Highlander’s Cursed Heiress (Preview)

Chapter I

Gale looked up at the sun. The last time she checked to see how much light she had left in the day, it seemed as if she would have more time to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Now, as the sun melted behind the mountain tops, there were still hours before full nightfall, but she’d failed to account for the mountains. Dusk flooded the valley, threatening to blind her with darkness within an hour.

A stray wind whipped down and pulled at Gale’s cloak. She pulled it close to her body, shivering against the sudden temperature drop. Her heart pounded as she looked around. Hours had passed since the last time she saw a house or a human at all. The road wound across the valley. In the distance, she could see the dark sponging of a forest, well out of her way. Yet for miles ahead, the land was open and vulnerable, save the occasional outcropping of rocks piercing through wildflowers and moss.

What have I done? Gale thought. She’d not accounted for the mountains stealing so much day, and now the thought of making camp in the open frightened her.

The other nights were hard, but she’d lucked out, and the days stretched on longer. Gale stared at the dark tree line, now only a shadow. The roughhewn road reflected some light, a pallid snake curling through the dusk. Her mind filled with horrible thoughts—bandits, travelers drunk and cold and aggressive—and of course, wild animals hunting for a meal.

There was no way she could sleep out in the open. Her fire would beckon one and all nearby, and at this point in her journey, strangers terrified her. She remembered the cruelty she’d met from the first villagers she solicited for help. With the respects of her title stripped from her, she was a common girl, now filthy and hungry from traveling in the same clothes for weeks.

I should have never sold the horse Gale chastised herself as she walked faster. It had been necessary, though. The horse would have given her company and helped her, but she would have starved or frozen. Each night was colder than the previous as she made it further north. She had a blanket and a dwindling supply of food. The cheat robbed me.

Gale tried to push the memory from her mind. She didn’t know anything’s price. She knew her horse was worth more than she received, but it was her first time haggling. Her fear of the darkness and what danger might come with it fueled a million terrible thoughts in her mind. Anger coursed through her as she remembered the farmer’s stoic face while she begged him for an honest trade—a feat in itself that injured her pride. If not for how hungry she was at that point, she would have waited, but she had never gone two days without food before. The man knew she was desperate and naïve.

A small rock tripped up her foot. “God’s teeth!” Her heart dropped into her stomach as she stumbled forward. The palms of her hands tore against the packed earth and small pebbles.

Tears gripped at her. She sniffed them back, remembering how much harder they made it for her to think and make good time. Gale tipped her matted blonde head up to the heavens and let out a sigh. The clouds were too thick. Even when the stars peeked out, it was unlikely for her to receive much light. Her hands trembled as she wiped her nose on the edge of her cloak.

Calm down. She forced herself to take a deep breath and step forward. Just get to the trees. The thought of her bed, so warm and comfortable with fire blazing in the hearth, came to mind. Gale squeezed her eyes shut hard enough for specks of light to spark against her dark eyelids. She couldn’t think about home. She knew what memories would come next. There was no use in thinking about how nice it would be to eat a full meal and sleep in a real bed. It was not going to happen. She could never go back home.

Gale took one more breath, and as she exhaled, she focused her full attention on the forest. I can make a bed of pine and leaves. What about animals? It felt as if some small creature crept from the nape of her neck to her spine. She shook the thought of bugs and creeping things from her mind. Out here is worse.

The hours passed. One foot at a time, one small step at a time, she drew closer. Darkness enveloped her until even her pale hands were hardly visible in front of her. When the forest was near enough to tower above her, she started to run. She ran as if all her fears were right behind her. It was if, at any moment, the hand of a strange man or a bloodthirsty thief would snatch the collar of her cloak and rip her to the ground.

Her feet slipped on the moisture slicked grass. She let out a soft cry, catching herself and carrying on. Just a little further. Her hands reached out. The rough bark gripped at her fingertips. She let the momentum of her sprint wrap her around the tree as she caught her breath. The forest was instantly darker than the road. She groaned as she looked into the blackness before her, hoping for her eyes to adjust.

Gale looked back and forth between the open stretch of land behind her and the darkness of the forest. The black branches spread out like claws. The rustling of small animals piqued her ears and stirred dark imaginings in her mind. She heaved her rucksack onto her shoulder, cringing as the rope cut into her tender flesh.

The young woman mustered up the courage to take a few steps into the trees. She didn’t want to lay in the open, easy for a passerby to accost, her few items too valuable to lose. The darkness was worst, though. She stopped when she could no longer see the road, hoping it was good enough to keep her safe.

Gale pulled the foliage into a pile and wrapped herself tightly in the wool blanket. The cold air bit at her nose, and her body ached from walking and carrying all that she owned. She pulled the blanket over her head, creating a cocoon for her breath to warm. The nights were always the hardest. She was tired and frightened and overwhelmed. Without the landscape and focus of her journey to keep her mind occupied, the past haunted her.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, Gale tried to tell herself as she felt the lump swell in her throat. She promised herself she would not cry anymore. It was of no use, no matter how much she felt she had mourned enough, the nights always broke her. The image of her father’s face—distorted, swollen, and blue came to her as clear as if she had found him the night before. She pulled her blanket closer and wiggled deeper into the dried leaves and bits of brush.

