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

by Eloise Madigan

  Waving the man off, Violet smiled. “What I’d give to see the things he has seen in his life.”

  “He’s been traveling for a while,” Ethan said, standing near her. “From me earliest memories, he’s been in and out of Scotland. Hardly going to the same place twice.”

  A shared calmness settled between them until she turned. “So…” she aimed her smile at him. “Ye were saying something about sweets?”

  * * *

  Holding the sack of black buns and plum cake as if it were the wealth of Solomon’s riches and gold, Violet was floating on a cloud riding unhurriedly back to the MacFerson’s castle in the growing evening. Ethan had taken her to the sweet shop, a rustic little cottage offering concoctions of cream, roasted nuts, and fruit coated in caramelized sugar.

  After tasting their, well, her fill, as Ethan was not fond of sweets— which she pledged to tease him about it whenever she could—they had spent some time back on the banks of the loch, trading stories of their childhood while she nibbled from her stash.

  They were in the backlands of the castle and checked at the stables only to see the newest filly on her legs and suckling from her mother. It was a delightful scene and Ethan pitched more hay into her trough before they headed off to the castle.

  Bumping her shoulder with his, she smiled. “Are ye sure yer going to allow me to eat all this by meself?”

  He eyed her slyly. “I dinnae ken; it’s too much of a sacrifice.”

  They entered the castle and were heading to the main stairs, when the horrendous sounds of a crash and a woman’s shout had them stop in their tracks. Ethan’s head jerked to a direction above. His face went pale and his hand grabbed at the banister. “That came from the infirmary, and something's wrong.”

  With him hurrying up the stairs, Violet was a step behind, thankful that he had not barred her from coming with him. She had never been to that part of the castle, and she was fearful that perhaps her father was inside. Ethan shouldered the door and held it open for her without a word.

  She, however, had to step aside and find herself space in a corner with the crush of people inside the room. It was pell-mell inside and healers were running, shouting and talking over each other.

  Violet spotted her father over the side of the room, squirmed and shouldered herself through the press to his side. He spotted her and his face went grave. Clutching the bag to her chest, she asked, “What is happening?”

  He wrapped his arm around her and nodded to a bed, “We found Miss O’Bachnon.”

  Twisting, she looked and lying there, pallid, was a woman with thick brown hair, and a faded scar in her forehead. Miss O’Bachnon was shivering, shaking and twisting on her bed. A healer was trying to have her drink something from a tankard before she uttered a low, heartbreaking keen that had other healers crowding around to her. Dramatically, her hand flopped to the bedside, eyes fluttering and then, in the tense moment where Violet held in her breath…she was dead.

  Her bag of sweets dropped to the floor.

  14

  Staring across the table at his father’s grim face, Ethan gritted his jaw. The one lead they had on the murderer was now dead as well. With nothing else, no other witnesses, no other clues, they were thrown back to the beginning.

  “The soldiers found her in the woods of Ackwell, asleep, and took her in. I was told that while on the way she became pale and feverish. They kent she had drunk some poisonous infusion or eaten something harmful and rushed her here,” he said.

  Frowning, Ethan asked, “Why? Clan Hofte was nearby, they could have carried her there.”

  The laird rubbed his haggard face, “They were more than halfway to here. It wouldnae make sense for them to turn back.”

  “And now, how can we find out the truth?” Ethan said bitterly. “She was the only person who kent the truth. I hardly ken she wrote out the name of her accomplice if she had one.”

  “We’ll have to find another way,” his father said grimly. “That’s the only thing we can dae now.”

  “But…” his breath shook and his heart felt knotted up with anger and frustration somewhere in his throat, and when he uttered his last word, his tone broke, “How?”

  “I ken that is something yer faither and I should discuss,” Mister O’Cain’s calm voice interrupted them from the doorway. He came further in and said, “I ken it's frustrating but I’m sure there is somethin’ more behind this.”

  “Like what?” Ethan's words were dark. “She killed herself from guilt for what she did to me brother?”

  Mister O’Cain took a seat, and his gaze was absurdly calm. Ethan felt his frustration switching targets from the dead woman to the investigator. How was it possible to be calm in such calamity? There was no visible way for them to solve Finley’s murder now.

  “Aye,” Mister O’Cain said, “That can be one reason, but another is that the real perpetrator made sure to silence her. She was the only open lead we had, and her death makes it even clearer that Master MacFerson’s death was more complex than we had expected.”

  “Like what?” Ethan asked.

  His father shook his head. “Son, I ken ye are very distraught about all this, but I ken this is a discussion Mister O’Cain and I should have alone. Please, go to bed and try to rest.”

  Ethan’s jaw nearly dropped in shock. Rest? How could he rest? Nothing was right, everything felt upturned, dark, dreary and hopeless and with the anger, grief, and frustration in his chest, he felt like he was a powder keg just waiting for the right spark to explode. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth so hard, it was a miracle he was not swallowing dust.

