Captivating the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Maddie MacKenna

  Deirdre could hear a hint of sadness in her voice and she tilted her head. She poured a cup of water for Marion, who took it gratefully.

  “Daenae worry, Marion. Ye can always go and visit them. And of course, they are always welcome here,” she consoled her. “Just focus on enjoyin’ yer honeymoon! This is a once in a lifetime journey.”

  Marion knew she was right. And truth be told, she was excited for their trip together. They would get to travel to amazing cities and meet new people. It would be a great adventure for them.

  After breakfast, Marion and Fionnghall stepped outside to the yard to wave goodbye to Marion’s parents and the Bruns. The Countess and the Earl stepped outside first and their coach pulled up by the carriage steps.

  “Ah, Marion, I cannot believe that we have to say goodbye to you again so soon,” the Countess sobbed.

  “I will come visit soon, Mother,” Marion responded.

  “Daughter, I am happy you have found a husband that makes you happy,” the Earl said and then directed his eyes to Fionnghall. “And you, Laird Gille Chriost, had better take excellent care of her.”

  Fionnghall’s expression had no hint of humor in it when he replied.

  “I will take care of her and protect her with me life, Lord Ackworth.”

  The Countess and the Earl stepped into the carriage and Marion felt her eyes stinging and burning. As the carriage drove away, Marion waived until they had disappeared out of sight.

  “Let me go! Dae ye nae ken who I am?” Marion could hear Lady Beitris’ voice coming from the hall. “Release me at once!”

  Marion turned around and saw Lady Beitris and Laird Brun being escorted out of the castle by two of Fionnghall’s guards. Lady Brun was following them gracefully, not even paying attention to her daughter’s tantrum. Laird Brun was silent and defeated.

  “Lady Brun? Dae ye need any help fer the journey? Me guards will gladly help ye escort yer husband and daughter back to Brun,” Fionnghall asked as the guards forced the two criminals into their coach.

  Lady Brun shook her head.

  “Nah, me guards can take care of them,” she said and stepped up onto the coach to sit next to the driver.

  “I will see ye soon, Marion,” she said and their carriage, too, drove away and disappeared through the gates.

  Fionnghall turned around and put his arm around Marion’s waist.

  “So, now that our guests have gone, is it time fer us to step into our carriage and leave Gille Chriost fer a couple of months as well?” he asked Marion as he lead her back into the castle.

  Marion exhaled deeply.

  “I guess so,” she said.

  Deirdre came running down the stairs. Her cheeks were flushed and she was carrying a blue blanket on her arm. Marion recognized it instantly.

  “Oh, I was afraid I had missed ye,” she panted. “I made ye a little wedding present. ‘Tis nothin’ fancy,” she said and handed the blue tartan over to Marion.

  She opened it wide and saw that next to her own initials, Deirdre had sown another set of initials next to hers. Now the initials F.M. and S.M. were right next to each other.

  Marion and Fionnghall looked at each other and they both hugged Deirdre.

  “Thank you, Deirdre,” Marion said. “It is perfect.”

  The End?

  Extended Epilogue

  Would you like to learn how Marion and Fionnghall’s relationship evolved? Then enjoy this complimentary short story featuring our favorite couple!

  Simply TAP HERE to read it now for FREE! or use this link: http://maddiemackenna.com/q4rl directly in your browser.

  Trust me, you’ll love it ♥

  But before you go, turn the page for an extra sexy and wild Scottish treat from me…

  More steamy historical romance

  Turn on to the next page to read the first chapters of A Pledge of Passion to the Highlander, one of my best stories so far!

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  Prologue

  The English-Scottish border, 1354

  She was in trouble. Her father had warned her. Her mother had pleaded with her. But she had ignored them both, and now she was dealing with the consequences of her rash actions.

  “I cannae work it out,” said the large man, gazing at her, with an almost stupefied expression on his face. “What is a grand English lass like ye doing travelin’ with only a wee milksop of a lad for a guard?”

  Why, indeed, thought Roseann darkly. She glanced at young Nigel, to see how he was taking the rough Scot’s criticism of his figure. The woodcutter’s son’s face had flushed a painful hue of red, and she saw that he was struggling to find the words to cope with this sudden, unexpected course of events.

  She cast her eyes fearfully over the rest of the men who had waylaid them almost as soon as they had crossed the border from England into Scotland. A ragged band of Scottish blackguards, she thought. They were filthy and mud smeared, their hair lank with grease. They were all wearing a wraparound cloak of the same pattern, looped haphazardly around their tunics.

  The men brandished whatever they could get their hands on. Some carried pitchforks, but others had regular swords. The bright sunlight caught the metal, momentarily blinding her view.

  Another fearsome-looking man, with a mane of fiery red hair and bushy beard, growled. “Why are ye askin’ questions, Fearghas?” He carefully spat on the ground, so that it landed at the tip of Roseann’s left foot. “English vermin, that’s what they are! Let’s deal with them and be on our way!”

  The man named Fearghas turned to slowly stare at his compatriot. His face didn’t change. But suddenly, he had him by the scruff of the neck, raising him into the air, high enough that his feet dangled helplessly beneath him. Roseann watched with horror as the man started to choke, spittle flying out of his mouth.