Visions of her home swirled up. She could not remember her father’s laugh or the sound of his voice. Guilt coursed through her as she struggled to recall the only person who’d made her feel loved. She remembered how she saw her mother the night of his death. Even though there was nothing she could have done, she should have known something was terribly wrong.

Heavy sobs wracked her body. She let them come, crashing over her like waves. Gale choked on her cries, wailing soft into the silent privacy of the night. When her throat dried and she choked, coughing until she was forced to breathe and calm down, a nervous sleep overcame her.

Since leaving home, she hadn’t slept soundly. It was easy to recount all the ways she took her plush life for granted. There was constant fear on the road, and it came into her dreams.

A branch snapped in the distance. Gale’s eyes flew open, and her body stiffened. She clung tight to the wool cloth, afraid to move, straining her ears for another sound. Another broken branch—barely audible—cracked.

With trembling fingers, Gale pulled the blanket down just enough to peek at the woods around her. She dared not to move more than necessary. Within a few yards, big yellow eyes stared at her. They floated in the darkness like hungry spirits and froze the blood in her veins with their ravenous gaze. The rustle of foliage whispered behind her. She dared not look, but she knew she was surrounded. She could feel the tension hanging in the air. The smell of dank fur carried on the breeze sending the hair on her arms and neck prickling up at attention.

Up above, the wide branches of a mighty oak stretched out. It was her only hope. Gale curled her fingers around the edge of the blanket, knowing the second she moved, they would attack. She closed her eyes for a moment to calm her heart and imagine what she needed to do.

Gale tore the blanket from her body and jumped as fast as she could to the nearest branch. Her fingers threatened to slip as she hugged the wide bough curving outwards above her makeshift bed. The trees exploded with movement. She struggled to pull herself up. There was no thinking or lapse in time as she jumped to the next branch, hoping it was strong enough to hold her. Jaws snapped in the darkness below. She squealed as claws scraped the bark just beneath her, unable to see anything except their eyes in the dark woods.

The young woman thought she was dead. She muttered prayers under her breath. “Ach! Please, God, please no.”

The bark roughed up her small palms and cut at her knees as she scrambled up the tree. Gale did not look down. She jumped in her skin, almost losing balance as one of them leaped, jowls snapping close enough for her to feel its hot breath. Gale’s hand reached up for the next branch. It snapped in her hand. She screamed out and clung to the trunk. Holding herself there, too scared to move.

Never in her life had she climbed a tree—not like this. In her youth, the farthest she dared to clamber up was the occasional low branch swooping towards the mossy floors—even that was a private, naughty endeavor for a lady. To think, that filled her with adrenaline and a sense of adventurous mischief—and now, she was high enough to kill herself, and surrounded by wolves.

Her heartbeat calmed enough for her to look down. She could make out the faint movement below her. The darkness slithered back and forth, circling the trunk. Occasionally those eyes would flash up at her, bright and vexed at missing their meal. The pack started to howl.

“Go away!” More tears choked her in her panic. Her voice was weak and unconvincing. She tried to calm it’s nervous shake, “Get out o’ here!” she screamed.

It was no use. Gale stood there, clinging to the trunk until their howls calmed down, and her arms ached enough to shake. She looked around her. There was a branch adjacent, wide enough for her to sit. Her fingers stretched out, barely grazing the limb. She would have to jump. Her eyes looked down. They were tearing through her things. She stayed clinging to the trunk as long as she could, knowing if she didn’t leap to the other branch, she was sure to have her muscles give out beneath her and land amongst the hungry, waiting wolves.

With a deep breath, Gale took the leap of faith. Her chest slammed hard against the bough. She gasped for air and clung for dear life, her legs kicking beneath her. Tears squeezed from her eyes as her feet flailed below. She could hear the wolves’ excitement, whimpering, and growling. She tried to pull herself up, but her muscles ached. Teeth snapped, clipping her boot. Gale screamed. Terror and primal instinct ripped through her. She pulled with all of her might and wiggled her chest above the branch. With newfound courage and focus, fueled by fear, Gale managed to swing her feet up.

She laid there panting, terrified of moving, hugging the tree for security. She opened her eyes to see the wolves leaping at her, taking turns. Each one startled her, and she cried out anew, afraid that the next jump would be the one to reach her. The wolf’s leap fell short by a couple of feet.

“Please, jus’ leave me alone,” she begged.

The wolves ignored her pleas.

Hopelessness clasped her heart. She was too scared to sit up despite the branch being wide enough to hold her. Gale was terrified of moving at all, and despite how exhausted she was, she knew to fall asleep likely meant her death.

There goes the last of the meat, she thought after her heart stilled a bit. The sounds of the wolves tearing through her belongings dragged her heart down. The most she could hope for was that the blanket was not torn to shreds, and her waterskin remained intact.

