A feud that lead to love, a love wounded by war...
Rhona was supposed to give birth to her first child with her husband by her side. When the noble Laird Iain Cameron is brutally killed by the sinister Murdoch Mackintosh, Rhona and her clan find themselves at his mercy. Filled with desire for her, Murdoch makes her his wife and claims her child as his own.
Stewart Mackintosh was forbidden to fall in love with his brother's wife. All he ever wanted, was for his clan to thrive and peace to be restored. Now he is losing himself to a woman he shouldn't desire. But to be with her, Stewart must make the ultimate sacrifice to save Rhona and the bloodline of Clan Cameron.
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It had been so long since Nimue had last seen Guinevere. With the MacLellan clan having returned to their lands, Guinevere had been in the Lowlands for months, but now she had returned for a visit, and Nimue couldn’t be happier.
She had missed her terribly, and she wanted nothing more than to see her and talk to her once more. Besides, she had a surprise for her.
Gazing out of the window of Chrisdean’s study, Nimue impatiently waited for her, knowing that she was bound to show up at any moment. Chrisdean was sitting at his desk, and she could tell that he was watching her instead of working and that he had a small smile on his lips. He was happy, too, she knew. How could he not be?
And then, just as Nimue was getting too restless to sit still, she saw the gates open and her sister ride into the castle grounds.
“She’s here!” Nimue exclaimed, rushing out of the chair and the study before Chrisdean could even say anything. She heard his voice, shouting at her to be careful as she ran, but she ignored him in her excitement.
Nimue made it to the courtyard just as Guinevere was dismounting her horse, and she immediately threw herself at her, wrapping her tightly in her arms.
“Guinevere!” she said, all but squealing like a child in her ear. “Ach, how I’ve missed ye! I canna believe ye’re finally here!”
“I’ve missed ye, too,” Guinevere told her, but she seemed more preoccupied with something else. It was nothing that Nimue hadn’t expected, and when Guinevere pulled back to look at her, she could only smile. “Ye’re pregnant!”
Nimue had told her father, but she had begged him to not tell Guinevere, knowing that she would be visiting just as her bump began to show. Now, with some of the delays that had come their way, her bump was truly showing, and there was no way for Guinevere to miss it.
“Ach, I’m so happy for ye, Nimue,” Guinevere said, gently laying her hand on Nimue’s belly. “And for me! I’ll be an aunt! I hope it’s a wee lassie.”
Nimue knew that Chrisdean wanted a boy, but she didn’t mind. All she wanted was for the child to be healthy and happy. And if she had a small preference for a girl, well, that was for her to know.
“Guinevere, welcome,” came Chrisdean’s voice from behind them, and Nimue wrapped an arm around him once he was close enough to them. “How were yer travels?”
“Absolutely terrible,” Guinevere said, with that usual air of hers. “But I’m here noo, and I couldna be happier. Faither says he wishes he could visit, too, but he’s too busy with the clan. Does he ken about the bairn?”
“Aye, I wrote to him,” Nimue admitted. “But I wanted it to be a surprise for ye.”
“I hope she gets Nimue’s looks,” Guinevere said.
“I hope he gets his faither’s strength and bravery and—”
“Weel, shall we go inside?” Guinevere asked, promptly interrupting Chrisdean and pulling a laugh out of Nimue.
The two of them spent the rest of the day talking, mostly about the baby and the MacLellan clan. A part of Nimue felt guilty for not being there as they finished rebuilding their homes, but she knew that her place was in the Highlands now, and she couldn’t risk traveling that far while she was pregnant. She had made a promise to her father to visit as soon as she could, though, and she intended to keep that promise. As much as she loved the Highlands, the MacLellan clan would always be her home, too.
It was around the evening that Nimue noticed there was something wrong with Guinevere, a nervous energy that she seemed unable to expel. At first, Nimue didn’t want to push Guinevere, thinking that she would tell her what was wrong whenever she wished, but her curiosity grew and grew until she wasn’t able to contain it anymore. As the two of them were having supper—alone, as Chrisdean, Brock, and everyone else who could have joined them were too busy with war tactics and plans—Nimue took Guinevere’s hand in hers, grabbing her attention.
“Ye dinna look weel,” she said. “What’s wrong, Guinevere? Did somethin’ happen?”
“I’m fine,” Guinevere replied, but it was clearly a lie.
“We grew up together,” Nimue reminded her. “I can tell when somethin’ is wrong. What is it?”
Guinevere hesitated, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. Nimue worried that she wouldn’t tell her at all, that she would continue to dodge the question, but when Guinevere spoke, she knew she was telling the truth.
“I’m thinkin’ about Tristan,” she said.
Nimue wasn’t surprised. She had been thinking about Tristan, too, all day long, ever since she had seen Guinevere. She had been thinking about how he would have loved to be there and how much she wanted him there, too, the three of them reunited. She could only imagine how much worse it was for Guinevere, as the two of them were twins and always inseparable.
“I think about him, too,” Nimue said. “I’ve been thinkin’ about him all day.”
