Disciplined by the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Kendall, Lydia

  “Raibert!” Charles said, pasting a false smile on his face as he walked toward the Scottish Laird of Elairon. Raibert had just waved him over to the section of the room where Charles knew Victor kept all his volumes of Shakespeare and Milton. It was his friend’s favorite part of the room, one he could often be found hiding in with a hefty tome in one hand and a large glass of scotch in the other.

  Charles missed his friend already. He felt Victor’s absence with every step he took. Life seemed so strange without his best friend and business partner by his side.

  “A good afternoon to ye, Charles, on this saddest of occasions. I hope ye’ll take me and me boy’s sincerest apologies for Victor’s loss to heart. A good man, he was. A good man indeed.”

  Charles nodded, accepting the compliment. “Thank you, Raibert. That is most appreciated. And thank you for travelling all this way. I imagine it was something of an imposition.”

  Raibert waved the comment away, nearly hitting his son Lachlan on the nose in the process. “Nae at all, nae at all. A bit o’ time on the horse is good for the soul, isn’t it no’? Besides, this is me Lachlan’s first time south of the border. Needs to see where his lass hails from, does he no’?”

  Charles looked to Lachlan, who was sneering at his father. “Lachlan, I do not believe we have been introduced. I am Charles Braiser, Victor’s business partner and Ellen’s guardian. I’m pleased to meet you, despite the circumstances. Victor told me many good things about you,” Charles fibbed, holding his hand out to the man in front of him.

  Lachlan looked at Charles for a moment with a mixture of boredom and disdain, before limply shaking Charles’s hand for barely more than a second.

  Rude git, Charles thought to himself. He might have only met the lad a few moments earlier, but he could already tell he was not the fellow he would have chosen to saddle Ellen with for all eternity. Not by a long shot.

  “Pleasure’s all mine, sir,” Lachlan said in a tone that Charles could clearly tell was laced with condescension. Again, insults flooded his mind, and again he kept them to himself like the diplomatic businessman he was. The man Victor had taught him to be.

  “Now, onto business, Charles. We need to discuss in greater detail this pact between me family and yer Victor’s,” Raibert said, steering Charles’ gaze back to him. Charles found it something of a relief; Raibert was constantly smiling and his jovial grin that made it impossible not to feel at ease in his presence. Charles wondered just what had gone wrong with Lachlan; he was so different from his father, a dark cloudy day in comparison to Raibert’s piercing summer sunshine.

  “Indeed. Might I invite you to Victor’s study, where we can discuss the matter in privacy? I have a bottle of good Scotch to add to the bargain,” Charles said, desperate for a drink.

  “Aye, what Scot could say no to that!” Raibert said, his boisterous laugh causing a few heads to turn their way. Charles led a still giggling Raibert and a sour-looking Lachlan down the hall and into Victor’s study, trying to ignore the way the space still smelled of dry ink and pipe tobacco—two smells Charles would forever associated with his best friend. Charles could only hope the smells would never fade. They would provide him some solace in the lonely years to come.

  Oh Victor, how I wish you were here, my old friend, Charles thought as he took a deep inhale of the scent as he left the study, and even in his head, his voice wavered with pain.

  Chapter 3

  “Now, as I’m sure you understand, I’m hesitant to let Ellen go so far away so soon. She’s the only member of the Holton family left, and I find myself loathe to let her out of my sight, let alone out of the country. And as she is similarly reticent, as I’m sure you can naturally understand, I propose a compromise of sorts—one that of course allows the wedding to go forth, but also gives Ellen some time to…adapt,” Charles said to the two Scotsmen in front of him.

  Raibert nodded and gestured for Charles to continue, but when Charles looked to Lachlan, he found him wearing the same expression of disinterest that had graced his handsome face from the moment they had entered the study a half hour ago.

  This face was, in fact, why Charles was about to suggest that Ellen go to the castle before the marriage officially took place, to “acclimate herself to the Scottish land and culture.” Of course, this was really complete bollocks. Ellen didn’t need any introduction to Scotland, not with how widely she read and how much she already knew of the country from her father’s stories of it.