To comfort herself, Gale imagined what her destination might look like. She imagined Rosalie’s new home to be extravagant now that she was married to the McGregor’s clan chief. The thought of tender meat and a warm bed kept her from giving up and letting her muscles to relax. The problem was, it was hard to find comfort when she didn’t know how far she had come. It felt as if she’d spent months walking from her keep on the Scottish border. There was no telling how long she still had to go until she reached Loch Awe in the highlands.

In her mind, she tried to replay the journey. Years passed since the last time her father and mother traveled together to Loch Awe. The memory was painful—not only because of the deep longing in her chest for her beloved father but for all of the dramatic madness which ensued on that journey. They traveled in a cart then. What she would do for a chance to be holed up in a cart right then, an experience she’d loathed and complained about in the past.

Confused and overwhelmed, exhaustion made her eyelids heavy. She struggled to keep them open. The wolves refused to leave. Despite her struggles, sleep arrested her. She snapped wide awake as one of her toes slipped from the branch, reawakening the fear inside of her. Down below, the wolves howled, waiting for her to lose her grip and fall so they could feast.

Chapter II

The night crawled past, threatening to never end. Gale was vaguely aware of the wolves giving up, chasing after some unfortunate creature in the darkness. Still, she was too scared to climb down. It was too dark to see anything, and she imagined them waiting for her just within reach. Anytime she fell asleep, she would jolt awake, her fright too real and encompassing to let her body risk falling.

Gale stared out through the leaves and branches until the first fingers of dawn washed the world with gray. Birds sang and chirped with cheerful delight. It annoyed Gale to see the world move on around her misfortune. She did not gather the courage to climb down until the warmth of the sun was full on her face. Down below, she could see her small items scattered about. Oats were sprinkled over the dried leaves in all directions, left from the wolves’ tearing through her small parcel to get to the dried meat. The last of her food was all gone.

The young woman’s muscles trembled as she tried to climb down. She was past the point of exhaustion. On the last branch, her slender arms failed her. Her feet slipped on the trunk, and she fell flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Gale lay there, staring up at the sun filtering down between wide oak and birch leaves. When her breath returned to normal, she let the earth cradle her, grateful to be back on solid ground. Her mind was numb, too tired to think of anything except for the pain screaming from her stomach.

It took her a long time to pull herself into a sitting position. Everything was hazy and surreal, and it was impossible to tell if she had dozed for a moment while she lay there. She knew she needed to keep moving. With no food and no telling when she would see civilization again, she knew she must continue—no matter how much she just wanted to sleep at the base of the oak that saved her life.

As Gale sat, feeling each muscle threaten to quit, she reaffirmed her conviction to survive. I will not cry today. She looked around at the woods, their calm beauty mocking Gale’s fear throughout the previous night. I will find food. I’ve come too far to quit now. She let out a soft moan as she stood to assess the damage.

The blanket was torn in a few places and smelled awful. Gale felt tears burn the corners of her eyes. She could smell herself, too. A deep breath rattled through her lips, sucking the tears back inside. She squealed as her hand touched slobber, dropping the blanket back to the ground. A fit overcame her. With no one to bear witness, Gale stomped her feet and screamed out, letting all her anger and fear scare the birds from the trees. She tore through the leaves, searching for her scattered belongings.

To Gale’s relief, other than the damage to the blanket and her missing food stores, everything else was unbroken. She shook her waterskin. It was half full. With a glance up at the sun’s position, Gale took a small sip, reminding herself to ration what remained. She couldn’t think about what would happen next. The thought of not knowing how much longer her journey would take crushed her willpower. She had to focus on moving forward and nothing more.

One foot in front of the other, Gale trudged through the woods. When she broke through the trees, her heart burst with excitement. For the first time in a long time, she recognized where she was. In fact, as exhausted as she felt, she knew if she kept on, she would make it to Rosalie’s home within the next two days.

Her stomach grumbled. She might not make it for two days.

As her hunger and eagerness to reach her destination peaked, Gale spotted a small homestead. There was no one around, and she could see a small animal shack with two horses grazing outside. If I had one of those horses, I could make it to Rosalie tonight. Gale stood there, staring at the horses for a long time. Whoever owned the property was out in their fields or busy in their home. There was no one around for miles.

Gale stepped onto the low wooden fence corralling the horses. If anyone comes, I’ll just play dumb. In her mind, her appearance still reflected the respectability of the prim and groomed noblewoman she had been for her entire life. If she had fully understood how dirty and ragged she looked, she might have thought twice about risking stealing a horse. She had never stolen anything before, but the thought of warming herself by Rosalie’s fire pushed all thoughts of morality from her mind.

With a quick look about her, Gale decided to sprint to the animal shack. Knowing the coast was clear, she ran as fast as she could, terrified the owner of the property would appear at any second. Her heart pounded as she stepped into the cover of the lean-to and caught her breath. To her relief, it was unoccupied by any workers.

