Captured by his Highland Kiss

by Eloise Madigan

  “You understand me, do you, Delilah?” he asked.

  “Uh, yes… Yes, I understand. The Viscount Keicester. Yes.”

  She felt as if she should be crying. Raging. Yelling and cursing and flinging herself at the man opposite her, who’d unthinkingly agreed to an arrangement that would quite possibly ruin her entire life.

  All she did, though, all she found herself capable of doing, was to sit bolt upright in her chair and stare at the opposite wall.

  The Viscount Keicester. Promised to be married to the Viscount Keicester. Betrothed.

  The very thought sent her head to spinning.

  “I know that this is, perhaps, a little unforeseen,” her father was saying, “but, I think you’ll agree with me that it is, all things considered, a prudent move.”

  “Yes. Quite. Prudent. Yes.”

  I have to write to Marcus. I must let him know about this. Appropriateness can go hang for all I care. This can’t happen. I shan’t let it happen!

  She blinked a time or two, and realized that her father was still babbling on about how she would thank him in the future, about how he was sure that Lord Keicester would make a fine husband and they would be quite as happy as he and her mother were.

  That decides it. My father and mother might love each other after all these years, but they were never in love.

  I cannot marry another. Not when my heart belongs to a Highlander.

  You must be brave, Delilah, she told herself sternly.

  She was struck that, though all people might like to think that they would go back into the bowels of a sinking ship to rescue the last of the passengers, it was not until they felt the water lapping at their ankles that they truly knew whether they had courage or not.

  And the vessel of my life would certainly seem to be foundering!

  She got to her feet. It was crucial not to let her father realize how deeply this news had affected her. It was of the utmost importance that she be able to compose and send a letter to Marcus without either her father or mother being able to intervene.

  Delilah forced a smile onto her countenance.

  “Well, I shan’t lie to you and say that this hasn’t taken me completely by surprise, Father,” she said. “I agree that this match, this Viscount Keicester, certainly sounds like quite the social coup. I think I should like to ponder on what this will mean to me, up in my chambers. Perhaps you would be so kind as to have someone send up some luncheon for me?”

  The Earl’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise and—if Delilah was any judge—substantial relief.

  “I—of course, my dear, of course! I’ll have one of the kitchen boys bring you something immediately. And some tea?”

  “Yes, please,” Delilah said, opening the drawing-room door.

  “Capital, capital,” her father said. “Yes. Mull it over. Important to think about these things on a full stomach.”

  Delilah shut the door quietly behind her.

  Then she dashed, as quickly as her skirts would allow, up to her chambers. She threw herself into the chair behind her desk, pulled quill and ink towards her and began scribbling frantically.

  By the time that the page appeared with her meal, she had composed a letter in which all the details and information of her plight had been adequately—if not eloquently— put to paper. As the servant placed her lunch tray down, she sealed the letter with black wax and handed it over to him along with a copper coin.

  “I want this sent by rider to the MacConnair castle posthaste,” she said. “And I shall be watching for the rider leaving from this window. Understand?”

  “Yes, m’Lady,” the boy said.

  “Excellent. Now, go!”

  The boy disappeared through the door with the speed of a ferret down a rabbit hole.

  A few minutes later, Delilah watched as an errand rider galloped off, down the gravel road that led away from the Glimouth estate and out of sight.

  She could have no idea that the letter that left the manor of the Earl of Glimouth would not be the letter that made its way into the hand of Marcus Malloch.

  At evenfall, Marcus returned from his week-long exile with a black mood hanging like a storm cloud over his head and a gutted eight-point buck draped over the back of his horse.

  He met his father in the grand entrance hall of the castle. He had just had a week to dwell and brood on the way the Laird had handled the situation that had caused so much trouble between the two neighboring clans. Whilst the rational part of his brain knew that his father had handled it as well as he was able, there was still some simmering resentment in Marcus’s stomach and it was with a slight stiffness that he shook the Laird’s hand.