“Aye, but . . . but I keep thinkin’ that he’s out there somewhere,” Guinevere said. Her confession drew a sigh out of Nimue. It wasn’t the first time that she had heard those words from Guinevere, but she wished that her sister would simply stop thinking like that. It had been so long since his death, and yet she still believed that he was alive.
“Guinevere . . . we’ve had this talk before,” Nimue reminded her. “Tristan is gone. I miss him, too, I miss him terribly, but there is na a thing that we can do about it.”
Guinevere shook her head. “He’s alive, Nimue. I ken it,” she said. “First of all, they never found his body. Why? Where is it? They found everyone else’s bodies, but na his own. And I ken it in me heart, as I ken that the sun rises in the mornin’ and sets at night. I can feel it. I ken that he’s still out there somewhere.”
Nimue didn’t know what to say to her sister anymore. Both she and their father had tried to talk some sense into her, to make her see that just because there was no body, it didn’t mean that Tristan was alive. If he were, Nimue was certain that he would have returned. There was no explanation about him not being in their lives other than the fact that he was dead.
“I dinna want ye to spend the rest of yer life lookin’ for a dead man,” Nimue said, and her words sounded harsh to her ears, but perhaps it was what Guinevere needed to hear, she thought. They had tried being gentle with her; and it hadn’t worked. Perhaps making her face reality was the best option for them all. “Ye’re wastin’ yer life like this, Guinevere. Ye have this obsession, and it will na get ye anywhere. Ye must move on. Ye must.”
“How can ye tell me to move on?” Guinevere asked, and Nimue could hear the trembling in her voice, even though she tried to seem unaffected. “I dinna understand how ye have moved on. I canna simply forget about him.”
“I havena forgotten about him,” Nimue said, and there was an edge to her words. As much as she loved Guinevere, she didn’t like what she was implying. Tristan was her own brother, too, and she loved him just as dearly. “I simply ken that he’s na with us anymore. I have accepted it. I wish there were somethin’ I could do to bring him back, but there isna. Lookin’ for a dead man will get ye nowhere.”
There was a long silence between them. Neither of them seemed to know what to say, and Nimue didn’t want to argue with Guinevere anymore. But then, before she could say anything else, she saw tears streaming down her sister’s face.
“Forgive me,” she said. “for what I’ve said. But I canna lose hope, Nimue. I canna. If he’s out there, if he’s still alive, then I want him to have a chance of returnin’ home. I will never stop lookin’ for him.”
With a sigh, Nimue gave Guinevere a small nod. With time, she thought, she would come to see that her efforts were in vain, but she wanted to avoid that subject from then on as much as she could while her sister was there. She wanted them both to enjoy the visit without any fights.
“Weel . . . how is everyone back home?” Nimue asked, quickly changing the subject. “Is Faither doin’ weel?”
The two of them talked for the rest of the evening and well into the night, and when Nimue retired to her chambers after ensuring that Guinevere was comfortable in her own, she found Chrisdean already in bed. Taking off her clothes, Nimue slid next to him under the covers, letting his embrace warm her up.
“Forgive me for na bein’ there with ye today,” Chrisdean said, but Nimue waved a hand dismissively.
“It was good to have some time alone with her,” she said. “We can all spend some time together when ye can, but ye dinna need to fash yerself. I have plenty to talk about with her.”
“Ye do?”
With a soft sigh, Nimue turned to face Chrisdean. Her brow was pleated with worry, and she considered for a moment not telling him the truth. She thought that perhaps Guinevere wouldn’t want everyone to know about her wild theories, but then again, Guinevere herself didn’t see them as wild.
“Guinevere is convinced that Tristan is alive,” she said. “I try to tell her that he’s dead, but she willna listen. She says that there was na body and that she kens it in her heart.”
Chrisdean’s sigh mimicked her own. “It’s strange that there was na body,” he said, and of course, he was right. Nimue had also been surprised, and it was something that she thought about often. “But he would have come home, wherever he was if he were alive. Ye ken that, do ye na?”
“I do,” Nimue said. “But Guinevere doesna. I wish that she would put an end to this silly thing, but she says that as long as she lives, she will continue to look for him.”
Chrisdean carded a hand through Nimue’s hair before it came to rest on her belly. It was something that he did a lot those days, touching her stomach and waiting for the baby to move, and it always put a smile on Nimue’s lips.
“Weel . . . perhaps it’s better to na think about such things right noo,” Chrisdean said. “Ye must remain calm and happy while ye’re carryin’ the bairn.”
“Ach, Chrisdean, I’m fine,” Nimue assured him. He had always been protective of her, but now it was verging on overprotective, and she had had enough of him following her around whenever it wasn’t absolutely necessary for him to be in his study or with his men, making sure that she was always calm and comfortable. As much as she appreciated the sentiment, she wanted fewer of the actions.
“Alright, alright . . . I willna tell ye what to do,” Chrisdean said. “But I will tell ye that I have an idea for the name.”
‘Is that so?” Nimue asked, the conversation suddenly turning very interesting for her. She also had a name in mind, or rather, two: the names of their Mothers.
