Highlander’s Phantom Lass: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance

by Ann Marie Scott

  His hands slid over her bare arms, and she shivered. “Please, Will,” she whispered, touching his chest—a chest she had touched before, long ago. “Please touch me.”

  Will picked her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down on the scented furs. “I will, love,” he said, his hand sliding up her bare thigh under her shift.

  Breta gasped as he touched her inner thigh before brushing over the core of her body, which was damp with anticipation. He slipped a finger past her wet folds before covering her mouth with his, swallowing her cry. Breta clung to his broad shoulders as he ravaged her mouth, his fingers doing wondrous things to her lower half, a spring tightening in her stomach. When he moved down to her neck, she arched against him, urging him on.

  “Will,” she whispered, feeling the coil tighten even more, “I dinnae know...”

  “It’s okay,” he said against her skin, his lips latching on to her puckered nipple through her shift. Breta cried out, her hands in his hair, and something broke loose inside her, her entire body shaking from the gasp of pleasure he was giving to her.

  Will murmured something but Breta felt like she was floating on a cloud, her body weightless, her heart racing in her chest.

  “Is that it?” she gasped.

  He chuckled. “Nay, lass...that’s just the beginning.”

  Soon her shift was on the floor and Will was rising off the bed, reaching for the clasp that held his kilt in place. “Dinnae be afraid,” he told her, hesitating. “The first part can be unpleasant for ye.”

  She stilled his hand, sensing his nervousness. Her mother had told her all she needed to know.

  “Let me, Husband.”

  He removed his hand and Breta got to her knees, undoing his clasp and letting the kilt fall to the floor. He wasn’t wearing smalls. She took in the thick length of him, her body reacting thusly. Will tucked his hand under her chin and forced her to meet his eyes.

  “I wilnae hurt ye.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  He returned her smile and pressed her down on the bed, covering her body with his. She could feel the press of him against her inner thigh and knew he was hesitating.

  “I love ye,” she whispered against his shoulder, pressing her lips to his skin.

  “Och, love,” he said, pressing against her entrance. “I love ye too.”

  Breta gasped as he moved inside her slowly, barely feeling the burn of her maidenhead as he pushed past it, leaving them both panting.

  Then a spectacular feeling filled her once more, and there was no fear.

  “Good?” he panted.

  She pressed her hands to his back, feeling his muscles quiver under her touch.

  “Good.”

  She was home.

  Later, after he showed her the ways of a husband and wife until they were both spent, Breta curled up next to her husband, reveling in the way her body naturally moved to him.

  “Och, lass,” he growled in her ear as she wiggled her arse against him, causing his large hand to clamp down on her bare hip. “Ye keep that up and I wilnae be able tae allow ye rest. It has been a long while, Breta.”

  She turned toward him, seeing the hint of a devilish grin on his face. “Then ye better make up for it, Husband, because I dinnae know wot I am missing.”

  “And ye never will,” he promised her, touching her nose. “All mah life I have been looking for what makes me happy, and until I met ye, I never thought it was more than just the battle.”

  His words brought tears to her eyes. “Ye aren’t just saying this because I saved yer life, are ye?”

  His thumb found the scar on her side, stroking it lightly.

  “Nay, lass...ye are wot I was missing.”

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  Highlands’ Formidable Warriors

  Book #1

  Highlander’s Royal Blood

  Book #2

  Highlander’s Warrior Heart

  Book #3

  Highlander’s Phantom Lass (This Book)

  Prologue

  Argyll, Scotland, late 1500s

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time he arrived at the homestead. The sun dipped low in the horizon, setting the sky alight with red and orange hues, casting long shadows around the house. He’d traveled for miles to get there with virtually no rest, and anyone else would have likely been exhausted by the journey, but when he hopped off his horse and landed in the mud outside the house, he showed no signs of weariness.

  There were still servants moving around the house that he could see, scurrying about like terrified mice. It was unsurprising—estates like this were run on the blood, sweat, and tears of the poor and desperate.

  The stableboy who came out to see who had arrived at the house eyed the traveler wearily but neither tried to send him away nor offered a place for his horse. The traveler approached with slow steps, carefully pulling back his cloak to reveal the sword sheathed by his side.

  “Where is he?”

  The traveler’s voice was slow and grating, worn ragged by cold air and whiskey he’d kept himself topped up with. For a moment, it seemed as though the stableboy was going to stay quiet out of loyalty, but his nerves betrayed him. Timid eyes flickered in the direction of the sheltered workstation to the side of the house and then back to the sword, clearly worried about the newcomer’s intentions.

