The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8)
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The Highlander’s Widow
Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)
Emilia Ferguson
Table of Contents
Copyright
A Personal Note From Emilia Ferguson
Dedication
About The Author
THE HIGHLANDER’S WIDOW
PROLOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
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Acknowledgement
If You Have Enjoyed This Book…
Publisher’s Notes
Copyright © 2017,2018,2019 by EMILIA FERGUSON
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real or dead people, places, or events are not intentional and are the result of coincidence. The characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author/publisher. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Cover designed by Ms Melody Simmons. Author has the copyrights to this cover.
A PERSONAL NOTE
FROM EMILIA FERGUSON
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To My Dearest Lovely Readers,
There is something picturesque and dramatic about the Scottish Highlands. Not only the landscape, which is mysterious, with its own special wildness and drama. It is the people themselves.
Scottish people are the original untamed spirits: proud, wild, forthright, in touch with their inner selves. The Medieval period in Scotland is a fascinating one for contrasts: half the country was steeped in Medieval culture - knights, ladies, housecarls and maids - and the other half was a maelstrom of wild clans people; fighting, living and loving straight from the heart.
If the two halves - the wild and the courtly - meet up, what will happen? And how will these proud women and untamed men react when brought together by social expectations, requirements and ambitions?
Read on to find out the answers!
Thank you very much for your strong support to my writing journey!
With Hugs, Kisses and Love…
~ Emilia
DEDICATION
Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be man's last romance.
Oscar Wilde
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This Story Is Specially Dedicated To You, My Dearest Reader!
It is with gratefulness and gratitude that I am writing to you this personal dedication.
Thank you once again for giving me this opportunity to share with you my creative side.
I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much I have enjoyed writing it!
It is with such great support from you that we authors continue to write, presenting you with great stories.
Have you checked out my other western historical romance books series?
Click the link below to get started
*** AMAZON USA ***
* * *
Do you like what you have read?
I want to hear from you!
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emilia Ferguson is the pen name of an author who writes historical romance with her husband.
When she is not writing her Medieval Historical Scottish Romance pieces, she enjoys taking long walks with her husband and kids at the nearby beaches.
It was these long walks where she got inspirations and ideas for her stories. She credits her wonderfully supportive husband John, her great cover designer Ms Melody Simmons and her advance review reviewers for helping her to fine-tune her writing skills and allowing her creativity to explode.
~ Emilia
THE HIGHLANDER’S WIDOW
A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY
* * *
by
EMILIA FERGUSON
PROLOGUE
“No! Alec...no. Please...”
Amalie looked down at her son. He stood, leaning against the lintel, his face, still rounded with the last trace of childhood, streaked with grime and blood. His skin was white. His torso was wrapped in a torn shirt, on which bloodstains bloomed. He had been missing for four days. Now he was back.
His face moved, cheeks lifting in the semblance of a smile. He looked so like his father in that moment that Amalie's heart twisted. She leaned forward to take his hands, trembling.
“Son,” she whispered. “Alec.”
“Mother...” Alec whispered. Then his legs gave way.
“No,” Amalie said. “No.”
She dropped to her own knees and felt for his pulse. It was faint, but present. Without considering the cold, the dirt, the blood that soaked into the shirt-front of her fourteen-year-old son, she took his arm and hauled him, as best she could, to his feet.
He came up slowly, and she panted with the strain as she drew his arm around her shoulder. He had grown strong in the years since she’d last lifted him, and he was heavy with muscle, for all he was slim and as tall as she.
“Alec,” she whispered. “I don't believe it...”
She felt as if her heart had broken. How could she not have known?
I should have guessed he would want to follow in the footsteps of his father.
This war – this uprising, as they called it – would have been just the thing to appeal to Keith. Patriotic, devoted to his faith, and loyal, Keith, Baron Inverbrook, was the archetypal warrior – gallant, strong, uncompromising. He had also been dead these last ten years. Killed under the same sort of circumstance her son now faced.
She sighed and grit her teeth, and strained her legs, her arms, her back; hauling her son across the threshold of the manor and inside. The door slammed shut behind her, shutting out the first chill of autumn.
“I need help,” she whispered. She raised her voice, calling down the servant's corridor. “Mercy? Help...he's home!”