“Aye . . . I think we should call him Tristan.”
Nimue couldn’t help but smile at that, even as a few tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Chrisdean had never met Tristan, but there he was, suggesting that they name their child after him just because he knew how much Nimue loved him.
She couldn’t even bring herself to argue that it could be a girl. And well, if her slight preference had just changed; well, that was for her to know.
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This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?
This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?
This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?
If someone asked Nimue, she would tell them that there were many things wrong with her father, Laird Robert MacLellan, just like every other man. He drank too much; he ate too much, and he listened too little. He liked to fight and shout. He knew nothing about looking presentable; and he didn’t know how to be a host.
But his worst characteristic—and the only one that Nimue couldn’t forgive—was his loyalty to the British and to a Crown that didn’t care for him or their clan. Whispers of war were spreading fast around Scotland, and if there was one thing that Nimue knew for certain, it was that the other clans would need their help.
And yet, her father seemed to have other ideas.
“I dinna wish to hear another word about it!” the Laird said, slapping his hand down onto his desk. His cup, full to the brim with wine, rattled and shook, little drops of alcohol flying over the papers that were scattered around him.
Nimue paced back and forth in the room. She had never liked being in her father’s study, with its dark, heavy furniture and dark red walls, the very color of the wine that he was drinking. She had never been allowed in there as a child unless it was to be reprimanded, and now, at twenty-four years old, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow done something wrong.
If supportin’ me people is wrong, then so be it.
“If ye side with King Charles, our people will suffer!” Nimue said, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. She had been trying to make her father understand the consequences of his actions, but she was not surprised to see that he refused to listen. “Na one else is on their side, Faither. Na one. Are we to be the only clan to support the English over the people of Scotland?”
“Dinna forget that we have ties to England, just as much as we have ties to Scotland,” the Laird said.
Nimue sighed, a heavy, displeased sound. She had heard that very same phrase before, many times. It was no coincidence that she had such an unusual name, nor that her sister was called Guinevere and her brother, Tristan. Though very much a Scot, as he had been born and raised there, their father had always been fascinated by England and its myths and tended to cling to his English roots. It was something that Nimue had never understood. In her eyes, they were nothing but Scottish, and it was Scotland that they needed to help and protect.
“Ach, Daidie, I ken all about our roots, but ye seem to forget that more than anythin’ else, we are Scots,” Nimue reminded him. “We dinna owe England anythin’. We owe it to our people to protect them.”
“To protect them from what?” the Laird asked. “The English willna do us na harm. Why they? They dinna have an issue with us. They only have an issue with those who oppose them, especially those up in the Highlands.”
“Scots, ye mean,” Nimue pointed out. “They are Scots. Why ye would support a Catholic king is beyond me, Faither.”
“I dinna expect ye to understand. It was yer maither who made ye so fond of yer Scotland.”
Nimue knew that her father missed her mother more than anything. She knew that he was still hurting from her death, just like the rest of their family. But the way that he spoke, in such an accusing manner, talking as though her mother’s pride in Scotland was nothing but foolishness, made Nimue’s blood boil in her veins. Her lips twisted into an ugly grimace, just as sharp as her father’s words, and she walked up to his desk, hands on her hips as she glared at him.
“Ye speak of Maither as though she didna ken what she was sayin’,” Nimue spat out through gritted teeth. “As though she didna ken perfectly weel where her loyalties lay. She kent; and I ken. I will never support the king; I will never support the war he is bringin’ upon us. I will never follow a king who wants to disregard our people, our traditions, the Kirk!”
“Enough!” the Laird said, standing up and staring Nimue down before she could utter another word. “I told ye that I willna hear any more of this. Yer me daughter, and ye’ll do as I say.”
“Oh?” Nimue asked. She wasn’t afraid of her father. She knew that deep down, under all the shouting matches and the stubbornness, he loved her dearly, and she doubted that he would do anything to hurt her. Growing up without her mother had been hard on them both. Ever since her death, her father had become overprotective, not only of Nimue but of all three children. “And what, precisely, is that?”
“Ye’re to marry the Earl of Stanford.”
It was not what Nimue had been expecting. She had thought that perhaps her father would simply insist on her supporting the English and their king. Or that he would forbid her from saying another word on the matter. Forcing her to marry a man she didn’t even know, an Englishman at that, went too far.
“I will do na such thing!” she said. “Ye canna force me to marry him!”
“Aye, I can,” her father said. “It’s already been arranged. Ye’ve been promised to him.”
Nimue scoffed, shaking her head. It was all too much for her, knowing that her father was so willing to give her away to a stranger. As far as she was concerned, she had no ties to England, and she wanted nothing to do with the place. How could she be expected to marry an Englishman when she was certain that they didn’t have a single thing in common?
“I dinna care what ye promised him,” Nimue said. “Ye didna even ask me first. Ye didna consult me at all. It’s me own life, Faither, that ye’re tryin’ to throw away.”
