The Highlander's Captured Bride (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Eloise Madigan

  “Ah, Callum,” she nodded before her face fell, “Is it true…Ethan? Is me son dead? I woke up kenning it was a dream. It all feels so hazed. Did I dream it or…”

  He sucked in a breath. “Sadly, Maither, it is true.”

  Lady Annabelle’s hand flew to her mouth and the grief made her already pale face turn yellow and garish. He reached out and wrapped an arm around her thin shoulder and held her on his chest while she began to sob. He pressed his cheek into the side of her head and felt her grief compound his. Her sorrow had to be doubled his as she had birthed Finley, nursed him, cared for him, and raised him.

  “I ken, Maither, I ken. I’m in anguish as well.”

  He stayed put, rocking her slightly as one would do to an upset child. Ethan was sure that his father had not told her Finley had been murdered because of her delicate state. “Do ye want me to stay with ye today, Maither? It’s the day of his burial.”

  “I think…” her breath hitched. “I need to lie down.”

  Kissing her forehead, he asked, “Is there anything I can send ye this mornin’?”

  “Nay, I’ve eaten and I’m nay ready for anything more,” she said.

  “I understand, Maither.” He embraced her before he helped her from the chair over to her bed. Resting a soft blanket over her, he grasped her hand and grimaced at the soft trembles he felt. Her eyes were fluttering, too, and her breath was sharp and staccato, both showing her distress.

  He could not think of what she was feeling. Her son that she had loved for twenty-nine years was gone. He waited until her breathing evened out and she was asleep. Leaving the room, he closed the door quietly, and took the corridor down the stairwell to the great hall. Hunger was absent from him, but he knew he had to eat something to sustain him through the hours to come.

  The hall was mostly empty as a large portion of his clan had a unique custom to fast on the day of burials. They only broke at the twilight feast after the body was laid to rest. He passed through the hall and stepped into the kitchen, and instantly, his gaze dropped on Violet, who had a cup to her face and an empty trencher before her.

  She looked up and her lips curled into a small smile. “Good mornin’.”

  Taking a seat, he braced his elbows on the table. His emotions were still heavy on his chest, but he did not let them out. “Mornin’. How was yer rest?”

  “Fair,” she said calmly. “But I havenae seen me faither this morning. I dinnae expect him to do any work today on this case, but I have a funny feeling that he is trying to keep me away from this case, but I dinnae ken why.”

  “I might have the reason,” Ethan said. “Faither just told me that yer faither says ye get a little carried away with cases at times. He said ye once dressed as a lad to find a thief and as a stable boy to catch a man who was mistreating his master’s horses.”

  Shaking her head softly, she laughed. “Funny enough, if I hadnae posed as a lad those times, the cases wouldnae have been solved. I used me body to me advantage, and with the right shirt, posing as a lad was easy.” She dipped her head and looked at her chest, “I dinnea have a very visible…er… bosom.”

  He forced his eyes to stay on her face. “Were ye in any danger then?”

  “I’m always in danger,” Violet said. “But I carry a dagger with me at all times, and I can run pretty fast.”

  “A dagger… eh.” He leaned back and gestured for a servant to come over and requested some warm drink and food. “Have ye ever used it?”

  Her eyes glimmered with slyness as she reached down to her feet, flicking the tail of her dress and plucked a sharp dirk from her boot. It was a simple dagger with a leather-wrapped handle, and when she pulled it from its sheath, a very sharp blade. She laid it on the table, “I never go anywhere without Shadow.”

  It took him a moment to understand what she meant, then grinned uncontrollably, “Ye use it that so quickly, that it turns into a shadow?”

  “Aye,” she smiled. “I’ve run into men twice me size. It’s a good thing to have a deterrent in hand.”

  The servant Ethan had requested food from came over and set the trencher and cup before him. He drank first. “I would like to see that one day but today…” he grimaced, “…is the burial. I won’t be there all day, but I will carry the casket to the burial ground. May we meet after?”

  “I’d love that,” she said and reached over to rest her hand on his arm. “Say goodbye to yer brother and take all the time ye need.”

  He spun his hand over and clasped her hand tightly. Her look was deeply touching. “Thank ye. The ceremony will be at three o’clock today. Ye’ll hear the bell toll from the village, and if ye find a balcony to the back of the castle, ye’ll see the procession to the burial ground.”

  “I’ll be on the lookout,” she smiled, and again, the feeling to cover her lips with his battered his mind but he pulled away.

  “Thank ye—,” A thasgaidh. He bit back the endearing term before it could escape his throat. He had almost uttered the words meaning “me dear” to a woman he barely knew. Dipping his head, he busied himself with eating. Trying hard to not think of her or breathe in the soft freesia scent coming from her skin—but failing.

  5

  Perched on the back porch that Ethan had told her to find, Violet looked keenly down at the village in the distance. She felt the cold leather of the sheath against her ankle and smiled. Ethan’s face, when she had pulled that dagger from her boot, was priceless and was painted on her memory.