  On getting upstairs to his chambers, Marcus kicked off his shoes and eyed with longing the steaming copper bath that awaited him by the fireplace. As he stripped off his shirt, revealing a muscled chest with a light thatch of blond chest hair, a letter on his desk caught his eye. It was rolled into a loose scroll and sealed with green wax.

  It read:

  Dearest Marcus,

  I must tell you that this affair of ours must finally conclude. You must go on your way and marry Lady Ewan of clan Allerdice, as befits one of your rank.

  As for me, I have fallen hopelessly in love with another. His name is George Adderly and he is the Viscount Keicester. He is very wealthy and a more appropriate match for an English noblewoman than you could ever be. We are engaged to be married.

  I will always care for you, but I would view it as a kindness if you were to never contact me again. It is for the best, I am sure.

  Yours,

  Delilah.

  For a man who had spent the last week stewing and worrying and fretting over how Delilah would take his sudden disappearance, this was too much. After the confusion and heartache that they had gone through already, being on the receiving end of another nonsensical rebuttal was more than the young Highlander could bear.

  Marcus screwed the letter into a ball and threw it towards the fire that burned in the grate. It missed. His teeth ground together, his face set in a snarl of frustration. He picked up the letter and shoved it into his sporran.

  “Nay, nay, nay, nay,” he growled to himself, as he tore off his travel-stained kilt and pulled on a fresh one.

  “Nay, this cannae be!” He pulled a fresh shirt over his head and reached for his filthy shoes. Once he was clothed, he grabbed his tartan cloak, dirk, and broadsword and left the room.

  The bath, he left steaming and forgotten behind him.

  Dusk had well and truly fallen when he exited the castle via the door to the kitchens and went in search of his best friend and loyal companion, Finley Henderson. Every fiber of Marcus’s being sang for him to run to the stable and ride for the Earl of Glimouth’s manor, but he knew that rashness would only lead to apprehension. He needed Finley’s help if he was to elude his father’s guards and make it over the border, to where he hoped Delilah still was for the time being.

  He found Finley, as he knew he would, in his favorite tavern that stood down near the edge of the loch.

  The tavern was busy at this time in the evening; filled with laborers fresh in from the fields and pastures who had not yet made it home to their wives and suppers. Marcus made his way through the smoky interior, his hood and cloak pulled up, hunched slightly so that—hopefully—no one would recognize his tall figure.

  “Fin,” he hissed, sitting down at a rough table next to his friend.

  Finley jumped. He looked to be well into his cups, but he leaned forward when his eyes had a chance to bring Marcus into focus.

  “What d’ye—” he began.

  “I need yer help, Fin,” Marcus said in a low, fervent voice. “I need yer help. I cannae tell ye what it’s about right at this moment, but I need ye to come wi’ me now.”

  His best friend fixed him with a slightly cock-eyed look. Then he drained the horn cup he was drinking from and stood up. “Aye,” he said, “all right then.”

  With Fin scouting ah
ead for any sign of the Laird’s men, the two friends rode out of the village and into the desolate Highlands.

  Marcus knew well that his father would have men watching him, making sure that he did not do anything silly now that he was back home. He also knew that he would be missed as soon as he did not show his face at the evening meal in the dining hall. Someone would be dispatched to his chambers and discover the unused bath and dirty clothes, and then the hunt would begin.

  With the wind rushing in his hair, Marcus hunched over his mount and rode for the border.

  Chapter 9

  Marcus was all for forging the straightest path to the Earl of Glimouth’s estate once they had gotten clear of his father’s village. Finley, however, stepped in and acted as the voice of reason when they reined in a few miles across country.

  “Nay, Marcus,” he said, the rushing of the cool evening air having done much to dispel the whiskey mist that had its hold on him when they had mounted. “Nay, ye’ll never make it tae yer lass’s home gallopin’ down the road as if the dead were after ye. Ye ken that as well as I. Will nae be long now before yer faither sends a party o’ men huntin’ for us.”