“Throw away?” her father said, and Nimue could see that he was getting angrier by the second. Perhaps he was used to being challenged when it came to political and religious matters, Nimue thought. Still, he wasn’t used to being challenged when it came to giving orders to those around him. He was the Laird, after all. “Is that what ye think I’m doin’, lass? I arranged a marriage with a man like the Earl, and ye think that I’m throwin’ yer life away? Listen to yerself . . . so ungrateful. The time has come for ye to marry, Nimue, and the Earl of Stanford is better than any man ye could find in our neighboring clans.”
“I verra much doubt that,” Nimue said. “Do ye even ken anythin’ about him? We ken our fellow clansmen. We ken the clansmen of the neighboring clans. I grew up with them. If ye wish for me to marry, then I shall marry one of them, but na an Englishman.”
“Ye will marry the Earl, and that’s the end of it,” her father said. “And ye’ll keep yer mouth shut around him about this war that ye always talk about. I willna have ye embarrass me with yer ideas and yer fancies in front of the Earl.”
Nimue looked at her father, eyes wide in disbelief. She never thought he would treat her in such a way. That he would care so little about her and her wellbeing that he was prepared to sell her off to the English for an alliance was nothing but traitorous. Her father was betraying not only her, his own daughter, but also Scotland. It pained her to see it–to know he had no regard for the clans with which their own clan had been allied for as long as anyone could remember. He was prepared to betray them and their trust, all because of the English.
Nimue was certain that the English would let them all perish if it came down to it. Clan MacLellan was an influential one in those parts. Still, she doubted any other clans would support them if they sided with the Catholic king. Were the other clans to band together to fight the MacLellans, their clan would be doomed, and the English would be of no help.
“Ye’re makin’ a big mistake, Faither,” Nimue told the Laird. “Ye may na want to listen to me, or to anyone else for that matter, but ye’re takin’ us down the wrong path. Na only me, with this foolish marriage, but our entire clan. Our people. I dinna ken what else to tell ye to convince ye. Perhaps there is na a thing I can say to convince ye but trust me when I tell ye that I willna be dragged to the altar without a fight.”
“Then so be it,” the Laird said as he sat back in his chair, the fight seemingly draining out of him. “So be it, Nimue. I’ll drag ye to the altar meself if that’s what it’ll take for ye to marry the Earl. Consider yerself warned. Noo get out of me sight. I dinna wish to fight with ye any longer, but if ye stay, ye’ll give me na choice.”
“Just like ye’re givin’ me na choice,” Nimue said and then turned around, leaving the room and slamming the door behind her. She didn’t want to stay and listen to anything else that her father could possibly have to say to her. She had heard it all, and she couldn’t bear to be near him.
What am I to do noo? What is there for me to do?
Nimue had always thought that she would marry for love. She had always thought that she would have the chance to choose her husband, and that she wouldn’t have to be married off to some Lord that she had never met before, as though she were an English girl. She had underestimated her father’s love for English traditions, though, or perhaps she had underestimated his greed. What other reason could he have to force her to marry the Earl of Stanford? Surely, Nimue thought, he believed that England would triumph in the war that was to come, and he would end up with more power than he could ever have as a Scottish Laird.
But to use her in such a way was unacceptable in her eyes. She could only imagine what the Earl of Stanford would be like, cruel and ruthless and dismissive of her. She knew he wouldn’t love her. He wouldn’t love her in the way that a man who had known her his whole life could love her.
It isna as though me faither doesna have any other options for me! I’m the Laird’s daughter! Many lads would want to marry me!
Who would turn down such an opportunity? Her looks—which she, herself, had never truly noticed or examined—were irrelevant, she thought. However, there had been plenty of men who had fallen for her unintentional charms. Everyone wanted to marry into the MacLellan clan.
Up until noo, at least. When everyone finds out that me faither is supportin’ the king, na one will want to be a part of this clan anymore.
Nimue herself wasn’t certain that she wanted to be part of her own clan anymore, after what her father had told her. As much as she loved him and everyone else in it, she simply couldn’t bear to watch her father bring her clan to ruin.
But what choice do I have? I canna abandon them when they need me the most.
If marrying the Earl of Stanford was her only option, then Nimue would simply have to accept it. She would have to marry the man and then find a way to convince him to allow her to stay in Scotland with her people.
She didn’t even want to entertain the idea of going to England and spending the rest of her life there, surrounded by strangers, having to share her bed with a man that she didn’t know. Even if the Earl turned out to be a good man, which Nimue doubted, he would still be nothing more than a stranger to her, and that is what he would always be, even after years of marriage.
Rage bubbled over inside her as she made her way down the stairs, putting as much distance between herself and her father as she could. She feared that if she didn’t, she would simply march right back up to his study to continue their fight, even though it was hopeless. Her father wouldn’t change his mind, and neither would she. In the end, she would end up doing his bidding simply because she was a woman and had no other choice.
She hated that there was nothing she could do, that her life and her future were not her own, that someone else was making every decision for her. Why were men given the option to do as they wished, but she had to constantly follow orders, whether dictated by society or by her father?
She wished that she could be insignificant, a farmer girl, perhaps, or a cook. She had never experienced hard work, but she thought it must be better than her current situation.