Everything she needed was there. Gale’s heart pounded in her chest, and her hands shook. She moved as quick as she could, afraid at any point she would be caught red-handed. She peeked out at the horses, taking in a full glimpse of the land for anyone. There was no one in sight. With a hand stuffed with hay, she was able to lure the smaller of the two towards her. A rush of excitement coursed through her as the pretty dappled draft horse ate the bits of dried grass, then nuzzled its muzzle into her palm.

Gale wasted no time. She always loved horses, but it was the second time in her life she ever prepared one by herself. Even when she fled from her keep, one of the working hands helped her in her escape. He helped her up into the saddle. Now, she struggled, climbing onto one of the stalls to get up. A whistle sounded in the distance. Someone was coming. Gale’s heart dropped into her stomach. She wasted no more time, nearly falling from the back of the creature as she slipped into the saddle. Her feet kicked into its hinds, and within moments she was blazing across the open grounds and kicking the horse to leap a short gate.

“Hey!” Someone screamed behind her. “That’s ma horse! Stop! Stop!”

Gale dared to look back over her shoulder. An old man ran across his property, trying to stop her. A wild laugh overcame Gale as she leaned into the horse’s neck, urging it to go faster. With every glimpse back, energy coursed through Gale’s veins as she saw the man’s silhouette shrinking in the distance. She could not stop laughing. It was the first time she had laughed in months. Even before her father was murdered, there was little to laugh about, and now, the insanity of the situation made her giggle without control.

I just stole a horse. She was amazed. Never in her life would she have imagined herself taking anything. She would have turned her nose up in disdain at anyone would even think of such a thing. Her mind coursed with thoughts of a warm bed and hot food. She kept the horse running until it tuckered out.

Gale drank the last sips of her water as the sun reached the highest point in the sky. The horse plodded forward with heavy, sure feet. She was sweating and starving. Guilt started to edge in now that the novelty wore off, now that the excitement of having done something so adventurous and unlike her ebbed away. Exhaustion settled back into her bones.

Between the heat and the hunger and the shame of now being a thief, by the time she saw the first signs of Loch Awe’s community, a paranoia set into Gale’s mind. They’re going to know this is not my horse. She knew it was a crazy thought. There is no way that man had overtaken her and alerted anyone. She would have seen him. Still, she could not look at anyone as she steered the mare towards Rosalie’s new home.

The closer she came to her destination, the heavier her body and mind were. She was done. She was almost there. Thirst made her throat sore and raw. Her stomach roared. Her muscles ached. The sun touched her, and she felt her cheeks burn from exposure. In the distance, she could see it now. The pastures rolling out beneath the mountains. The long dirt path winding into the homestead seemed to stretch on forever. Gale’s head pounded, and the sun and lack of sleep made her slightly delirious. I’m going to faint. She tried to keep her eyes focused ahead, but her head swam and vision blurred.

“Gale?” Rosalie’s voice drew Gale’s attention towards her.

Gale looked up and felt as if she was trying to see through moving water. She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and the words did not come. Her friend looked more beautiful now than ever, with the sun shining at her back and her belly swollen huge with child.

Rosalie reached out to grab the reigns. Gale could barely keep seated in the saddle. Her body ached, the strain of the previous night, finally setting into its full effect. She swallowed, trying to gather as much moisture in her mouth as she could.

“Rosalie,” was all Gale could say. It came out in a cracked, hoarse whisper. Gale barely recognized her own voice.

She tried to sit up straight, but a pain tore through her belly, and her head swooned as the blood rushed too fast to her brain. Rosalie’s hands reached up to her, touching her torso. Gale could not move. She was done, defeated. It was as if her body knew in every fiber that she had made it and could rest.

“Ye got tae help me, Gale.”

Gale let out a heavy sigh and slumped over, sliding her body down the horse. In her mind, she was graceful, but her body was not working like it normally did. Her muscles were past their breaking point, and her brain was fuzzy. Everything seemed to move like in a dream. It was as if her brain shut off for a moment, and the next thing she knew, she was falling instead of dismounting from the horse. Rosalie stumbled, trying to help her, but Gale fainted.

Her eyes fluttered open in confusion. The back of her neck and head throbbed. She didn’t know it was from thirst or if she’d hit her head. Rosalie screamed at something, but the words seemed to run together, Gale’s brain not working fast enough to keep up. She tried to stand up, but she stumbled. Rosalie’s strong hand grabbed her shoulder. She led her forward towards the small cottage, supporting most of Gale’s weight.

“Sit down,” Rosalie commanded.

Gale sat on the stone step. She looked up at Rosalie and felt humiliation spread over her. Rosalie’s face was filled with confusion and concern. Gale suddenly realized how terrible she must look, how horrible her state was, and with no warning or explanation. Gale remembered the last time she saw Rosalie, how her mad mother had whipped the woman and locked her up in the tower Gale came to know too well throughout her youth. There was an unspoken bond that formed between them then—but that was years ago. It suddenly occurred to Gale that Rosalie probably never wanted to see anyone from Gale’s family again—a reminder of the horrid period of her life.