  Her attention sharpened at the sound of a melancholy toll from the church’s bell, and she stood on the tips of her toes to see over to the street far off. She soon spotted men coming up the lane, a man holding a bell in his hand and behind him, eight men holding a wooden coffin, two of them Ethan and his father. Both were in dark shirts and thick plaids of the family tartan.

  Villagers, she assumed, formed somber lines behind them, and she thought she heard a hymn being sung but was not sure which it was as the wind stole the notes. A thick coverage of trees hid them from her until they passed by it and emerged into the burial ground. She sat back on the seat and watched while footsteps had her looking over her shoulder. Her father was there, his clothes dark and his face solemn.

  He stood with his hands clasped behind him as he looked on. “It’s a troubling situation, Violet. The clues to finding who killed Mister MacFerson are few and very far between. I dinnae ken if there is much we can do here.”

  No!

  Violet was on her feet. “Faither, no, please, we cannae leave them now. Nae at this juncture. Surely there is some other stratagem we can use to uncover what happened. Have ye spoken to the healers, and asked how Mister MacFerson had gotten the sleeping drought?”

  “In deference to the funeral and this day of grief, I have decided to put the search off, but the trail is already thin, and with time slipping away, it might go completely cold,” he added. “I would like to speak to the healers and such and see if they ken anything about it. But that raises another question: as far as I’ve heard, Finley was loved by all around him, so why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “Ethan, er, Mister MacFerson,” she swallowed nervously, “told me the same. In his words, he implied that his brother had a very good connection with all those around him. He even soothed-talked a neighboring clan to stop fighting with them and become their ally.”

  Her father canted his head to her, “Ye’ve learned that much already?”

  “He’s…easy to talk with,” she explained, trying to stop her embarrassment from warming her cheeks. “He does love his brother, Faither, it’s plain in his voice when he speaks of him, and so is his pain.”

  They paused as the wind blew sounds from the burial over to them. It was broken, but she heard the words of the priest reciting a burial rite over the coffin. The sadness of the tone had her heart sinking within her, for those who were suffering from the loss. While she was looking at the procession, her fingers were crossed with the deep wish that her father wou
ld let them stay for a little while.

  “…Are ye sure ye’ll be all right staying here for a few more days?” her father asked while reaching into his jacket and pulling out his spectacles, a set he rarely wore but used when looking at far places. He perched the spectacles on his nose and squinted at the dark line of people climbing the hill.

  “I am.” She hid her smile. “Faither, did ye find anything in Master MacFerson’s room?

  “Sadly,” his voice dropped in regret. “There was nothin’. Nay sign as who might want to or have the chance to kill him.”

  “I’m sure yer kenning the same thing I am. The woman who lured Master MacFerson out is our only lead now,” she mused. Violet felt her father’s eyes on her, but paid him no mind. Various plans to fetter out the woman were running through her thoughts. Moreover, she felt that her father was trying to keep her away from the investigation. She had a few assumptions to go with that belief.

  Most of the cases they took on did not have the deep mystery of Master MacFerson’s death. Some were much simpler, but when she reflected on those cases, she had to correct herself. They seemed simpler but, in those instances, the culprit was always closer to the situation than they had believed.

  The death of the MacFerson heir was planned, thought out fully and perfectly timed. They were looking for a crafty mastermind who knew Master MacFerson’s movements and could time him. Sadly, that included the whole castle, servants and soldiers and the village beyond.

  “It is for now,” her father determined then gave her a hard look. “Violet, I ken ye, missy. Yer help at the beginning was invaluable, but this is a whole different situation. We dinnae have the help, contacts, or resources we’d otherwise have back home or in the cities. Ye need to sit away from this one and let me handle it.”

  He made sense— Violet knew he made sense, but she refused to stand idly by knowing she could help. However, she could not disclose her intentions to her father, but she could risk asking Ethan to help her since they were being set apart anyway. She wanted to take the risk of trusting Ethan and then have him trust her.

  “Of course, Faither.” She then sighed heavily. “I’d rather nay have to stay away, but if ye ken it’s best…” she shrugged.

  They spotted the casket being lowered into the grave and the men grabbing wooden shovels and filling in the hole. Both stood in solemn solidarity with the men below, and Violet felt her heart clench when Ethan, his golden hair a beacon amid darker ones, stopped to press his arm over his eyes.

  He’s crying…

  She came closer to the balustrade and fixed her eyes on him, seeing the grief marring his face but hoping it would not cripple him so he could honor his brother. He quickly pulled his arm away and began shoveling, but as soon as the grave was filled in, he turned away and disappeared in the forest line to the side.

  Knowing the pain that came with losing a loved one, she ached to find and somehow comfort him, but she also knew from experience with her mother, this was the time when one had to be alone. Retreating to her seat, she folded her hands on her lap and gazed out into the direction he had gone.

  Will ye let me help ye, Ethan?

