Disciplined by the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Kendall, Lydia

  “I know,” he added, “I just don’t want to get it the way I feel it’s going to go.”

  Her smile was knowing, sympathetic, and a bit sorrowful. “I know.”

  Entering Northumberland, his tension stretched to the point his muscles went tight and when they came to the Marston’s gate his body went into full battle mode. Emma’s hand rested on his tense forearm and he looked at her swiftly. Her eyes were begging him to keep calm and though he did not know how that was possible, he pledged to keep as levelheaded as he could be.

  Uncle Henry alighted first, and then William second, Lady Katherine and Emma came last. Emma grasped William’s arm tightly as they came upon the large doors. After knocking and receiving no answer, William got irritated and reeled back and kicked the door in. Emma and Lady Katherine gasped but he shrugged.

  “Patience is nae one of me many virtues.”

  Walking in, with Henry at the front, William made sure to keep Emma behind him. The house looked…deserted. There was no sign of life inside it and William was getting more irritated that they had come so far to get nothing… that was until he heard the click of a pistol’s hammer to the left of them.

  “Do. Not. Move,” Thomas snarled and William froze.

  “Boy,” Uncle Henry said tightly, “Put that weapon down.”

  Marston’s eyes flickered to Lady Katherine, and he sneered, “He did not put you in the nunnery, did he?”

  “No, he did not.” Lady Katherine said, “And I know why you and the dratted Mrs. Briddle tried to dull me with laudanum. You killed your own father, Thomas.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” Thomas said. “You, dear mother, have no inkling of what you are talking about. Your nerves gave out after father died which was because the MacNairs killed him!”

  “We did not,” William spat. “And we have proof. Yer Frenchman told us the truth how ye planned this from October last year to kill him.”

  “And how do you know that?” Thomas jeered.

  “He wrote it with his own hand in a letter he sent to us,” Emma spoke. “Admit it, Thomas, you killed Father, you drugged Mother to sickness, and you tried to sell me off to cover your tracks. Where is Mrs. Briddle…did you kill her, too?’

  “I sent that old hag away with not a shilling to her name,” Thomas sneered as he came in full view. In one hand he had his pistol but in the other, down by his side, was a sword, shining brightly as the light glittered off the wicked length of steel. “She was past her usefulness. In fact, every single one of these peasants who served us was sent away as I am heading out to the colonies soon.”

  “Thomas, put the weapons down so we can talk,” Lady Katherine implored. “I know you blame me. I blame me for not standing up for you when you were a child. I am sorry Peter beat you to sickness and I am so sorry that I was naïve enough to think it was discipline instead of what was, abusive ill-treatment. I am sorry, Thomas, but this is not the way to do it.”

  “You’re sorry?” Thomas’ voice was laced with incredulity. “You’re sorry? Oh, that makes it all better now, Mother! Being sorry makes those nights I went to bed hungry much better. Being sorry makes those beatings I suffered—beatings where I bled—nothing but a dream. His sneers, jeers, his mockery and my degradation is miraculously going to be fixed by you being sorry, right? You sicken me, Mother, and I would not have cried a tear if you died.”

  “Thomas!” Emma’s astonishment was mirrored by her mother and her uncle but not so much by William.

  “And you,” Thomas spat. “You little spoiled chit. You got all the attention when you deserved none! You did not suffer an hour, much less three days at a time. You were not scoffed at, belittled, or punished. You do not deserve a thing you got because you did not work for it. You should be off to France now if you had a speck of honor for your family!”

  “So, you admit it!” Emma cried.

  “I admit nothing,” Thomas snarled.

  “Enough,” Uncle Henry snapped and lurched forward to Thomas and knocked the pistol out of his hand. He reached for the sword but was shoved off and flung to the ground.

  William leaped in and he and Thomas went down on the floor. Thomas’ light brown eyes were lit with a manic light. He struggled and landed a few blows on William’s eyes and temple. The Scot gave a good as he got—better even, and made Thomas howl but he managed to grab William and slam the back of his head on the floor. The sound of his head crashing on the solid wooden floor caused a horrified gasp to be ripped from Emma. Infuriated, William grabbed Thomas by his lapels and slammed him on the wall.

  “Did you kill yer father or not?” He snarled as blood trickled down his temple.

  “No,” Thomas said but his smirk clearly said he had.

  “You piece of filth,” William snarled thickly. “Ye will burn in hell fer what ye did.”

  Thomas spat in William’s face with a huge wad of bloody spittle and William stepped back to drop him and wipe his eye. Thomas did not wait but the moment he hit the floor, rushed over to Emma and Lady Katherine. William grabbed the sword and lurched. Thomas stopped a mere foot away from the two ladies with a hand reaching out and five inches of bloody steel protruding from his belly.