“I’m sorry—” Gale’s voice cracked.

“Shh, not now.”

A little boy handed Gale a dipper filled with water. She drank greedy gulps, relishing the cold liquid through her searing throat. Streams of water rolled down her chin, and almost immediately, the fog started to ebb from her mind. She must think I am mad.

“I didn’t know where else to turn.”

Rosalie brushed her fingers over Gale’s hair, trying to calm her. The touch was more soothing than anything Gale had felt in her life. Such a simple gesture made her feel safe. She felt tears choking her again, and it made her feel pathetic and weak. The water and tender touch reawakened a manic fright within her. Gale’s eyes were wide, her body trembled. She tried to stand before Rosalie grabbed her wrist and pulled for her to sit back down.

“I want ye to sit fer a moment.”

A little girl poked her head out from the cottage. She hid behind the door. Gale caught the girl’s eye, looking her up and down. She felt self-conscious and foolish beneath the gaze of the bairn. Rosalie reached her hand out, and the girl handed her a hunk of bread before disappearing back into the cottage with a quick slam of the door.

Rosalie rolled her eyes at the display and turned to Gale. “Can ye eat?”

Gale nodded, “Aye, thank ye.” It took all over self-control not to snatch the bread and swallow it whole. She reminded herself to eat slowly after going so long without a real meal.

They sat in silence while Gale nibbled at the bread and recovered her strength. Rosalie would not let her speak until after she rested.

The next hour passed in a haze. The fire crackled inside, warming Gale and lulling her into a relaxed state. She obeyed Rosalie, letting the woman remove the ruined clothes and put her in something clean. Gale’s eyes fixed on the garment pulled from her body. It was worse than she thought, torn and stained. She shuddered, thinking about how Rosalie might perceive her and was grateful Rosalie was just a common woman and not someone of importance.

The two children, whom Rosalie introduced as Hamish and Thomasina, soon forgot their shyness and crowded around them. Gale cowered within her skin under their constant gazes. The cottage was not what she expected from a Highland Chief and his wife. Everything seemed to be in one room, although Gale noticed a couple doors indicating more space beyond. There was a single bed next to the fire, almost touching their table. Gale did not have the energy to judge or care as she would in normal circumstances. When Rosalie pulled back the covers for her, she climbed in and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

“Gale, Gale…”

Someone touched Gale. She forgot, having made it to Rosalie. Her eyes flew wide in a panic, afraid she was asleep in the forest, and someone was trying to hurt her. She kicked out.

Rosalie held her tight, keeping her from thrashing. “Shh, tis alright. You’re safe now.”

“What’s wrong with her, Mama?” Thomasina played with her skirts. Gale watched the fabric swish back and forth, feeling small and embarrassed for her intrusion and desperation.

“She’s had a long journey, is all.”

Gale looked up at Declan. Rosalie’s husband looked at her, a scowl furrowing over her brow. She could see it all in his face; he was not feeling as generous as his wife. Gale could not tell if he was angry or afraid, but it made her wonder if she’d made a mistake by coming. Maybe I should have just stayed in the woods—lived there forever and risked the wolves eating me. Humiliation and self-pity and loathing burned her cheeks. She shrank under Declan’s stern gaze.

“Drink this.”

Gale took the glass, her hands noticeably shaking. The taste was velvet smooth. The rich bone broth calmed her and awakened her wits.

“Declan’s here, Gale, an’ we need to know what’s happenin’?”

Gale refrained from rolling her eyes. I’m not an idiot. I can see him judging me just fine. She crumpled over the cup and started to cry. Her bright blue eyes shone out like icy gems, contrasting against the reds and pinks of her irritated face. She tried to calm herself with deep breaths, her hands shaking as she forced down more of the broth.

“Pa is dead.” The image of his face was like someone stabbing her in the heart, “An’,” she sniffed, trying to keep from crying yet again, “an’ Ma, I think she means to kill me.” Gale did not want to look up at them and see their reaction. She snatched Rosalie’s hand and forced herself to peek up. Her eyes filled with desperation. “Please, I didn’t know who else tae go to. You must help me, Rosalie. There’s no one else I know who can.”

Declan grabbed the sleeve of Rosalie’s dress gently to pull her into a private conversation. Rosalie shrugged him off, intent on hearing Gale through before making a decision. “Calm down, Gale. Start from the beginnin’ an’ tell us what happened.”

Gale took a deep breath. “Ma kept gettin’ worse after ye left. She’d go through these states…” Gale squeezed her eyes shut as she thought of the things her mother did in her periods of madness—beating her, yelling at her, seeing things that were not there, and acting out in violence. “…Where she didn’t even recognize us. Sometimes thought we were different people—that she were different. This man came one day, said he were a doctor—that he could help her. Ma seemed to get better, but these delusions,” she gestured to the air, rolling her eyes up, “It were as if somethin’ possessed her when she’d have ‘em.” Gale struggled not to start crying again, “Her an’ this doctor were close. They got to a point where they were inseparable. Pa was gettin’ uncomfortable with it, said he weren’t helpin’ her anymore, an’ when he finally asked the doctor to leave, that’s when, when—” Sobs wracked her body.