  After all, he and Charles had journeyed there countless times over the years to do business with one clan or another, proving to many a Scotsman that not all Sassenachs were complete beef heads. Victor had come back each time regaling first the entire family and then, after the tragedy, just Ellen, about all the things they saw and people they met.

  No, Charles was suggesting this because he did not wholly trust Lachlan to take good enough care of his ward, and Charles wanted to make sure that Ellen was truly comfortable in the man’s presence before she tied herself to him forever.

  Though he rued that the wedding had to take place at all, Victor’s wishes were set in stone, and the least Charles could do was give Victor’s daughter—whom Charles thought of like his own child—some time to acclimate to her fate. God willing, Lachlan’s taciturn nature and constant grimace were mere shields underneath which lurked a warm, loving man deserving of Ellen’s love.

  A man can only hope.

  “I think it perfectly acceptable, Charles. Life has thrown much at the lass as o’ late, and ye’d be right in thinkin’ she’ll need time ter get used to our way of life. Is that nae right, me son?” Raibert said, turning to look at Lachlan, who had been intently cleaning his fingernails with his dirk.

  He raised his head only a fraction and, in answer to his father’s question, simply said, “Indeed.”

  Raibert laughed and clapped him on the back affectionately. “Ye’ll hae to excuse me son, Charles. He’s never been one for chit-chat. Gets straight to the point, he does. Mayhap yer Ellen can teach him to change his taciturn ways.”

  Charles nodded and smiled, secretly appalled by the idea that it should be Ellen’s job to teach a supposedly mature, grown man how to interact in polite society. However, years of business with similarly distasteful personages had taught Charles how to hide his feelings. Therefore, the smile he gave to Lachlan and Raibert betrayed none of the emotions rolling through his gut, a heady mixture of anxiety, fear, and the ever-present grief he knew he would carry with him for the rest of his days. Grief he would feel every morning he woke knowing Victor would not be there to sup with him and discuss the day’s business.

  “Will that be all, Charles?” Raibert asked, and Charles nodded, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day begin to weigh down on him. With any luck, most of the funeral attendees would have left already, and Charles could retire to the sitting room with the rest of the bottle of Scotch that he and the Golgow men had been sipping. If there was ever a day for more than a few stiff drinks, it was the day he buried his best friend six feet under the freshly-turned Hertfordshire earth.

  “Yes, Laird Elairon, that will be all. I can walk you to the hall and convey you back to your lodgings in one of my carriages, if you like,” Charles said, standing up and feeling the tightness in his back radiating down his legs and all the way to his toes. Perhaps a hot bath was in order as well.

  “Nay, sir, we’ll nae trouble ye with our transport. Just see to it that yer lass is extended our best wishes, and we’ll ready the castle for her arrival. And do call me Raibert. We’ll be family soon, ye ken,” Raibert said, leaning across the desk to shake Charles’ hand. Charles returned to the firm shake and then turned to Lachlan, who again gave Charles a handshake that resembled nothing so much as a wet, flopping fish, accompanied by the barest of grins.

  “Thank ye, sir,” Lachlan said, looking Charles in the eye for the first time that day. There was something in his glare that unsettled Charles, but before he could put his finger on
it, the men were gone, walking out of Victor’s office and down the hall. Charles capped the bottle of Scotch next to him and then followed suit, walking in the opposite direction toward his rooms leaving, glass bottle in one hand, the other running through his hair, trying to work out the tension in his scalp.

  “Mr. Braiser!” the housekeeper, a stout Yorkshire woman named Mrs. Willow said, stopped Charles on his way up the stairs. “The guests have gone, and the girls are in the process of cleaning up. I’ve sent the footmen with the tub and hot water to your rooms, and a bath should be ready in the next quarter of an hour. I’ve also sent up some currant cakes fresh from Cook as well as a pot of tea for you to enjoy, as I’ve been told you’ve not had a thing to eat all morning. A silly thing to do if ever I heard it! Not eating with all this commotion! You’ll drive yourself to your sickbed, if you don’t mind my saying, sir,” she said, glaring at Charles with affection.