With an exasperated sigh, she burst through the front doors of the castle, making her way to the gardens, and from there, past the castle walls, through a small opening that only she seemed to know existed. It was the only way she could avoid the guards, who would certainly question her regarding where she was going at that time of the night.
She couldn’t blame them for being careful with the Laird’s daughter, but it wasn’t the first time that Nimue had snuck out of the castle and made her way to the It had always been her favorite place, even as a child, ever since her mother had first brought her there to teach her how to swim. Nimue had returned to that lake over and over throughout the years, even when it was cold, even when her mother wasn’t around to take her there anymore.
It was their spot. Her spot. At night, no one went there but her and her siblings, and they had stopped going there a long time ago.
The night was still young, and Nimue had plenty of time ahead of her until she would have to return to the castle. She looked up at the sky and saw all the stars glittering there, trying to remember their names, just like her father had taught her, but soon, the water became too inviting for her to resist. She began to undo her clothes, letting them pool around her feet until she was in nothing but her underdress, and then stepped into the lake, relishing the way the water slid against her skin.
I may never see this place again. I may never swim in these waters again. I’d do anything to stop this marriage.
Chapter II
Chrisdean and his men had come a long way to find the daughter of Laird MacLellan. Rumors of the man’s alliance with the English had reached the Highlands, and Chrisdean had taken it upon himself to put a stop to it. He knew that the girl was supposed to play an important part in Laird MacLellan’s entire plan, as he was certain to marry her off to a noble Englishman. The only way that Chrisdean could think of to stop it was to marry her himself.
Besides, an alliance between his clan and the MacLellan clan would only benefit him and his clansmen. Everyone in Scotland knew just how much power and influence the MacLellan clan had, and Chrisdean, as a new Laird, wanted nothing more than to share that power.
And as far as he had heard, the girl was a beauty.
He and his men were camped by the lake near the castle grounds, waiting for the two scouts he had sent to find a way into the castle when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. At first, he thought that it was just the scouts returning from their mission—hopefully with good news and a way to slip into the castle undetected—but he soon realized that the footsteps were too soft to belong to either man.
Chrisdean gestured at his men to be quiet, though they had already halted all their conversations, having heard the sound, too. Holding his breath, he began to walk slowly towards the source of the sound, making sure to stay in the shadows behind the trees and bushes, remaining unseen; and then his gaze fell on her.
Even in the half-light of the moon and the stars, Chrisdean could see that she was gorgeous, her chestnut brown hair brushing against the small of her back and her lips glistening, making her irresistible. The mere sight of her stopped his breath and quickened his heartbeat. Desire pooled low in his stomach, along with a scorching heat that begged to be satisfied.
For a moment, Chrisdean considered calling his men, who hadn’t seen a woman ever since they had left the Highlands, but then he recognized the woman in front of him. She was none other than the daughter of the Laird.
A few of his men rushed to him before he could go to them, mesmerized as he was by the girl, unable to do much other than stand there and watch her. At first, he didn’t even notice that they had approached him, as they had done so quietly, and he wasn’t paying attention to anything but his future bride.
“Ach, noo I see why ye stopped,” Conall said, Chrisdean’s General and right-hand man. He was standing right behind him, whispering in his ear, but Chrisdean could tell that there was a teasing smile on his face. “She’s a bonnie one, isna she? Do ye think I should go up to her and ask her if she wants company?”
Chrisdean couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the crassness of his friend, shaking his head as he turned to look at him. “That’s her,” he told him. “That’s the lass.”
“The daughter of the Laird?”
“Aye.”
For a few moments, Chrisdean and his men remained quiet, simply watching the woman. Their original plan had been to infiltrate the castle, but now that seemed to be unnecessary since she was right there, making their job even easier. All he had to do was approach her carefully, make sure she didn’t have a chance to run, and capture her.
And yet, he didn’t move, even as she began to undress, or perhaps precisely because she began to undress. His gaze lingered on her body as she removed the seemingly endless layers of garments, slowly revealing the curves of her hips and chest, more and more of her skin on display with every movement she made.
Then, he heard one of his men draw in a sharp breath, and he remembered that he wasn’t the only one watching.
“What are ye all doin’?” he asked, his expression pinched, laced with annoyance. “Stop lookin’ at her, ye bastards! Go, go hide behind those bushes!”
“Aye, me Laird,” came a chorus of hushed whispers as his men began to retreat—all of them but Conall, who seemed content to simply stand there and watch, despite Chrisdean’s order.
“That goes for ye, too, Conall,” Chrisdean pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest as he put himself between him and the girl, blocking the man’s view.
“What if somethin’ happens to ye, me Laird?” Conall asked him. “I should be here to protect ye.”
“What’s goin’ to happen to me, do ye think?” Chrisdean asked.
Conall shrugged. “I dinna ken. Maybe she has a blade hidden.”
“She’s na wearin’ any clothes, Conall.” Chrisdean pointed out. “Where would she hide the blade, lad?”
Chrisdean watched as Conall looked past him, at the girl, his gaze going straight to her thighs and buttocks, and he had to resist the urge to slap some sense into him.