Rosalie rubbed her back. Gale calmed herself enough to continue, the pitch of her voice squeaking with emotion. “The doctor said it were his heart…” Gale shook her head, remembering the wine glass spilling from her father’s hand and the way his face was distorted as if he choked to death. “After, within the week,” she exclaimed, “Ma started actin’ like it were her keep an’ talkin’ to an’ about that doctor as if they were already married. One o’ the workers made a comment abou’ how she weren’t the heir, I was. Ma and the doctor were in an outrage, fightin’ all evening.

“That night, he came into my room…” Gale closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, trying to force the feel of his hands, grabbing her from her memory. Her words burst out like venom pulled from a wound. “He tried to lay with me. He tried to convince me to marry him, that it was I he loved, not my mother, an’ when I refused him, he—he—” She started crying again. She couldn’t say it out loud, not with Declan there just staring at her. “I managed to get away, an’ this was the only place I knew I’d be safe from ‘em.”

Declan paced around the room, looking out the small shutters for signs of danger. “Do ye ken if ye were followed?” Gale shook her head in negation. “Rosie, outside.”

Rosalie smiled at Gale. “Jus’ give us a moment.” She turned to her children. “Hamish, stoke the fire. Thomasina, keep our guest comfortable.”

“Aye, Ma.”

Gale could hear the occasional raised voice as Declan and Rosalie talked just outside. She wrung her hands. If they turned her away, there was nowhere to go. If they didn’t help her and hide her, it was over. She knew she could not endure anymore.


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A Highlander Marked by Fate (Preview)

Chapter I

Rory Elliott was restless. He gazed out of the window across the moorlands towards Lochrutton, sighing as he did so.

“Tis’ nay use,” he said out loud, “I am like a prisoner in my own home.”

He got up and made his way from his chambers and down into the great hall. His mother was there, and she looked and smiled at him, as he scowled back.

“Now then, Rory, what is it that ails ye?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“I am tired of bein’ here in the castle. Why does father insist that I remain here while he is away?” Rory said.

His father had been visiting the Laird of Klinross, a two-day journey to the north. In his absence, Rory had been left in charge of the castle and the clan. A fitting test for one who would one day be Laird.

“Because yer father has given ye a responsibility, Rory. He trusts ye, does that nae mean anything to ye?” his mother asked.

Rory nodded. It meant a great deal to him, but still, it frustrated him. His brother Owen was in the monastery at Lanercost, living out his religious vocation and his sister Evie was happily married and living with her husband Hamish and her children at the castle of the McBryde’s, some miles to the east. Only he, Rory Elliott, was living precisely the same life as he had always lived.

It was a life devoid of interest unless one counted the archery and swordsmanship, which his father made him practice almost daily. He would ride out at his father’s side or visit tenants and crofters on the high moorlands. But Rory was always his father’s second. This was the first time any responsibility had been given him, and far from being excited by the prospect, he still found himself as though tethered to the Laird’s apron strings.

“It does. But … if I am to be Laird, I must have more trust placed in me. By ye and by my father,” he said, eyeing his mother for her reaction.

She smiled, shaking her head and beginning to work once more on her spinning wheel.

“Ye are headstrong, Rory. Just like yer father. But he was less impatient than ye. He dreaded the day yer grandfather died. The thought of that responsibility filled him with terror. If truth be told, I think it still does,” she said.

Rory found that hard to believe. His father was every bit the noble warrior, a man feared and respected in equal measure. The Elliotts were a proud clan and used to fighting battles against overwhelming odds. Was it not his father who had led them to victory over the Musgraves and who kept the uneasy peace upon the borders? Fraser Elliott took his responsibility seriously, and he had long impressed upon Rory the need to do the same.

“Father is nae afraid of anythin’, and neither am I. I would face a thousand Musgraves right now, but instead I am sat here mindin’ the affairs of peasants, while father is away on the true duties of a Laird,” Rory replied.

“And takin’ care of yer dear mother too. The true duties of a Laird are many, and ye would dae well to know that, Rory,” Isla replied, somewhat pointedly.

Rory sighed. He wanted an adventure, something to lift him from the monotony of life at Kirklinton.

“And I dae that gladly, mother. But I am tired of bein’ here right now. Owen has his life, Evie has hers. What is there for me?” he asked.

“Think of it this way, son. Owen’s life is decided for him at Lanercost, his vows of poverty and obedience mean he cannae leave, and Evie will live out her days with Hamish at the castle of the McBryde’s. They are happy, of course, but ye still have the future to look forward to. Who knows what adventures ye might have?” his mother replied.

Rory nodded. His mother was right, of course. To wish his place as Laird fulfilled was also to wish the sad death of his father. Fraser Elliott had been in ill health lately, a recent illness almost having taken him before his time. But he had rallied, as strong as an ox, as his sister Evie might say.