  “Fine,” he said stiffly. “I’ll leave ye be.”

  He strode out his steps quicken to a run. He felt boxed up, constricted and knotted-up tightly. He got to his room but felt himself pacing. He felt unease fuel his feet, but this room was too small for him to get this frenzy out from him.

  Spinning, he yanked his door open and nearly collided with Violet. “Violet? What are ye doing here?”

  “I cannae—” she let out a breath, “—rest or even internalize this blow. I kent ye might feel the same.”

  Sagging on the doorframe, he sighed, “I cannae either.”

  “Can we…” she hesitated, “…work it out together?”

  “Where?” he asked. “Now that the woman, the one person who could help us find me brother’s killer is dead, I feel like I’m getting suffocated inside this place. We have nay clues or anything to lead us in the right direction and yer faither says—”

  “—That there might be more ways to solve this mystery,” she said. “Well, nae in me words but…?”

  “Aye,” he said, “in his words.”

  “It's late,” she mused with a wry tilt to her lips. “What can we dae?”

  “I daenae ken about ye but I was heading to the stables to saddle me horse and race until all this frenzy inside me is gone,” Ethan said. “It’s nearly midnight but…”

  “And it’s a moonless night, it might be dangerous,” she came closer. “What if we just keep each other’s company until dawn, and then ye can go to the stables?”

  Her suggestion was tempting, but he could not just stay still. He had to move. Shaking his head, he grimaced, “I cannae dae that, Violet. Please understand. Ye can meet me at the stables at dawn when I’m done. I feel…like I’m about to implode. Riding at such a night might be dangerous, but if I keep to myself like this, I might be worse.”

  She stepped away with an understanding look on her face. “I appreciate yer honesty. Go ahead, I’ll find ye at dawn.”

  Embracing her, he took a moment to absorb her comfort and softness but then pried away and hurried off. He ran to the stables and managed to feel his way through getting his horse saddled and out to the fields behind it.

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the little light from the stars was enough for him to see the way he wanted to ride. Sucking in a deep breath, he spurred the horse into a run, then increased the pa
ce to a full-fledged run. The leap of his heart and the burn of his blood was a welcomed distraction from the acidic mix of fear, frustration, grief, and anger boiling inside him.

  The horse canted to a stop, but it was not enough. He spun and went the same way, even faster this time. The icy slap of the breeze on his face slid through his shirt and began to chill his body. The powerful stride of the horse under him and the pounding of his heart began to overpower the emotions inside him, and he began to crave the numbness.

  At the end of the run, he paused to suck some air into his burning lungs and after a breath, began once more. He did not know how many tries it would take to get him to a state of full numbness, but he was going to try.

  * * *

  The gray, ghostly light that came before dawn sifting through the slats in the stables matched his dour mood. He was sitting on the ground, peering blankly at the horse who had valiantly held up through his hours of sprinting.

  He did not look up when the door was pushed in, but he knew it was Violet. He kept his eyes down on the floor and his arms braced on his knees. The numbness that he had chased all through the night was slowly petering away from his chest, and the mix of emotions that he had tried to run from was slowly returning.

  She sat near him and the soft scent of jasmine oil tickled his nose. Violet did not say a word to him and for that he was thankful. They sat in solemn stillness until she broke the silence. “I brought ye food. Ye must be hungry after all that time.”

  Ethan spotted the bag and felt his lips twitch. He reached out for the bag and set it aside without a word. Twisting, he looked at her and tried to understand the calmness he saw resting in her eyes. Her expression was placid, compassionate, and dare he say…loving?

  He wanted to ask, but the words would not come out. Instead, he reached over, cupped her face, and kissed her. No thought had gone into it, it had come from a deep need inside him. She felt like safe berth in the storm surrounding him.

  Meeting her lips, he felt a craving to taste her that had laid dormant inside him from the first kiss flare up. Their mouths fused, and when she shyly licked his tongue, he felt a need bubble inside him. Changing the angle, he kissed her deeply, tenderly, and she responded. She slid her hand through his hair and a faint whimper escaped her throat.

  The steady sound went through him like slick oil and he wanted more. His mouth dipped to her neck and her throat trembled as he sucked softly on the skin there. Her breath skittered warm over his ear, and desire was bubbling up, but something ticked in his mind that he should not be doing this in plain sight. It would be easier to wrestle a bull than pull away from her.

  Violet, however, was the one who made it stop. “Ethan…” her voice was breathy, “Ethan…we cannae dae this here. Please…stop.”

  Her word was a bucket of ice water being dumped over his head and he pulled away. A feeling of rejection snaked through him but her hands caging his face made the feeling lessen, even more, were her words, and her sincere look. “‘Tis nae that I dinnae like it, I loved it, but this is dangerous for ye and me to dae this here.”