Mercy, her maid, appeared at the head of the corridor, followed by Mr. McNeith, her steward. He looked down at Alec where he slumped against the wall, half-supported by her shoulder. “Milady! I'll fetch Doctor Mullins.”
“You can't,” Amalie whispered through tight lips. “He's gone to the Front, with McLeary.”
Their one hope, the physician, had run off with their neighbor when he went to join the battle at Falkirk. That left Amalie with no hope for her son. She had to tend him herself. Or find help. “The heal
er,” she whispered.
The steward shook his head. “Milady, no,” he said. “The woman is...unreliable. I don't think you should venture to...”
“I am the baroness, Hume,” Amalie made herself say, though her legs felt like giving way under her. She ran a hand through her straggling red hair, knowing she looked less than regal, but trying to face him down nevertheless. “I will decide what happens to my son.”
The man shrugged uneasily. There must have been enough of the snap of command left in her for him to realize she wouldn't be convinced. He nodded.
“As you will, milady.”
“Good,” Amalie breathed. “Mercy? Will you come with me?”
“I'm bound to help you, wherever you go, milady.”
Amalie sighed. Mercy took her debt of gratitude seriously, but the reluctance in her voice still hurt. Amalie knew that, were she not made to feel indebted to her somehow, Mercy would leave her to face this alone.
“Well, come then,” Amalie said. “And quickly. He's already lost much blood.”
“Aye, milady,” Mercy nodded. “I'll get cloths.”
“Do that, Mercy,” Amalie nodded, grimly surveying her son's wounds even as she gently lowered him to lean against the entrance-way wall. “And tell Mr. McNott to fetch the coach, please? It will be faster.”
“Yes, milady.”
Amalie bit her lip, heart hammering in her chest. Her neighbor, Lady Marguerite of Duncliffe, had let her know of a skilled healer living in the woods. The woman was her only hope to save her son. She just had to pray they would reach her in time.
A FRIEND AND A STRANGER
“I am a friend of the lady of Duncliffe. I demand you let me see her.”
Amalie said it steadily, trying to hide the tremor of utter weariness in her voice. She leaned against the wall, so that Alec – unconscious from the pain – could lean on her. She stared down the guard. It was dark and cold, and she was tired. She had just reached Duncliffe after hours aching, bone-jarring travel in a coach. Now a guard in the livery of the house looked down at her, frowning.
“Milady, it's most irregular. But I'll see what I can do...”
“Do that.”
Amalie closed her eyes as he turned away, heading into the courtyard. She felt her knees buckle under her, threatening to give way. She could not allow that to happen. She looked sideways, to where Alec, all five-foot-eight-inches of him, slumped against her. His weight was considerable, for all that he was a skinny lad, and her shoulder hurt.
“Not much longer,” she whispered. His eyes were closed. A bruise showed under the dark red hair. She felt intense tenderness mingle with intense sorrow.
He was so young – too young to face this.
“Milady?”
Amalie's head snapped up. She found herself looking into a guardsman's face. “Yes?” she said quickly.
“Her ladyship will see you now.”
“Thank Heavens for that!” Amalie said fervently. She followed him inside. Two other guards ran up and took Alec from her. She watched, relieved but worried, as together they carried him as if he weighed nothing.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
“It's alreet, milady,” the older man who'd summoned her said in a thick dialect. “He'll be safe with Alex and Lennox.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“It's nothing, milady. You must be utterly finished.”
“Thank you,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “I am.”
He smiled back. Together they crossed the threshold into Duncliffe Manor.
Warmth surrounded her. After the cold of outside, it was suddenly overwhelming. She felt her cheeks heat and reached for her cloak, unclasping it. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the brightness of lamps.
As she blinked, letting her eyes accustom to the brilliance, someone called her name.
“Amalie! Oh! My friend...”
Amalie looked up and her vision was abruptly filled with cinnamon-pale hair. A second later, she was caught up in a crushing embrace that smelled of flowers. “Lady Marguerite,” she said softly. “I'm so glad to see you.”
Abruptly, her legs gave way. Marguerite, her friend, gave a little cry. She dropped to her knees and took Amalie's hand, big eyes concerned.