Rory did not wish his father dead, not for a moment. But he longed for something more, some excitement in his life to break from the normal drab and daily grind of peasant’s work and oversight. He was no farmer, he was a warrior, and right now, he longed for adventure.

“I suppose so,” was all he could reply, and his mother laughed.

“Oh, Rory. Ye always were so headstrong. If ye cannae tolerate bein’ here a moment longer then why daenae ye walk to Lanercost with yer uncle. He is leavin’ Kirklinton shortly, and ye can take my love to yer brother and tell him to visit us soon,” she said.

“But father said …” Rory began, and his mother raised her hand.

“Yer father is nae here. Go, Rory, I will be quite all right here. There are soldiers aplenty, and I have old Sweeney for company. I am just glad that ye shall have time to think a little. Be on yer way,” she said.

Rory did not need telling twice, and he hurried off to find his uncle and prepare for the journey. It may not have been the grand adventure he dreamt of. But right now, anything was better than sitting in the castle, listening to the complaints of crofters, and collecting taxes for his father. Rory was ready to stretch his legs, and he made his way to the courtyard, where he found his uncle preparing to depart.

“Ah, well now, my nephew,” his uncle said, smiling at him, as Rory entered the stable.

“Mother has told me that I am to escort ye to Lanercost,” Rory said, not wishing to reveal the precise reason why he was taking to the path.

“Did yer father nae give ye instructions to remain here while he was away. Unless trouble flared up along the borders?” his uncle asked.

Rory’s uncle had a way of seeing beyond words to the truth, and it was clear he considered his nephew to be lying. Rory blushed and nodded.

“Aye, uncle. But my mother has said differently,” he replied.

Duncan shrugged his shoulders and smiled. He had an elderly look about him, though he was younger than Rory’s father by several years. It was his long white beard, which made him look thus and his enormous eyebrows, which seemed to grow bushier with every visit.

“I shall be glad of the company along the path. Ye can protect me from brigands and outlaws,” his uncle said, laughing and shaking his head.

The path to Lanercost was a safe one, thanks to Rory’s father. There had been peace along the borders these past years, and Rory had not had cause to lift a sword in anger for months. The last time had been a simple dispute between crofters, one easily resolved when the Laird had threatened to banish both parties from the clan if they did not desist in their argument.

“I am sure that nay one would attack a monk of Lanercost,” Rory said, though he tied his sword belt to his waist just in case.

“A monk is as much a target as a Laird. More so, since any would-be thief knows that I would turn the other cheek,” his uncle said, laughing once more and shaking his head.

“The truth is, I will be glad of the journey, and I should like to see Owen,” Rory said, as Duncan led him across the courtyard.

“Ye miss yer brother?” his uncle said, as the gates of the castle were swung open for them.

“I … well, I envy him at times,” Rory replied.

“Ye used to call him ‘little monk’ and mock him for his piety,” his uncle said, walking next to Rory through the gates.

“Aye … that was only a joke, Uncle Duncan. I daenae mean I envy his life. Though I can see it makes him happy. But I … I envy that he has found his way and …” Rory began.

“Ye are still searchin’ for yers? It will come, nephew. Give it time. While yer father lives, ye shall always be in his shadow. Think of Hamish McBryde. He lived in his father’s shadow for years, and it was only upon his death that life changed for him. Daenae wish too hard though, or ye may get yer wish. God listens to the thoughts of our hearts, and he can read yers as though they were written in a book,” his uncle replied, shaking his head.

They walked on in silence for a while, crossing over the moorland path which led towards Lochrutton. It was a pleasant day, the clouds high in the sky, and a gentle breeze blowing across the sweet-smelling heathers. Rory watched as a hawk circled above, diving like an arrow to catch its unseen prey below. How he admired its freedom and the way it seemed to soar so majestically above them, monarch of all that it surveyed.

“Is Owen happy?” Rory asked as they took to the path west towards Lanercost.

“Aye, yer brother is happy. He is a monk,” Rory’s uncle said, laughing, as was his habit for he always seemed to have such peace about him, a peace which Rory envied at times.

“I didnae mean that. Is he happy that he has found his way?” Rory said, and his uncle paused.

“What is it that troubles ye, Rory? Ye are askin’ about others happiness, what of yer own. Are ye nae happy?” his uncle said.

Rory paused for a moment, uncertain of how to reply. Once again, his uncle seemed to have a  way of seeing through his words to the truth, and he knew that a lie would never get past him.

“I … I daenae know. Sometimes I am, and sometimes I am nae,” he replied.

“Well, that is nay answer, lad. Ye may as well say that sometimes ye are hungry and sometimes ye are nay. It means nothin’ until tis’ one or the other,” his uncle replied.