  Her thumbs smoothed over his cheeks and her smile was a soft curve, “Ye can kiss me anywhere but here.”

  “Ye dinnae mind?” He swallowed.

  She shook her head slowly and the tension in his body began to lessen. Tugging her closer, he nearly lifted her unto his lap but stopped. Dropping a kiss on her cheek, he murmured, “I’m sorry for being this way.”

  “Ye had nothing to apologize for,” Violet rebuked him softly. “It will take time for all these feelings to go, months, years, possibly but the sting will dull and life will get easier.”

  Rubbing his tired eyes, Ethan reached the food she had carried, and peered into the bag; there was more bread, cheese, and smoked beef than he could eat alone. “Have ye eaten? Ye brought enough food to feed four.”

  “I kent I’d eat with ye,” she said. “Me appetite disappeared from last night and I havenae touched a morsel, either.”

  Doubting that the situation with Miss O’Bachnon had affected her as deeply as it had him, he had to acknowledge that it had bothered her. After all, she was the one who had theorized what and who the woman was in the first place. Seeing all her effort come to naught had to sting. But then…since they had lost O’Bachnon, they—Violet and her father—had to stay a while longer. Which meant he had more time with her.

  Now, he felt split in two. Half of him was devastated that the secret of his brother’s murder had died with the woman and the other half was appreciative that her death meant Violet would stay. The woman was dead, and he was somewhat content about it—all for the wrong reasons. His food tasted like ashes on his tongue, but he kept eating.

  What am I turning into?

  Nothing—nothing—could excuse him for this egregious sin of being pleased that a woman’s death allowed him to dally with Violet, a woman he had once sworn to leave alone. His stomach felt ill when he finished eating and he rested his head on the wall behind him, allowing his eyes to close. Hopefully, Violet would think he was resting because of his late-night while he was trying to bargain with God for time.

  He needed time to separate these feelings, to make sure that one would not overlap the other and build a wall between them if necessary. A soft hand rested on his shoulder and he saw her kind eyes gazing at him.

  “Want to go back to the castle so ye can get some rest?” she asked.

  Nodding, he slowly got to his feet and clasped her hand. “Thank ye for all yer help. Ye’ve been a saint to me.”

  Laughing softly, she asked, “How many saints do ye ken of? I doubt a saint would have allowed ye to kiss them the way ye did.”

  “Dae ye want me to go back in time and stop meself from daeing it?” he teased.

  “Nay,” she said, coming closer. “I want ye to dae it again, but only when ye wrestle that boulder of guilt away from yer chest.”

  Hellfire and brimstone, how did she ken that!

  “Guilt?” He tried to bluff her suggestion—as accurate as it was—off. “What guilt? I havenae—”

  Her laugh was light and her eyes were dancing. “One of these days ye will find out it’s of nay use to lie to me. Yer eyes give yerself away, Ethan. When ye’re trying to deceive, the color in them goes dark and cloudy. When ye’re telling the truth, they are crystal…well, emerald clear.”

  “Ye can see all that from me eyes?” he exclaimed. “Dae ye have some foreign power I dinnae ken about?”

  “And what would be the fun in telling ye?” She reached and tugged his hand. “Come, let's get ye back into the castle. Ye need to rest.”

  Shaking his head in dismay, he stopped to lace their fingers while picking up the bag of food. “Lead the way, little pixie.”

  * * *

  It was afternoon when he woke, in the curtained dimness of his room, Ethan stared silently at the opposite wall. Violet was right, he was feeling guilty, but thanks to the highest heavens that she was not aware of what he was guilty about.

  It felt wrong, despicably wrong, to feel happy Miss O’Bachnon had died, forcing the O’Cains to stay a little longer, so he could have more time with Violet. Thrice had he kissed her when he had vowed not to. He felt like his life was the stallion he had ridden that morning, running wild and almost out of control.

  Violet was the little speck of light he had, and he feared that he was going to destroy it with his fluctuating moods. All things considered, she seemed to be holding up well. But still… He flopped on his back and pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes and groaned under his breath.

  Again, the reality that Violet was going to leave when this case was solved soured his spirit. What were the chances of her staying with him? It felt comical that he had found such a deep connection with her in such a short time that he had not found with anyone else in the almost decade since he had come of age.

  He swung his legs out from under the cover and dragged a shirt on. The warm bath earlier this morning had soothed him
somewhat, and sleeping free from all his sweat and muck from last night had been delightful. Now, he had to find Violet and speak to her.

  But even before he had his boots on, his father barged through the door, his bearded face white as a sheet. His head darted up in fright. “Father? What is it?”

  The man slammed his hand on his bedside table and a sliver of paper that his father’s palm had hidden nearly fluttered to the floor.

  “Finley wasnae the only target, Ethan,” his father’s words were heavy with distress. “I came back from the village with Mister O’Cain and found this in me rooms. Go ahead, read it.”