  Marcus took a drink from his leather water skin, swallowed and cursed.

  “Aye, ye’re right. I ken it well enough. What think ye, then? Over the rough country?”

  “Aye. Tis the only way we’ll be able tae make it tae the border without pursuit findin’ us. Through wood and briar and bog we’ll have tae go. Slower, but safer.”

  “But they ken where I’m off tae, Fin.”

  Finley Henderson grinned, his teeth white in the light of the moon.

  “Ah, never fear, big lad,” he said. “Yer faither might ken where yer off tae but if we head there cross-country, he cannae ken from which direction we’ll approach this Earl’s lands.”

  “And ye ken a good way tae get tae the manor, dae ye?” Marcus asked. He turned his horse and started to lead it out into the wild moorlands, away from the line of the road.

  “Aye, I might just dae,” Finley said, cagily.

  “And how d’ye come to know this secret way onto English lands, Mr. Henderson?” Marcus asked.

  “Ah, well, ye know I was a bit of a rascal in me younger days.”

  “Still are, from what I hear.”

  “True enough, perhaps. Let’s just say that the Earl of Glimouth has some fine wild ptarmigan nestin’ on his land. Some good, fat grouse, too.”

  Marcus laughed. “A fiend fer the whisky, and a poacher, too! What company I keep!”

  “Keep yer horrid labels tae yerself, Marcus Malloch,” Finley cried with mock hurt. He nudged his horse past Marcus’s and said over his shoulder, “Now, ye try and keep up wi’ me, and try no’ tae get lost.”

  Marcus snorted. “And ye try nae tae fall off yer horse.”

  “I’ll dae me best.”

  “That’s all a man can dae. Now, lead on.”

  “Yer friend Finley’ll show ye the way tae yer lass, dinnae ye worry ‘bout that.”

  The morning after she had sent her urgent letter to Marcus, Delilah strolled out into the gardens to a spot where she habitually broke her fast on clement mornings. She was tailed by a serving woman who deposited the tray of breakfast things on an outside table and left Delilah to her thoughts.

  The sun was shining weakly in a freshly rain-washed sky. Dew dripped from the twiggy fingers of the trees and bushes. A couple of thrushes and a blackbird hopped about the lawns and dug out whatever it was that they broke their fasts on.

  Another morning. To the birds and the trees and the beasts in the woods it’s a day just like any other. Yet to me… To me it feels like the last page in the chapter of my youth.

  Delilah’s head still felt as it were stuffed with feathers. Her thoughts were hard to grasp, hard to pin down. She was betrothed, but somehow it did not feel real. It felt as if that future was part of another person. She picked listlessly at a bit of ham on her platter. Looked unenthusiastically at an apple.

  I wonder what I’ll be having for breakfast once I’m Lady Keicester…

  She wondered whether her letter had reached Marcus yet. If the messenger had ridden hard, he should have passed his missive over to the Laird’s son at some time last night. Though she had expressed how urgent her note was, there was no guarantee that the errand rider would have pushed his mount to its limit.

  Compose yourself. You shall not hear from him today. Best you think on what is to be done if you do not hear from him.

  But what was there to be done? As a woman, as a daughter, she had no power. A Viscount had made a proposal of marriage to her father, and the Earl had accepted. As far as Delilah could see, that was the end of the matter.

  The only faint gleam of hope, in an otherwise gray and uncertain future, was how Marcus would react to the news of her betrothal. Would he come and state his case? Would he try and fight for her hand? A romantic thought, certainly, but even if he arrived and pleaded with her father, what were the chances of her father giving in?

  On the one hand, he has a Viscount of renowned wealth and business acumen, on the other the son of a Laird—already himself betrothed—who heads a rugged Highland clan. Which one presents the safer bet when it comes to a potential son-in-law?

  Delilah spent the rest of the morning drifting about the estate in a sort of preoccupied daze. Whilst she was gathering blooms in the flower garden with her mother, her father appeared at her elbow.