  The funeral cluster had begun to break apart, and the priest had stepped away from the grave. He went to speak with Laird MacFerson while Ethan was still away. A trill of bagpipes had her head swiveling over her shoulder, but she was not able to see the courtyard where the feast was going to happen.

  “I’ll be in the courtyard asking questions,” her father announced. “Are ye coming, or staying in the main hall?”

  “I…” she paused. “I’ll be along shortly, Faither, I just need a moment.” Her eyes were latched on the forest line where Ethan had disappeared, but still had not come out.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

  The closing of the door behind him allowed all her attention to stray to Ethan. Was his grief that heavy that it took him away for so long? She stayed, watching, while her fingers twisted in her lap. The sun was dipping to the horizon and turning a deep ochre when Ethan finally stumbled out into the land below. He looked haggard as he walked in a direction that probably took him to the stables where they had left their horses the first day they had arrived.

  Knowing the direction, Violet left the rooms and hurried towards the building. She got there in time to see him saddling a dark brown horse with a thick black mane. His shoulders were stiffer than warranted and his posture was ramrod straight.

  He did not look inviting, but she tried anyway. “May I join ye?”

  Ethan looked over his shoulder, and she held back her grimace at the pale red lingering in his eyes and the sight of tear marks on his flushed face.

  “Are ye sure?” he asked, turning back to the horse, hiding his face from her. But his hollow tone told her what his eyes had hinted to—that he was still sunk in grief. “Wouldnae ye want to be at the feast with all the others?”

  Edging closer to him she shook her head, “Nay, I’m nae hungry and I’d—” she dared herself, “— rather be with ye. I ken how it is, Ethan. How yer chest feels hollow, and that nothin’ can fill it back up.”

  He paused then, his body seeming to fold in on itself. He slumped on the horse and his hand was white-knuckled as he gripped the saddle’s pommel. She rested a hand on his shoulder and felt his body trembling under it. She canted her head to the side and saw his face was in a rigor of pain, and silent tears were slipping down his cheeks.

  Swallowing over her sadness for him, Violet felt her eyes bead as well. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I ken it hurts now, and it will hurt tomorrow and days to come but…” she soothed, “…the pain will dull one day and soon, ye’ll only look back and feel a fraction of it.”

  He pressed his face on the leather saddle and his shoulders were shaking ever more, but he managed to mutter, “Feels like it will n-never end.”

  “I ken,” she whispered.

  With nothing more to offer, she could only stand by his side while he pulled himself together and wiped his eyes. He stared at the horse, not looking at her while asking, “Would ye still like to ride with me?” He finally turned to her and offered, “I can saddle one for ye.”

  “I’d like that,” Violet smiled. “Thank ye.”

  Reaching up, her palm cupped his cheek and her thumb swiped under his eye. She felt his breath shudder over her skin, “It’ll get better one day, I promise.”

  Inches away from her, his eyes glimmered and she believed she saw a spark of—dare she call it interest?—in the deep verdant orbs. But she also saw sorrow and her heart constricted. Ethan twisted his head and kissed her palm instead, and his smile was thin. “Thank ye.”

  Pulling away, she hid her hand behind her back while he went to saddle a mare. The touch of his lips burned into her palm, like a brand used to mark cattle. She was tempted to take her hand away and look at it to make sure there were no red marks seared into her skin, but didn’t.

  When Ethan took both horses outside, she followed him, and he placed the mounting block before her to use. She refrained from telling him it wasn’t needed, but he had gone through all the trouble so she allowed him to help her up with it. While grasping the reins, she watched him adroitly lift himself on the pawing stallion and control him.

  “Follow me,” he said before starting his steed off with a walk.

  She followed, kneeing the horse in softly and following his lead. They took a path that arched over the castle, taking them on a soft hilly outcropping that gave her a wide view of the castle. She spotted old stone buildings that looked like outhouses skirting the far edges of the property where tiny gardens rested.

  Ethan was quiet and his face had a tone of sentimentality. He came to what looked like a dry well and reined in his horse. He gazed down at the old well and slid off his horse. Violet watched as he ripped some overgrowth away from the mouth of it and bent to root some more. By the look on his face, she could tell this was someplace special to him.

  “When I was ten, me brother foo
led me into kenning this was a wishing well.” Ethan’s smile was sad. “I kept dropping coins into it for months, wishing for things hither and yon, things that could happen but most that were nae.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  He shot a look to her, “Like the power to fly, to wrangle a bull with me bare hands, to swim in the loch at winter and nae freeze to a block of ice,” he shrugged. “I wished every day and started getting angrier and angrier that nothin’ I had wished for was coming through. That was when Finley took me aside and told me that it was a lesson. He told me that life is nay as easy as I kent it was. He told me that things dae nae come by wishing, but by working at it. He told me that ye can wish for things, but ye still have to work for them. Finley was three-and-ten, but I ken he had the wisdom of a man twice his age.”