“Bushes. Noo,” Chrisdean hissed, pointing at the rest of his men who had already retreated back into the shadows.
Conall joined the rest of the men with a dejected look, leaving Chrisdean alone—and most importantly in Chrisdean’s mind, having no direct view of the girl. Chrisdean pulled his focus back on her, seeing that by the time he had managed to get rid of all of his men, she had already gone into the lake.
He decided to wait. Chasing her in the lake would make no sense, he decided, especially with all his clothes which were bound to weigh him down. He simply kept his eyes on her as she swam, fearing that if he lost sight of her, then he would lose his chance to capture her.
She was a good swimmer, he noticed, but he also saw that she seemed to be in no hurry. He wondered how long he would have to stand there, waiting in the shadows for her to come out of the lake, since he was eager to get out of there as soon as he could.
If someone comes to look for her, they might find us, too.
Chrisdean didn’t know how long he stayed there, perfectly still, holding his breath until the girl finally came out of the water. Once she did, his gaze lingered on her body once more, looking at the way her underdress clung to her figure, hugging the curves of her hips and breasts, and at the way her hair, dripping wet, fell over her shoulders in gentle waves.
He could see the entire outline of her body, but he knew that it would be nothing compared to what he would see on their wedding night. He could already tell that she had a body that looked like it was sculpted out of marble, but he could only imagine what she would look like naked in front of him, her full breasts and buttocks more inviting than anything he had ever seen before.
She looked unlike any other woman Chrisdean had ever seen, and to say he was relieved would be an understatement. He had been prepared to marry any woman for the future of his clan, but the fact that she was beautiful meant, in his mind, that their marriage would bring him personal joy, too.
I can only hope that she willna be too stubborn and make me marry her by force.
Chrisdean gave the girl a few moments to put on some garments, though he did not allow her to get fully dressed before jumping out of his hiding spot, running up to her, and grabbing her. The girl was startled, and for a split second, she froze, giving Chrisdean the impression that it would be an easy fight if a fight at all. But before his men could even approach, the girl began to scream and kick at him, her heels connecting with his shins again and again.
Chrisdean groaned in pain, even as he clasped a hand over the girl’s mouth to silence her. The last thing he wanted was to alert guards of his presence and end up dead, so far from home. Then, he tightened his grip on the girl, but that didn’t seem to deter her. If anything, she began to fight him even harder, thrashing in his arms as she tried to get away, her breath coming out in short, labored puffs.
“Stop it, lass,” Chrisdean told her, biting back another pained groan when she stepped on his foot with what seemed to be her entire weight. “I said stop. I dinna wish to hurt ye.”
The girl mumbled something unintelligible under his hand, but Chrisdean didn’t dare pull it away to let her speak. It was too dangerous, and he didn’t want to hear what she had to say, not while she was still trying to fight him. Instead, he held even more tightly onto her, squeezing her with his arms and trying to get her under control.
“I said stop!” he hissed in her ear. “I willna hurt ye or anyone else, I promise.”
Just as he was talking, his men finally approached them, but they didn’t know what to do. They couldn’t simply attack her, of course, as the last thing that any of them wanted was to hurt her, but they also couldn’t approach her, not when she was thrashing around like a wild animal. For what seemed like hours to Chrisdean, she kept fighting, and he thought that it would never stop, but soon enough, the fight was drained out of her as she became tired, eventually slumping in his arms.
Chrisdean slowly, hesitantly removed his hand from her mouth. She didn’t scream, and for that, he was grateful.
“Who are ye?” she asked. “What do ye want with me?”
“I am Chrisdean, Laird of the MacIntosh clan,” he told her. It seemed to him as though she had already understood that there was no escape, not when she was surrounded by so many men, and so he let her go, though once again, he did so hesitantly. “I mean ye na harm, lass. Ye are the daughter of the Laird, arena ye?”
“What is it to ye?” the girl asked, placing her hands on her hips as she stared him down.
“Weel, I’m lookin’ for the daughter of the Laird.”
“Weel, then I’m na the daughter of the Laird.”
Chrisdean looked at her for a few moments, his brow furrowed, and then he glanced at his men. Conall shrugged at him, and Chrisdean wondered if he had the wrong woman.
But no, it couldn’t be. Not only did Nimue look precisely like her description, but Chrisdean was also good at detecting lies. If there was one thing he knew, it was that the girl was lying to him.
“Na . . . ye’re lyin’, lass,” he said, and the huff that the girl gave him confirmed his suspicions. “What’s yer name, then?”
“Och, ye dinna ken?” the girl asked. “Ye ken who I am but ye dinna ken me name?”
“I didna have the chance to learn it, na,” Chrisdean admitted. “But I gave ye me name. Ye owe me yers.”
“I owe ye na a thing,” the girl said, her hands moving from her hips so that she could cross her arms over her chest defensively. “And ye didna answer me other question. What do ye want with me? Why are ye all here?”
Chrisdean smiled, a smile that was meant to distract the girl from a question that he didn’t want to answer, not quite yet, at least. “How about ye tell me yer name first?” he asked.