  “This sword is not meant for ye.” Holding tight something like a neckless on his hand, the traveler headed off towards the workstation where he could hear the faint grinding of a knife being sharpened. Sure enough, he found the master of the house inside, examining the point of his dagger. He was in his mid-thirties, with the flecks of grey in his dark hair and the fine lines around his eyes the only indication of his age.

  At the sound of footsteps approaching, he looked up in the direction of the traveler, and his eyes narrowed in an attempt to see who was under the hood of the cloak. For a few moments, neither man spoke, but the darker-haired man didn’t seem entirely surprised by the sight of this stranger in front of him. It was almost as though he expected something like this would happen, given enough time.

  Rather than demanding to know who the stranger was, he simply stopped to examine the blade in his hand, twisting it this way and that to catch the light from the nearby lantern on the sharp edge. “I sharpen all my weapons myself, you know. I believe every man should—it’s the only way to know you’ve got a blade that will never let you down when you need it the most.”

  The stranger seemed unimpressed by this piece of information, for he said nothing. Instead, he just remained by the entryway, silent and still.

  “Do ye sharpen yer own blade?”

  Still, the traveler did not reply. Instead, he silently pulled the hood of his cloak back to reveal his face. He was younger than the master of the house—not yet even thirty—but he had the haunted gaze of a man many years older. His eyes had the kind of pain that came with years of misery, for he’d seen more than his fair share of it in his short life. That pain was what ha
d driven him here; it was the reason he’d come so far to see this man.

  “Do you know who ah am?” he asked. There was a moment of silence while the darker-haired man considered him, looking at the lock of auburn hair that fell on his shoulder.

  “Aye,” he said finally, turning to face the traveler properly.

  “Then ye know why ah’m here.”

  “I do,” the second man conceded.

  “So, I’ll be taking what ah am owed.” The traveler pulled back his cloak again, just as he had done before to reveal the sword. “And then I’ll be on mah way.”

  The darker-haired man let out a bark of laughter. It was somehow colder than the chill of the evening air around them, and anyone else might have flinched from the sound. The traveler did not, though. He had come too far to turn back now.

  “And what if I refuse?”

  “Then draw yer sword!” the traveler spat. “Unless ye’re a coward who tasks other men to fight his battles for him.”

  For a moment, it looked as though the master of the house was going to refuse. His gaze lingered on the blade by the stranger’s hip, and eventually, he crossed the room to where his own sword was. “Are ye prepared to die tonight?”

  “Are ye?” He threw his cloak down and drew his sword. They stared at each other from across the workroom, the silence of the night only broken by the sound of the horses in the nearby stables. And then, as if they’d both sensed the intentions of the other, they lunged at the same time.

  The older man was faster; he’d had years of practice refining his skills and technique, and his movements were fluid, almost artful. The younger man was stronger, though, and he was driven by something raw and primal that the other could not even begin to comprehend. He was brought here by his blind rage and anguish and had no desire to live through the night. The only goal he had was to make sure he could exact revenge on the man who had wronged him.

  The traveler managed to knock the older man backward onto the hay-strewn floor of the workshop and held him there with the tip of his blade pointed to the hollow of his throat. There was just enough pressure for the sword to push down on the skin, but not enough to draw blood.

  He could have quite easily killed the older man—in fact, that had been his goal when he had arrived at the house. But while he stood there, hanging at the point of no return and holding the man’s life in his hands, he stopped himself.

  “Remember this moment,” he whispered. “Remember how it feels.”

  He pulled back, sheathing his sword before crouching in front of the other man, close enough to whisper and still be heard. “Tonight, ah let ye live. But ye should know that if our paths cross again, ah won’t be so generous.”

  A bead of sweat slipped from the second man’s hairline, rolling down his temple. The traveler chuckled and reached over to wipe his brow with his thumb. “The penniless son of a dead man spared yer life tonight. How does that feel, Campbell?”

  Without waiting for a response, he stood and crossed to the workbench where the freshly-sharpened dagger lay. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands before returning to the older man. “Och, a fine blade, isn’t she? Ah understand why ye’re so careful with her.”

  He pressed his index finger to the tip of the blade, testing out the sharpness of it before looking back down at the other man. “Ah think ah should leave ye with somethin’ to remember me by, don’t ye agree?”

  Chapter 1

  Six months later

  The sun had barely risen before the young woman was on her way. It was so early that the land was still shrouded by a foggy white haze, and dew covered everything in a sheen that shimmered. While it would grow to be a warm day later, for now, it was still cold outside, and the young woman pulled her shawl around herself a little more in an attempt to guard against the chill. She was young—not even twenty years—and the blonde hair that peeked out from under her shawl glowed like fine spun gold against her skin when it caught the light.