  “Are ye finished?” growled Fearghas quietly. “I didnae ask ye to speak! Who is leader here, MacTavish?”

  “Ye are,” spat the man. “For the love of God, let me down!”

  Fearghas lowered him, pushing him so violently he staggered backward, landing on the ground with a thud. The other men laughed. MacTavish flushed a beetroot red and struggled to regain his composure.

  “Now,” rapped Fearghas, turning back to her. “Yer name, lass, and yer business. What are ye doing this side of the border?”

  Roseann took a deep breath. She didn’t know what to tell them. Were these blackguards intent on killing them both? But Fearghas gazed at her intently, at least pretending that he was willing to listen to her.

  “My name is Roseann Gibson,” she replied, in an as imperious voice as she could muster. “I am the daughter of the Baron of Croilton…”

  “Croilton?” Fearghas scratched his head. “I have heard of him. He owns land and title on the other side of Berwick.” He kept gazing at her. “A lot of land, which yields little, and he has been sellin’ off in smaller lots, year by year.”

  Roseann flushed. “It is true, my father has been forced to sell off some land, but he is an honorable and good man…”

  Fearghas guffawed. “I wouldnae ken or care about the character of the man, lassie. What concerns me is what your business is here in Scotland…my lady.” The last words were delivered contemptuously.

  Roseann’s flush deepened. The man was making fun of her; he was playing with her, reminding her how vulnerable she was, standing here on a windswept Scottish moor in the middle of nowhere. The fact that she was the daughter of a baron, and his social superior, obviously meant nothing to him.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. The battles for control of the English-Scottish borderlands had been raging for many years now, and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight to them. It was a dangerous thing for anybody to cross these borders, let alone an English lady traveling with only a woodcutter’s son for protection.

  Were these men rogues? She had heard of the marauding gangs, both Scottish and English, raiding the countryside on both sides of
the border, causing mayhem and destruction. After what had just happened with the renegade English soldiers, she had thought they were her rescuers. Were these men working with them? Had she stumbled into a trap?

  She had never been more frightened in her life. But she was the daughter of a baron; she mustn’t let this ruffian intimidate her.

  She tried to quell the tremble in her voice as she announced, “I am traveling to take up a tutor’s position.” She paused. “A position at Coirecrag, with the Laird of Greum Dubh. Have you heard of the place or the Laird?”

  A titter went through the men, moving like a wave. Fearghas turned and glared at them. Looking a little shamefaced, they stopped immediately.

  “Coirecrag, ye say? The Laird of Greum Dubh?” His voice was mild.

  Roseann nodded. “Yes. He is expecting me.” She raised her chin. “I demand safe passage. I demand that you let me and my companion pass freely and delay us no longer.”

  Fearghas scratched his straggly brown beard. “Ye are a fiery one, are ye not? But ye see, my lady, there are spies all along these borderlands. I cannae let an English lassie pass freely.” He nodded decisively. “Bind them. Make sure they cannae even move a muscle.”

  Roseann gasped. Two men sprung forward and grabbed them both before she could react. The young woodcutter’s son struggled helplessly, but it was like watching a sapling trying to withstand a storm. The Scottish blackguards were too large and too strong.

  Coarse rope was tied so tightly around her wrists that she cried out in pain. The men didn’t react at all. She was pushed forward and made to walk. Two other men secured her horses. Well and truly, she was a prisoner.

  She should have listened to her parents. And now she was surely being marched to her death.

  Chapter 1

  Roseann stumbled wearily onwards. They had been walking for miles across this wild landscape. They had traversed valleys and hills, but it was all starting to blend a little. The same colors of muted green and dull brown seemed to typify this part of lowland Scotland.

  She fell, landing roughly. The man walking two paces behind her laughed nastily. She glared up at him.

  “If you have quite finished,” she whispered fiercely, “I am need of assistance…”

  “Help the lassie up, Colum,” ordered Fearghas. “If we daenae start makin’ better time, we will be forced to camp out tonight.” He paused. “And I’m sick of the sight of all yer hangdog faces, lads! Tonight, all I want is a dram and a bonnie lass to warm my bed, ye ken?”

  The men laughed raucously. Colum unceremoniously hoisted Roseann to her feet, and they were on their way again. Roseann sighed. Her feet were aching, and she wanted nothing better than a warm bed, too. But she knew that the likelihood of that was slim. She would either be thrown into some foul dungeon, or this was going to be the last night of her life.

  Tears stung her eyes as she gazed over the barren landscape. She had been a fool. A stupid, reckless fool, to have done this. She was never going to see her beloved home or her family again. She was destined to die alone in a foreign land, inhabited by coarse, murderous people. Barbarians.

  A single tear coursed down her face, but with her hands bound, she couldn’t even wipe it away. She felt its warm wetness trickle into her mouth.

  She thought longingly of her home and all the people she left behind—the only home that she had ever known and her desperate quest to save it. The quest that had led her here to this awful point in time.