The girl looked at him, defiance in her gaze, but then she seemed to weigh her options, which were few. “Nimue,” she said. “There, I answered yer question; noo answer me mine.”
“Nimue,” Chrisdean repeated, trying the sound of her name on his tongue. “That’s a verra strange name ye have, lass.”
“I dinna care what ye think about me name or about me or about anythin’ else!” the girl said with a huff. “If ye’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go back to the castle noo.”
“Ach, I dinna think so,” Chrisdean said, and before Nimue could run, trying to escape, he grabbed her once more. Just like before, she struggled, but this time she quickly realized that there was no escape, or so it seemed to him, and she slumped against him, giving in. “Ye’re comin’ with me.”
“Why?” Nimue asked. “I dinna think ye’re a verra smart man if ye take me with ye. When me faither finds out about this, he’ll have yer head.”
“We’ll see about that when the time comes,” Chrisdean said. As long as he had her, then her father was certain to do as he was told. Besides, there was little that Laird MacLellan could do after they were married. The deal would be sealed, and the other man would have no choice but to accept it.
Chrisdean carried his future bride to the horses, which he and his men had left a little further away; all of them marching to the little clearing. His men seemed to be just as eager to leave that place as he was, and he could hardly blame them. They were too close to the castle for comfort.
When they got to the horses, Nimue seemed to hesitate, which Chrisdean took as yet another attempt to escape or at least delay the inevitable.
“Get on the horse, lass,” he said, and when Nimue didn’t move, he jumped on the horse first and then, with the help of Conall, pulled Nimue up behind him. Her grip was like a vice around him when they began to move, but he didn’t give it any thought. He had experienced worse pain in his life.
“Alright, lads, time to go home,” Conall called out to everyone before turning to look at Chrisdean. “Doesna this place make ye miss the Highlands?”
“Och aye,” Chrisdean said. He knew that his men missed their families and their homes; and he had, as well. There was nothing that he missed more than his bed, though, after all those days of sleeping on the ground. He missed how soft and warm it was, how comfortable, how well he could sleep every night, but he knew that soon, he would be back in his chambers.
And he would have a brand-new wife, reluctant as she seemed to be around him. He knew that, in time, she would grow to like him, perhaps even love him. Out of all her choices—though he didn’t know what those choices could be—he was certain that he was the best one. Perhaps their marriage wouldn’t have a good start, but he would make sure that Nimue was content at least.
And why wouldna she be content? There isna anythin’ bonnier than the Highlands and na clan better than the MacIntosh. She’ll never lack anythin’ in life.
Feisty as Nimue seemed to be, Chrisdean was certain that he would tame her soon enough. All he needed, he told himself, was patience–patience and his charming demeanor. Then, she would be his.
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Fiona frowned while pushing the curtains to the side, staring outside the window as she watched the riders come in through the gate. They wore the blue and green tartan of the clan, yet she knew the youngest son of Laird Fraser Campbell was arriving today. He should be amongst the riders. She shoved the curtains closed and strode out of the room, trying to compose herself despite the nervousness running through her.
Malcom, thankfully, had been able to resolve the tax issues with the Campbells, however, Fraser still couldn’t completely trust her husband given past circumstances. So, he had sent his son to see to matters. The letter informing Malcom of Fraser’s decision had sent her husband into a tizzy and she did everything she could to calm his nervous mind.
Fiona sighed, her hand braced against the wall as she took one step at a time down the staircase, which seemed to grow longer and harder to take each day. Her other hand held her swollen belly, stroking it softly as if soothing the child growing inside.
“Fiona, what in heavens are ye doing?” Malcom called from the bottom of the steps, his gaze staring at her in horror. “Ye didn’t have to greet Fraser’s son. I told ye that.”
Fiona huffed, finally making the last step. “Nonsense. It wouldn’t be appropriate if I remained cooped inside my rooms.”
Malcom frowned, grabbing her shoulders and looking her over. “At least have the servants help ye with the stairs.”
Fiona shook her head, batting his hand away. “I’m fine, Malcom. I’m with child. I’m completely capable of seeing to myself.”
Malcom’s frown deepened, but he didn’t say anything more on the matter as he took her arm and placed it on his. He led her through the halls to the entrance of their keep, where they found Dalilah smoothing her hands over her dress nervously. Finnegan swiped his wooden sword at her side, pretending to stab someone before whirling around and swiping again.
“Will ye stop that,” Dalilah scolded, grabbing his sword from his hands and giving it to a servant standing behind them.
“Ye are no fun,” Finnegan muttered while crossing his arms in front of himself.
Fiona stifled her giggles, knowing it would do nothing to help assuage Malcom and Dalilah’s nerves. The two were like two peas in a pod. Fiona sidled up close to Dalilah, taking her hand and giving her a gentle squeeze.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Dalilah whispered harshly. “It’s not like I know Andrew Campbell all that well.”
Malcom chuckled. “That’s not what I remember. Wasn’t he the one who kept pulling yer hair?”