  Time froze with Emma and Lady Katherine cowering against each other and Thomas Marston impaled like a skewered pig. He jerked once or twice, a spasm contracting his hand, and then fell to his side. William knew the man was dead and slid the sword out. Thomas fell to his side with the wound now gushing blood from his back and stomach. William knelt and rolled him over to look at his dimming eyes and saw mania still imprinted on his irises. He used his hand to slide his eyes closed and then stood.

  Emma ran over to William and pressed her fingertips to the injuries he had sustained. His eye was tender, his temple was seeping blood, and the bump on the back of his head was the size of a pebble that would grow egg-sized now. Lines of dried blood had crusted along his jaw and throat while wet ones were still trickling down the side of his face.

  “Oh, William,” she grimaced.

  He wrapped one battered hand around her waist and dropped the sword, “It’s all over Emma…it is done.”

  Katherine ran to Thomas’ dead body. Memories of his birth filled her mind, his childhood, she saw the happy little boy running in the gardens carefree, and then crying under his father’s belt. She saw the young man who grew angrier and angrier, his heart cold as steel. She whimpered and Emma hugged her mother.

  “I dinnae want to end it this way but somehow I kent that this was what it would take.” William declared, feeling the pain of the two women.

  “You did nothing wrong, my son,” Henry said. “You did nothing I wouldn’t have done.”

  William looked at him quizzically, “My son?”

  “If you are going to marry Emma you are part of our family,” Henry said pointedly.

  Epilogue

  “Are you entirely sure about this, Mother?” Emma asked worriedly while the carpenter hammered in the last nail, sealing the door to the Marston’s country home shut.

  “I am,” Lady Katherine said resolutely while wrapping her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. “I can never live here again considering the horrors this house has given me,” she said, gazing at the large house that had spanned four generations of the Marston family.

  The slate roof was dull with years of weathering storms and the scorching sun. The multiple porticos and sash windows upstairs were already closed off and so were the large back and side doors, the last one was the front. She and her mother were standing under a large parasol as the carpenter finished up.

  “Henry offered to let me live with him and I will take it. I am a widow, he is a widower, we both need company, he needs a female presence in the house and we are family. It was a sensible decision,” Lady Katherine reasoned.

  A small wind fluttered the hems of their gowns and blew dead leaves over their shoes. “I am worried, Mother,” Emma said. “In a week or so, I won’t be here.”


  “No, you won’t,” Lady Katherine noted, “But for a good reason, Emma. I am very happy that you have found a man who loves you and cares for you. I would have wished Thomas could have done the same but… he chose another path.”

  A dark cloud of sorrow, much like the angry gray skies the day of Thomas’ funeral, formed over Emma. Her brother had not been a good person, yet, he had not had much control over it, either. The cruel mistreatment he had suffered under for years had warped him into a black, hateful, twisted shadow of a human being. But he was still her brother.

  “I know, Mother,” Emma said, as the carpenter walked over to them and bowed his capped head.

  “It is finished, My Ladies,” he tipped his hat. “All boarded up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Allen,” Lady Katherine said to him, even as her eyes were skimming over the old house that suddenly looked mournful and neglected. “My solicitor will contact you with the payment.”

  With his farewells and good wishes to them, Mr. Allen took his bag and walked off. Emma stood there, silently, watching and waiting for Lady Katherine to settle her worries. She eventually sighed and her anxiety changed to resignation. “Let us leave, Emma.”

  Uncle Henry’s coachman helped them into the carriage and they left the old house. Emma felt proud when her mother did not even look back to the Manor where she had lived for most of her life. Emma noted the stress and sorrow lines in her mother’s face and the gray springing up at her temples.

  “Mother,” Emma said, “Do you think you might…love again?”

  Lady Katherine’s eyebrows danced up, then she laughed. “This old maid? Emma, please?”

  “You are not old, Mother,” Emma scolded. “You have so much to offer…well, not children, but your intelligence, charm, and poise can attract a good man. I would hate to see you live alone for the rest of your life.”

  “How…about if I think about it,” Lady Katherine was humoring her and Emma knew it but she did hope that she would consider marrying again.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  The drive to Uncle Henry’s Manchester home was done quietly and peacefully. When they arrived at the townhome and they entered, they found Uncle Henry and William speaking in his study.

  “Uncle?” Emma asked curiously while looking between the two.

  Her uncle smiled at her as William stood. The Scotsman still looked a bit peculiar in English clothes but William in breeches and pressed shirts was growing on her. “Emma, yer Uncle an’ I were discussing our upcoming marriage. We got my proposition down in paper an’ I aim to commit to it all but I have ta’ go back to me Clan noo and stay an’ clear up the issue with yer Father. When me house is in order, I'll come fer ye.”

  Emma looked between her uncle and her intended and then back at William. “I understand.” she reached out and took his hands, strong, callused hands that had touched her tenderly and defended her with honor. She ran her hand over his rough palms and traced a deep line in it. The silence was quiet but peaceful as she pictured holding his hand in holy matrimony.

  “Be safe,” she said quietly. William brushed the back of his knuckles over her cheek. She knew he wanted to kiss her but they could not do so openly.

