be all that acclimated tae tha English.” Donald mused, “Ye’ve got tae admit, we Scot blood hae a way o' standin’ oot, it doesnae succumb much. If he’s there, he’ll probably stick oot.”

  Hector privately disagreed. No one knew to what extent human nature would go, to be accepted by the ones around it. He had heard tales of men reared with pigs so long that they had become akin to the beasts themselves.

  “Probably.” Hector replied grudgingly, “But a true Scot has his pride. He wouldnae bow much tae others.”

  “If he hae a temper like yer's, I ken we should check tha prisons, tae,” Donald noted wryly.

  “Stow it,” Hector replied with not much heat. “Let’s figure it oot on tha morrow.”

  A cool breeze somehow managed to snake its way through the underbrush of the trees and gave the two men a soft reprieve from the heat trapped by the thick canopy above. A strange feeling overcame Hector as he sat there in the dark. It was a slow, cold creep over his skin. He did not know if it was what most people called an omen, but he ignored it.

  The hoot of an owl sang through the air, heralding small scurries of tiny creatures under the brush. Hector closed his eyes and brought up a memory of his father giving him his first training sword made of wood.

  “Step one: hold tha pommel in a strong grip,” Fergus had instructed while flipping the wooden sword toward the five-year-old Hector. “Wrap yer hand around tha pommel an’ close yer fingers over it, an’ lift it.”

  Hector did exactly what his da said, but when he tried to lift it from the man’s hand, he stumbled with the weight of it. “It’s heavy, Da,”

  “An’ this is only wood, son,” Fergus had replied. “Imagine how heavy real steel in yer hand will be. Ye need tae train yer muscles tae hold this an’ tha heavier ones that will come.”

  Still unsure, young Hector had braced his feet and lifted with all his might only to trip over his feet and end up with a bruised backside. Fergus had gently lifted him up.

  “Step two: dinnae stay on tha ground fer tae long, get yerself up nae matter how bruised ye are – we dinnae accept defeat, Hector.”

  “We dinnae accept defeat,” Hector murmured under his breath as his eyes blinked open. The air was hot and muggy, and small creatures were burrowing under his kilt causing some irritation. He did not see any clear way to find his brother if he was still alive and the feeling of disappointing his father was not something he even wanted to think about.

  The possibilities of finding or not finding his brother were endless. The man could be a servant with another name, a traveller, imprisoned, or a dead body in a cemetery. Donald was right on their first move, though - get close to Monstall Manor and work from there.

  “Get ye as much sleep as ye can in this godfersaken place,” Hector advised while twisting his own body into a less miserable position. “We’ll move oot on first light.”

  “After we’ve scrubbed this muck from oor bodies,” Donald commented.

  “That, tae,” Hector replied, while allowing his eyes to droop. “That tae, me friend.”

  Chapter 4

  “I will not marry him, Father!” Victoria said, bristling in irritation. Her body had gone stiff and was even trembling with anger at the fact that he
r father had staged the beginnings of courtship without her consent.

  Even though arranging a marriage for their daughters without their assent was what many fathers did, this was not the relationship Victoria had with her father, Geoffrey. When the Duke was not in the audience of the King in London, it was not uncommon to see the two taking a stroll around the manor’s grounds and freely talking about anything that came to mind. They had a loving relationship but it was getting strained at the edges with the issue of her marriage.

  “Victoria, please use your senses,” Geoffrey replied tightly. “You cannot keep refusing the men who are willing to marry you, for one silly reason or another as you have in the past. He’s rich but unaccomplished, he’s smart but a pauper, he’s a Duke but his mother is locked up for madness, and he might carry the same trait. You are a grown lady Victoria, one-and-twenty years, with more intelligence than most. For God’s sake, I married your mother when she was nineteen. Do you aspire to be a bluestocking spinster for the rest of your life?”