  She set off along the mud-tracked path that led up towards the farm by the hills, carefully balancing a basket of eggs on the crook of her arm. They were for trading with the old couple on the farm. She would get fruit from them, and because of the season, there was a decent chance it would be pears.

  The sun rose a little higher with each step of the journey, and by the time she reached the farm, it had begun to warm a little. Her breath no longer fogged in front of her face in a cloud, and her hands didn’t ache the way they had when she’d set off. By the time she’d traded the eggs she’d collected and filled her basket with pears from the farm, it was warm enough that she no longer needed the shawl.

  “Ye mind yerself, Maura,” Murray, the young man who helped tend to the farm, warned her as he walked her to the boundary line of crops. “A young woman such as yerself shouldnae be walking alone like this.”

  “I’ll be going, Murray. Don’t mind me.” The young woman smiled at him. “It’s early yet. I won’t get into any trouble.”

  She walked back from the farm the way she’d come, but this time her pace was slower. Maura was in no hurry to return home, where there would be chores waiting for her. Instead, she strolled off the path she’d walked before and into the field that ran parallel to it.

  Rays of sunlight filtered through the clouds above, catching the dewdrops that weighed heavily on each blade of grass. They seemed to sparkle and dance in the light, almost like precious jewels. Maura ducked a little to run her hand through the grass with a smile; something was refreshing about the cold morning dew.

  As she walked through the field, Maura smiled, taking a moment to stop, close her eyes, and breathe in deeply. She could hear the faint rustling of gentle wind disturbing the blades of grass and the leaves on the trees around her. Somewhere nearby, a bird was singing, calling out to any others around.

  She knew the world outside this field still existed, even when she closed her eyes like this. She knew that her mother would still be waiting for her when she returned home, and there would be chores to do. However, even if only for a few short moments, it felt good just to stop and pretend that this field was the only thing left in existence. It was quiet, it was peaceful, and most importantly, it was hers.

  Of course, that peaceful solitude could not last forever. As Maura stood there, drinking in the first few early morning rays of sunlight, she knew she could not put off her return for much longer. So, with a resigned sigh, she readied herself and set off on her journey home again.

  It was not a particularly long journey, by any means, and when she arrived back home at the family Inn, she wasn’t surprised to see that there was no other soul in sight. Her siblings were not playing out in the front, causing a nuisance to anyone who might happen by, nor could Maura see her mother fretting over something or other.

  She pushed the door to the Inn open, walking inside before setting down the basket of pears on the table with a heavy sigh. She looked around the deserted Inn, from the empty bar to the unoccupied tables with a morose frown.

  Her family had owned the establishment since she was a child, and her hazy memories of this room were always filled with the sounds of laughter and idle chatter. Her memories always carried wafts of whiskey that burned the back of her nose, just a little, and when she thought back hard enough, she could even remember the faces of some of the patrons she’d seen as a young girl.

  Back in those days, the Inn had been a popular place for travelers on the way into Dunoon. Named after the heather fields that had once bloomed in the area, Two Heathers Inn had been successful, and it had even thrived. In years past it had catered to merchants and traders who were heading into the market town for business, but now that less dangerous routes into town were opening up, the stream of potential lodgers had dried up.

  It was a sorry sight, and Maura always felt a sharp sting of sadness whenever she looked around the empty room. If her poor father could see the state of the Inn now, he’d probably die all over again.

  Two Heathers
wasn’t completely silent, though. In the rooms at the back, she could hear the sounds of her younger siblings running around, likely driving her mother insane. Their voices carried as they laughed without a care in the world.

  Of course, what would they have to worry about? They were both so young that they had no real idea of the struggles the family was having to contend with. The closest they got to knowing the financial difficulties was when they saw the local debt collectors stroll into the building, and even then, Maura suspected they had no idea of the gravity of the situation.

  “Oh, look at the state of ye!”

  Maura was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of her mother’s voice, and she turned back to the door she’d just come through to see a familiar figure sweep in. Edna, her mother, stood in the doorway for a few moments before crossing to Maura, who held the basket aloft.

  “I brought pears.”

  “Ye brought mud is what ye did!” her mother scolded, pointing to the hem of Maura’s skirt. “Did ye trek through every puddle on yer way home? Look at the state of that skirt, girl!”

  Maura looked down in surprise. Her mother was right—the bottom of her skirt had trailed through the mud on her way back home, and the dew-soaked blades of grass had left faint green streaks on her skirt from where she’d knelt to look at the flowers.