“Oh! My poor dear. Would you look at you? You're finished. Durrel?”
“Yes, milady?” the guard said, suddenly reappearing in the entrance-way.
“Fetch Mrs. Merrick at once. Or Prudence, if she's still to be called?”
“She's in the still-room, milady,” he said immediately. “I'll fetch them both.”
“Thank you. Come, Amalie. Do you think you can stand?”
“Yes,” Amalie whispered.
Her friend helped her to her feet and together they walked into another warm hallway.
“My son is gravely...” Amalie began.
“I had him taken directly upstairs,” Marguerite assured her. “He's with our healers now. My poor dear friend! I can't believe you've suffered such travail...”
“I've suffered nothing. My son...” Amalie choked a sob. She didn't like to think of the extent of Alec's wounding. She blamed herself. How had she not thought of the fact that he'd take every opportunity to follow in his father's footsteps? She should have known he'd run off to join the rising. Why had she not done more to stop it?
“Your son is in the best of care,” Marguerite assured her softly. “You have done all you can. Now, come and sit down and recover your strength. You'll be no good to him if you expire on your feet.”
Amalie gave her friend a pale smile. She was right, of course. She should make sure she was able to help Alec, not neglect herself because she felt responsible for his suffering.
“Now,” Marguerite said, leading her into a cozy room, lit with the orange of flame-light. “Mrs. Hume? Please fetch us tea and cakes. Something fortifying. My friend here is quite worn out.”
“Yes, milady.”
“Amalie? When did you last have a proper meal? You look pale enough to blend into my new wallpaper.”
Amalie grinned again, this time feeling much better. “Thanks,” she said. “I think.”
Marguerite grinned too, her neat, pretty face lighting up. “That's better.”
A maid appeared, carrying a tray. Marguerite gestured to her. “Ah. Thank you. Now, Amalie, you take sugar in your tea? We have a new cargo of it, though I understand it's been quite hard to come by these last months...”
Hearing her friend chatter about something as mundane as the sugar-shortages was oddly reassuring for Amalie. She felt like things were more as they ought to be, the horror of her son's injuries receding somewhat.
“Now stop fretting,” Marguerite said, as if she'd caught a trace of Amalie's worried thoughts. “We have the best healers in the whole of the Highlands here.”
“Will he...can your healers..?” She didn't want to ask the obvious question.
“I know they can. Young Alec's strong stuff, and Mrs. Merrick and Prudence between them could fix far worse than the wounds he has, I know.”
“Thanks,” Amalie said softly.
“Don't mention it. Now do try some of the pound cake. It's my recipe, and Mrs. Merrick made Heaven knows what adaptations to it herself.”
“The healer?”
Marguerite grinned. “She's actually our cook – at least formally so. A singular person. When you meet her, you'll understand.” She shot her an enigmatic smile.
“May I see her now?” Amalie asked firmly. She put down her tea. She needed to see her son, as soon as possible.
“Not yet, dearest,” Marguerite cautioned. “They're still busy. Prudence will tell me when he's resting easy.”
“Thank you,” Amalie whispered. Much as she wanted to be beside him, she knew it was likely best to let the healers work on Alec alone. What could she do there? She would only get in their way.
“Now,” Marguerite said, passing her a china platter. “Do have some cake. You're so pale and drawn t
hat a wind could blow you away. When your son wakes up, he'll think you're more in need of a healer than ever he was!” She shook her head.
Amalie nodded and lifted the silver fork, taking a delicate bite of the cake. Spicy and dense, it was delicious. She felt her whole body tingle and realized how tired and hungry she had been. Her friend was right – she needed her own strength so she could help her son.
“Milady? The blue suite is made up,” the maid said, appearing at the door again.
“Ah, thank you!” She turned to Amalie, smiling softly. “I had a room made up for you, and another for Alec, when he's ready to be moved. I think it will be several days before you can travel again, and who knows what the state of the roads is outside? My Douglas did say travel could be dangerous. So I think it best if you remain.”
“Thank you,” Amalie said weakly. She was so glad she'd come here.
“Now. I do think that, with autumn coming in, I'm going to order some velvet. I want to make new gowns for my own Alexandra and...”