Dalilah scowled. “He tries that again and I might just put a rat in his bed.”
“Ye will do no such thing,” Malcom said in horror.
Fiona cleared her throat as the doors creaked. Both siblings straightened, watching the doors part and the light from the Spring sky pierce through the keep. Andrew Campbell stood on the other side, holding himself tall as he strode towards the family. He wore a tartan clipped around his brown tunic. The Campbell’s boar insignia was pinned to his side and stared back at Fiona. Fiona forced her gaze away from it, turning her attentions to the young, handsome man standing in front of her.
Andrew Campbell took two steps forward and kneeled in front of Malcom. His red hair glimmered in the sun’s rays. The tendrils curled along his jaw, covered in ginger stubble from traveling the last two days. He lifted his blue eyes, his lips curling into a smirk and Fiona felt Dalilah still at her side.
“Laird Malcom Gunn,” said Andrew while rising. “It’s an honor to meet with ye again.”
Malcom held out a hand. “As is mine,” he said as Andrew took his hand and gave it a firm shake. Fiona didn’t know the full story of Andrew, but she knew he had spent a summer with the Gunns several years ago when Dalilah was still a young girl. Her gaze slid to Dalilah, watching her clench her jaw. Her lips lifted, yet she seemed to grimace at the young man before them.
Andrew turned toward Fiona, his smile turning honest and pure as he took her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “This must be yer beautiful wife. Unfortunately, I was unable to make yer wedding day. I apologize for that. My father had given me other duties to attend to.”
Fiona chuckled and shook her head. “No apology needed. It was quite abrupt.”
Andrew’s eyes lowered to her belly and his smile grew. “I see ye have been busy,” he said while clapping Malcom on the shoulder. “Do ye know when she’s due?”
“She’s due soon,” Fiona said while holding her head high. She was not in the slightest bit happy when anyone spoke for her when she was present and she wouldn’t permit it now.
Andrew chuckled while nodding vigorously. “We should have a drink in celebration, Malcom!”
Dalilah cleared her throat and Fiona watched as Andrew’s blue eyes swiveled to her. His lips pursed while he looked her up and down. There was a slight gleam to his eyes Fiona recognized. She looked up at Malcom, wondering if he noticed it, but he was too busy in his head, possibly thinking about work and not about the man gazing at his sister. She shook her head, telling herself that men often didn’t see these things.
“And who might this lass be?”
Dalilah frowned. “I’m Dalilah,” she said curtly. “How is it ye do not remember me?”
Andrew chuckled, crossing his arms. Fiona noticed how his fingers dug into his elbows and the way his body mirrored hers. “Oh, I remember Dalilah,” he said with a sly grin, “but she was a scrawny wee lass.”
Dalilah gasped. “I beg yer pardon?”
Andrew tilted his head to the side, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “One with a mighty temper if I remember correctly.”
Dalilah stepped towards him, leaning forward while she scowled up at him. Fiona watched as Andrew didn’t back down. He clenched his jaw while laughter played behind his eyes. She didn’t know why, but she liked the way he looked at Dalilah. It was a look of adoration; teasing, and yet loving.
“I only have a temper, because ye are the one who makes it so,” Dalilah said, her voice raised.
Andrew’s eyes widened in mock shock. He pointed a finger at himself. “Me? I would never.”
Dalilah scoffed, her mouth opening as if to shout something at him. Malcom stepped forward, pushing his body in between the two. “Enough, both of ye,” he said, sounding exhausted. “Why don’t we let the servants show Andrew to his rooms. I’m sure he is exhausted from his journey and would enjoy a bath.”
Dalilah forced a smile, yet the fiery glint remained in her eyes. “Of course, Brother,” she said while stepping away from Andrew. She nodded to the servants standing behind her. “Please show Mr. Campbell to his rooms.”
“Thank ye,” Andrew said, the mischievous smile still fastened to his face.
Dalilah watched him go, her smile falling into a deep scowl and as soon as Andrew was up the stairs she whirled around. “I am so putting a rat in his bed,” she whispered harshly before turning on her heel and stalking down the hall.
Fiona giggled, covering her mouth with one hand while Malcom sighed.
“To think I have the both of them under one roof again,” he said while pinching the bridge of his nose. He leaned his head backwards, his gaze staring up at the ceiling in agitation. “How am I ever going to get through these next few months?”
Fiona rubbed her belly. “Oh, I know how,” she said while smiling up at him knowingly.
Malcom’s hands rested on her stomach and he leaned down, pressing an ear against it and sighing. “I just hope everything will be alright,” he whispered.
Fiona stroked his hair. “It will be.” She knew he was worried about the birthing and understood his fear. His last wife had died in childbirth. She couldn’t say anything to rid him of his anxiety. She, too, hoped everything would be fine.
Malcom rose and pressed a kiss against her temple. “Do ye have any herbs or teas I can give those two so they can get along?”
Fiona chuckled and glanced over her shoulder, looking at the stairs Andrew just went up. “I don’t think they need any herbs,” she said, her lips curling into a bright smile. “I think they like each other more than ye think.”
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