  At that particular moment, Charles could have kissed her ruddy cheeks in gratitude, but, being the high-born merchant that he was, he simply bowed and thanked her, before trudging up the stairs, where rest, relaxation and, of course, contemplation awaited. A man in his position, the sole owner of a business—at least, until Ellen married and took up her half—and now alone in the world, he had much to contemplate amidst the steam and soap in the large metal tub. Tonight, Charles would need to contemplate just what it was about Lachlan Golgow that made him wonder if the man wasn’t quite what he seemed.

  Chapter 4

  “So how long shall I be there before the marriage takes place?” Ellen asked Charles the next morning over breakfast. She had only just sat down when he burst into excited conversation, telling her all he and Raibert had discussed the day before. Despite waking well before dawn, as she had taken to doing in her grief-addled state, she was barely alert and hardly able to decipher all the words flying out of her guardian’s mouth at an expedient rate.

  “A few weeks. Raibert wasn’t particular about the exact number, but I expect they’ll want to arrange the marriage ceremony within the month. Plenty of time for you to get to know Lachlan and his castle, no?” Charles said, with an exaggerated cheerfulness that Ellen knew was for her benefit. She appreciated that he was trying to make this easier for her, but found she couldn’t take any of this in stride.

  There was nothing cheerful about having her fate chosen without her input or consent. No matter how much she loved and missed her father, she would never quite forgive him for forcing her on a family and a people she did not know. Nor would she forgive him for sending her so far away from home, Hertfordshire. She fondly thought of Rosewood House, the dining room in which she was now sitting in, trying her best not to weep with a combination of exhaustion and emotional fatigue.

  “Hm,” Ellen replied, spreading jam on the bit of bread on her plate. Her appetite had fallen with her spirits, and every day her dresses grew looser and looser around her frame.

  Just that morning, her maid Marie had been outraged to discover that no matter how tight she tied the strings of Ellen’s stays, she didn’t flinch. There was no pain, no discomfort, no matter how much Marie pulled and pulled. It appeared that Ellen had shrunk enough that even her corset was comfortable, a truly sad state of affairs, according to Marie, who told her that she had lost “all your supple softness, mademoiselle. All the lovely round cherubic softness that made you so beautiful!”

  But though she knew she needed to eat, needed to put the flesh back on her bones, especially if she was to travel to Scotland to meet her future husband, Ellen couldn’t make herself consume anything more than bread and broth. Everything else sat in her gut like a brick, making her uncomfortable.

  Noticing her sparse plate, Charles leaned over and placed his hand over where Ellen’s was resting on the side of her plate, preparing to pick up her teacup. “My dear, you look so somber. The pink has gone out of your cheeks, the light out of your eyes. What can I do to make you happy again? To make you smile and eat and laugh again?” He sounded exactly like Marie, only more caring and less French.

  Ellen shrugged, already feeling the tears begin to fill her eyes. It happened with alarming frequency these days, and could be triggered by anything from a sad poem to a wilted flower sitting in a vase. Death had made her sensitive, she supposed.

  “Unless you’re able to bring Papa back, or somehow dissolve this union with the Golgows, then I’m afraid there is nothing you can do, Uncle Charles,” she said, discreetly wiping away her tears with the edge of the handkerchief she had begun keeping in her sleeve for just such emotional occasions.

  “There is nothing anyone can do,” she added privately to herself.

  Charles sighed and withdrew his hand, putting it under his chin. “I wish I could, my dear, but the fact of the matter is that there is nothing you or I can do to change your father’s will. It is a binding legal document and unfortunately, not able to be altered by the likes of us. We simply must obey it.”

  Ellen nodded, not bothering to look up from her plate as her tears continued to fall and plop against the porcelain surface and the toast crumbs scattered around it.

  “Take solace in the fact that the wedding has been postponed; you will not be immediately thrust into married life. You can take some time to get to know Lachlan and his family. Perhaps, in time, you might even come to like Scotland.”