  “Delilah,” the Earl said in greeting, “regarding the news that I broke to you yesterday—of Viscount Keicester’s proposal?”

  Lady Glimouth gave a short bark of laughter. “I’m sure she recalls the moment well enough, Henry,” she said, happily. “It’s not every day that a young woman finds herself betrothed to a Viscount!”

  “Quite right, quite right,” her father said. “Well, in regard to that, I have a surprise for you.”

  Another one.

  “My goodness, Father, my life seems comprised of nothing but surprises at the moment!” Delilah replied, trying to keep the dread she felt from coloring her face or speech.

  “Yes, you are a very lucky young woman,” her mother said, bestowing on Delilah one of her very rare, beaming smiles.

  “What is it, Father?” Delilah asked.

  The Earl smiled and said, in the tone of one telling another of a great treat in store, that the Viscount intended to come and visit the Glimouth estate.

  The breath seemed to have been sucked from Delilah’s lungs.

  “When?” she managed.

  “He arrives tomorrow morning. He writes to inform us that he hopes to make a stay of at least two days. More than enough time for the two of you to be acquainted.”

  “Tomorrow!” Lady Glimouth shrilled. “But, Henry, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I received the letter only a few moments ago, dear,” the Earl attempted to tell his wife.

  Lady Glimouth grabbed her daughter by the arm and started to tow her towards the house. She was suddenly all breathless bustle. She twittered away about new gowns and potential ways in which Delilah might want to wear her hair, the scents Delilah might want to try, and the jewelry she would let her borrow.

  “Mother, I—”

  But Lady Glimouth was not listening. She was calling for the maids as she steered her daughter towards the house.

  “We must make sure that you’re as pretty and presentable as possible for Lord Keicester’s arrival.”

  “I thought Father had already agreed to the match,” Delilah said.

  “Yes, but there’s no harm in fortifying your position, my dear,” her mother said patiently. “A man as eligible as the Viscount will no doubt have suitors flocking about him like sparrows around the seed bowl—not to mention every nobleman with a daughter of marrying age.”

  Truly, you manage to conjure some remarkably romantic imagery, Mother.

  Delilah stood in one of her finest gowns—a luxurious emerald green gown that emphasized her golden hai
r and sapphire eyes—and watched as Viscount Keicester’s carriage crunched to a halt in front of Glimouth Manor.

  “Clearly,” her mother said quietly, “the rumors of his lordship’s wealth have not been overstated.”

  The carriage was an extravagant confection of carved and gilded wood. Gold leaf gleamed from exquisitely engraved inlays, and when the door opened, Delilah saw that the interior was almost as well-appointed as the Glimouth’s drawing room.

  Viscount Keicester, when he stepped from the confines of the carriage, was no less ostentatiously outfitted. He reminded Delilah of some sort of silken peacock. Once, not too long ago, she might have found such a display of wealth impressive, but that had been before she’d met Marcus.

  Now, Delilah found everything about the young Viscount just a bit gaudy, a symptom of a man that was, perhaps, not as confident as he would like to appear to the world.

  Underneath all the finery, Viscount Keicester was a fairly ordinary looking man—neither ugly nor excessively handsome. He was cleanly shaved except for a pair of neat moustaches and a thin beard running down the center of his chin. His face was quite unreadable, a carefully blank canvas, and set into his face were eyes the pale greenish-blue of blackbird eggs.

  The Earl of Glimouth descended the steps that led to the front door of the manor to greet their honored guest.

  “Lord Keicester,” the Earl said, “it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance in person.”

  “Likewise, Lord Glimouth,” the man replied in—to Delilah’s ears at least—an overly unctuous and oily voice. “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.”

  “Think nothing of it, My Lord.”

  Those pale eyes flicked up over the Earl’s shoulder and the Viscount smiled. It was a smile that was all teeth, and did not reach his eyes. Something inside Delilah shivered as she exchanged a fleeting glance with the young man, rather as if she had been swimming and felt something cold and slimy brush past her feet.