  It had been a month prior that her world had slowly started to change. Only one phase of the moon that had led her inexorably down this path to this moment.

  She vividly remembered that night. She was sitting in the dining room at Loughton Hall, her ancestral home, which lay just five miles from the border town of Berwick-on-Tweed. Father was frowning as he absently devoured a joint of mutton. Mother was picking like a bird at her own food with a faraway expression on her face. Neither had spoken for the entire meal.

  Her father suddenly threw the joint across the table, his face creased into lines of disgust. “That it has come to this,” he muttered, staring at the offending meat. “We eat the worst mutton that the peasants would not deign to pick up! Only twelve month ago, there was swan and suckling pig at this table…”

  Her mother sighed heavily. “It does not do to dwell on such things, my dear husband. It is only a rough spell, I am sure of it.” She bit her lip. “The Lord has sent this trial to test our strength. Tomorrow, I shall pray in the chapel, and make a donation to the abbey.”

  Lord Croilton rolled his eyes. “With what, my dear wife? We have no more coin left. All your prayers and donations do nothing, anyway!”

  Roseann gaped at her parents. It was slowly dawning on her that this wasn’t just a bad phase that they were going through. That things were serious at Loughton Hall, and they were getting worse.

  She had known, of course, that her world was changing. But it had happened so gradually, so slowly, that she hadn’t seen the forest for the trees.

  It started when her Latin and music tutors had been dismissed without fanfare. Her father had told her that she didn’t need them, anyway; she was more learned than most noble ladies her age or older. She hadn’t complained – she knew that what her father said was right. Most ladies were ignorant, not even schooled in their letters. The fact that her father had even educated her beyond what was expected for a lady of her position was enough, wasn’t it?

  But it hadn’t just been the loss of her tutors. She had seen her parents arguing in rooms. Once, she had eavesdropped just outside the door. Her father was lamenting that he must sell off parts of the land, the vast estate that Loughton Hall resided upon. Servants had started to be dismissed, too. Now, they were down to a skeletal kitchen staff. Her old nursemaid, Elaine, was gone, as was Mary, her personal maiden. Centuries-old tapestries and paintings had started disappearing off walls, leaving behind dusty imprints.

  She had convinced herself that it would get better. It must get better. This was their ancestral home. The possibility that it might not always be that way had never occurred to her.

  It was occurring to her now, as she watched the pinched, anxious faces of her parents.

  “How bad is it, Father?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  Lord Croilton sighed. “You should not concern yourself with it, Roseann,” he said quietly. “It is not a burden I want to place on my only daughter’s shoulders.”

  She leaned across the great expanse of table between them. “Father, you may burden me with it.” She paused. “I am old enough. A young woman now, past her teen years. You have educated me well. I can take whatever truth that you tell me.”

  His eyes softened as he gazed at her. “A beautiful, accomplished young woman. I am so very proud to call you daughter, my dear Roseann.” A shadow passed over his face. “It is not good, my daughter. I have tried; the Lord only knows how hard I have tried. But it seems that if our fortunes do not change, we shall be forced to sell Loughton Hall and all the land attached to it.”

  Roseann gasped. “Surely, it has not come to that, dear Father?”

  Her mother, Lady Croilton, looked pained. “Indeed, it has, Roseann,” she said quietly. “Selling off the land in allotments is not enough to cover our debts…”

  “Debts?” Roseann whispered. “What debts are these?”

  A shadow passed over her father’s face. “It was your uncle,” he replied. “My own brother. He gambled, in large amounts, in London, using the deeds to Loughton Hall as collateral on more than one occasion. I had no knowledge of what he was doing; he took them secretly.” He sighed deeply. “And now, the chickens have come home to roost. With Henry’s death, they are all demanding their money… and it is my responsibility to come up with it.”

  Roseann blanched. She had only seen her feckless Uncle Henry a handful of times in her life. He had been handsome and charming, but degenerate. He had died two years ago, under suspicious circumstances in a hovel in a bad area of Lo
ndon.

  She took a deep breath. “What of Nicholas’s army salary?” Nicholas was her older brother and heir to Loughton Hall. He was currently a soldier in the English army stationed in the borderlands somewhere. They had not seen or heard from him in months.

  “Nicholas is a loyal and dutiful son,” said her father. “He sends most of his salary to us. But it is still not enough…”

  Roseann sighed. This was indeed troubling, more troubling than she ever imagined. She just didn’t know what to do.

  At that moment, Graves, their loyal manservant, entered the room. “My lord. Some traveling bards have come and wish to entertain. What would you like me to tell them?”

  “Send them away, of course,” said Lord Croilton bitterly, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I have no coin to pay them.”

  “Father,” Roseann said quietly. “They do not demand much, and I have a little, from what Aunt Margery gave me on my recent birthday.” She took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should let the bards entertain us for the evening. It will distract us, at least.”

  Her mother brightened. “Oh, William, please say yes! For I know I am in need of distraction.” She gazed at her daughter. “That is very kind of you, Roseann.”

  Lord Croilton sighed heavily, turning back to the manservant. “Well, you have heard my daughter, Graves. Send the bards into the parlor, and we shall make merry tonight.”