  “I’ll be back soon, Emma,” he smiled, said his goodbyes to her mother and her uncle, and walked off.

  * * *

  Clan MacNair

  The sight of his home, shrouded with mist from the lochs, gave him a sense of relief he had never felt. He had missed his Highland home those long days in the Galashiels cabin, on the run to Peebles, and then rushing to England to confront Marston.

  The horse’s canter had slowed to a walk through the village. William nodded to those early risers who dared to risk the pea soup fog. He took the winding road up to the MacNair bastion while preparing himself mentally for facing his father.

  He passed through the first unmanned gate — as it was peacetime — and then passed through the inner courtyard. When he got to the inner gate, manned by armed guards, he got the reaction he was expecting.

  “William!” the first guard, Roran hollered, probably loud enough to wake the whole castle. “Lord almighty, where have ye been?”

  He thought quickly, “All over tha’ place, Rory. All over tha’ place. I have to go speak to Da an’ by that time ye’ll all ken what happened.”

  “Alrighty,” Roran nodded, “Welcome home, Milord.”

  William swung his leg over the horse and nimbly jumped off. He grasped the reins and handed them over to a passing pageboy with instructions to give him water and food. He then entered the entrance hall and nodded curtly to any man or woman who passed him by.

  Down the corridor, he could hear knifes clinking on forks and chatter in the dining hall. At the doorway, he paused to take a breath then strode confidently into the room. As he expected, the whole room went silent. It was only broken by a cup slipping out of someone’s hand and clattering to the floor.

  Murdo stood as he came to the center of the table and his father’s jaw worked in surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, William saw Finley rise and hurry out of the room. He would deal with him later.

  “Excuse me, men,” Murdo said and then nodded, “William.”

  Swallowing his anxiety, William followed his father to the nearby library. Lines of explanations were on the tip of his tongue when he heard the door close behind him and turned. He never got a word out when his father hugged him tightly. Shocked at the reaction, William hugged him back.

  “Ye dinnae need to tell me where ye’ve been as I suspect ye were with the lass,” Murdo said and William nodded. “And that ye found out what happened to the Earl.”

  “I did,” William grimaced, “And its nae a happy story, Da.”

  Sitting opposite of his father, William told him the whole tale from following the Marstons back to England, to rescuing Emma from her brother, running to Galashiels, Peebles, meeting with Goraidh, and going back to England to confront the guilty Thomas Marston. His father listened patiently and when the tale was told, shook his head with a deep sigh. Until he could prove it, he kept his suspicion about Finley quiet as he knew his father would be distressed about such betrayal under his nose.

  “I never took tha’ boy to be so evil as to kill his own kin an’ to the rest to his own Maw and sister,” Murdo’s baritone was deep with regret. “Just like I never saw how Peter could be so cruel to his own son, too.”

  William braced his elbows on his thighs, “At least one guid thing came from it, Da, I love Emma an’ I will marry her.”

  “I ken,” Murdo nodded. “Nothing could be any more obvious. And I trust ye’ll be tha’ husband yer Maw trained ye to be.”

  “And more,” William said while standing. “Excuse me, Da, I need to talk with a few o’ me men. Go, have yer breakfast in peace an’ I’ll join ye as quick as I can.”

  Striding out of the room and past the dining hall, William went to the one place he knew he would find Finley, the training yard at the barracks. He spotted the tall figure under a thick-leaved tree. Finley had his back to him but William knew that the soldier had heard him approach.

  He stood a good ten feet away and demanded, “Did ye have a hand in Marston’s death?”

  Finley did not reply and William’s patience was running thin. “Answer me, Finley! Did ye plan with Marston to kill his father at me birthday feast?!”

  Spinning on his heel, Finley advanced on William with fire lit in his eyes. “Aye, I did, an’ ye ken why? Ye were all ready ta’ throw away oor culture an’ oor women for a Sassenach chit who kens nothing of our ways. Ye were aboot to water down the bloodline, William, the royal bloodline that comes from oor ancestors. Their blood runs in yer veins and ye were going to miss it with the piss poor stock of English women. Many a lass here would hae killed to get yer attention but no, ye must have the outsider.”

  “Did it even come to yer mind that I might love the lass?” William grated.

  “After one night?” Finley scoffed. “Stop ly
ing to yourself, William. Ye wanted nothing to do with her at first, either. So, aye, I made the distraction by dropping the plates to the floor so Marston could slip the poison in his Da’s drink. I kent that if he took himself an’ his worthless brood back to where he came from, ye would come to yer senses an’ marry one of oor women. But like the stubborn eejit you are, you ran after her an’ fell in love.”

  “Yer scorn is not needed, Finley,” William said heatedly, angered that his own clansman had conspired to commit such a heinous crime. If it cost me life, Finley is going to pay and pay dearly fer this. Betraying by the English is one thin’. Betrayed by your own is another!