  At that, Ellen looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief as she scoffed. “Like Scotland! Oh, Uncle Charles, you have gone mad! How could I ever prefer it when England has been such a beautiful home to me?”

  “I just mean that perhaps before you write it off as a land of brutes and battles, give the place a chance. It might surprise you.”

  Ellen shook her head and smiled sadly at her guardian. “If only I had your optimism.”

  “It is not optimism, my dear, but rather an acceptance that we must learn to endure that which we cannot change, one way or another. I have often found it much easier to endure situations once I see their positives.”

  “Well then, I will try. For you,” Ellen said. When the words came to her mind, they had rung hollow, but she spoke them, she realized that perhaps they contained some wisdom. If she was not willing to give Scotland a chance for herself, perhaps she could do so for her guardian—the man who had been like a second father to her all her life. Charles did not deserve to spend the rest of his life worrying about her welfare. He had so many other things to concern himself with; it would be selfish of Ellen to continue to complain, when he had done his best to assure if not her happiness, then at least her comfort.

  “Thank you, Ellen. I have a feeling the trip will be good for you. After all, Scotland is supposed to be lovely this time of year,” Charles said, giving Ellen a genuine smile as he rang for another pot of tea.

  * * *

  “What I wouldnae do for a bit o’ sunshine, Malcolm,” Alexander Golgow said to his best friend Malcolm MacCailein as they looked down at the landscape from the shelter of the Castle Elairon keep. It had been raining for eight days straight, a long stretch even by Scottish springtime standards, and Alexander was sick of it.

  It was not the cold or the damp that got to him; no, it was knowing he could not ride, could not explore the fields and hills thanks to the rain pelting down so hard he could barely see. Exploring the grounds would be far too dangerous on foot, let alone on horseback, and so Alexander was relegated to the indoors, where the available activities capable of keeping his attention were few and far between.

  “Perhaps the lass will brin’ it with her,” Malcom said with a smirk.

  “What lass?” Alexander asked, turning to look at his friend head on. Malcolm’s bright red hair was tied back in a plait with a bit of leather, giving Alexander an unobstructed view of his friend’s easy grin and mischievous brow. There was rarely a time, in fact, when Malcolm was not grinning and looking deviant, which amply made up for Alexander’s natural seriousness. Though they were opposite in temperament, their friendship had lasted so long it no lo
nger mattered.

  “Ye remember. Yer brother’s betrothed is journeyin’ from England even as we speak. Supposed to be here the day after tomorrow, and she brings with her a guardian and what I can only assume will be trunks filled with gowns fit for a proper English wife. Doubt they’ll hold up to the Scottish climate though. She’ll be needin’ wool dresses and cloaks to wrap her up her cold, calculatin’ Sassenach heart,” Malcolm said, guffawing.

  Alexander wracked his brain, trying to remember his most recent conversations with his brother. Lachlan was not the most loquacious man at the best of times, but he’d been particularly silent lately. Alexander had chalked it up to him brooding about one thing or another—he was emotional and quick to anger, slow to forgive—but perhaps what he had been thinking on was not a simple disagreement with someone, but his new betrothed. Lachlan was to have a wife.

  Alexander couldn’t quite believe it. His brother had never seemed the marrying type, if Alexander was being honest with himself—but then, Lachlan was the older of the two of them. At thirty summers, it was time he settled down with a wife and gave her some bairns. It was his duty as the future Laird, after all. Still, Alexander was surprised no one had informed him.

  “It must hae slipped me mind. I’ve been busy of late, ye ken,” Alexander said, shrugging off thoughts of Lachlan and returning his focus to the landscape. The effervescent green of the castle’s lands never failed to calm him in times of trouble and woe.

  “Aye, busy kissin’ lasses in the barns and behind the kitchen where ye think none of us can see ye. Maybe ye need a wife yerself, Alexander. If yer not careful, ye’ll get a lass with child one of these days, and then yer trouble shall really start,” Malcolm said, elbowing Alexander in jest.