Rory sighed. He wasn’t happy, not really. He had a burning desire inside him for something more than the everyday existence he was living. He longed for adventure or the chance to prove himself. Something to lift him from the drudgery of life and offer him the opportunity to show his father and others what he was made of. That, and he wanted a wife and not just any wife, the woman he had so long desired and who was forever out of his reach. He was restless and could only admit that he was not happy at all

“What have I achieved? I am nae the Laird, I have nay responsibility, and I have nay wife. Owen has found his vocation, and Evie is happy with Hamish and the children. What dae I have?” Rory said.

“Opportunity, lad,” his uncle replied, patting him on the shoulder.

“What?” Rory asked, surprised by his uncle’s words, which seemed almost meaningless.

“Why does everyone think they must have everything their heart desires in an instant? Tis’ nonsense, ye still have the chance to make somethin’ of yer life. Ye are twenty-five years old, Rory. Why dae ye want everythin’ now? Is life a journey or a destination? The destination for us all is heaven, so enjoy the journey and daenae worry about arrivin’ at somethin’ before ye are ready for it,” his uncle replied.

Rory nodded, his uncle was always so wise and knew just the thing to say. It made sense, of course, just like everything the monk said. He was the smartest person Rory knew, far more so than his headstrong father.

“Aye, uncle,” he replied as they set off together along the path west.

“I might nae know much of the ways of the world. I have been a monk these many years past, but I know about the soul, and I know that ye are restless, Rory. But have patience,” his uncle said.

“I know, tis’ hard, though, but …” Rory said, but he had no time to finish his words, as the sight of something ahead caused him to startle and turn to his uncle in alarm.

There, heading straight towards them, were three English soldiers, their swords drawn and angry looks upon their faces.

Chapter II

It was too late to run away, and he was no match for the men alone. His uncle bore no arms, but Rory drew his sword anyway, as the three men advanced towards them along the track.

Each bore the insignia of the Musgraves, and Rory knew from the stories told him by his father and the times he’d encountered them before, that the Musgraves were more likely to attack than listen to reason.

“You there, boy,” one of them called out, “what business do you have wandering along this path?”

“Our business is our own,” Rory replied, stepping forward between his uncle and the men.

“A Scot and a monk. What clan are you?” the lead soldier asked, advancing ahead of the others and drawing his sword.

He had a nasty look to him, a scar running down his cheek, and his sword was bloodied and sharp.

Rory wondered whether to make up a story and tell a lie. The Musgraves would not take kindly to discovering that he was an Elliott, for the Musgraves were bitter enemies of his father, as they had been of his grandfather before. But it was his uncle who stepped forward, holding up his hands in a sign of peace.

“Come now, lads, can ye nae see that I am a monk of Lanercost? I bear nay arms, and this lad here is accompanyin’ me to the monastery where his brother is a novice. Let us be about our business, and we shall let ye be about yers. I will pray for ye,” Rory’s uncle said.

But the lead soldier only shook his head and laughed.

“An old monk and a boy with a dagger in his hand, what nonsense. You say his brother is a novice at Lanercost? Is not the Elliott Laird’s son a novice? And would you be the Laird’s brother? I have had dealings with the Elliotts these many years past. I know an Elliott when I see one. This boy must be Rory, am I right?” the soldier said, turning to the others and laughing.

Rory wanted to rush forward and clash swords with them. But what good would it do? He would only be outnumbered, and no doubted injured or worse. He replaced his sword in its hilt and turned away.

“We have nay business fightin’ with ye,” his uncle said, “come now… Andrew, let us be on our way.”

“Andrew?” the soldier said, “do you really expect us to believe that? You are Rory Elliott, and you, old man, are Duncan Elliott. We are not fools, and we know our enemy when we see him. Come now, boy, let us see what you are made of. Fight me,” the soldier said, stepping in front of Rory and pointing his sword at him.

“I have nay desire to fight ye,” Rory said, though every instinct he possessed was saying different.

“So, you do not deny that you are Rory Elliott?” the soldier said.

“Careful,” Rory’s uncle whispered to him as Rory raised his sword.

“I will nae fight ye,” Rory said, shaking his head.

“And what if I wish to fight you? What then? Will you deny the challenge?” the soldier asked.

“He is a coward,” one of the others said, “they all are. These Scots are no better than dogs. You have heard the stories of how his father begged for mercy on the battlefield and then ran the noble Howard Musgrave through when his back was turned.”

At these lies, Rory’s face flushed with anger, and he raised his once again, ready to strike the man for his insults.

“Peace,” his uncle called out, but Rory’s sword had already clashed with that of the soldier, who laughed as he took up the challenge.

“You see, he is who we say he is. The fool has revealed himself,” he cried.

“I am nay fool,” Rory said, lunging forward and causing the soldier to stumble backward.

Quickly, he regained his footing, bringing his sword clashing against Rory’s, as the other soldiers urged him on.

“Strike the runt, see him dead,” they cried out, as Rory’s uncle watched in horror.

“Nay, peace,” he cried out, but, as he did so, an astonishing thing happened.

The English soldier had just raised his sword to strike Rory a vicious blow when a dagger whistled through the air. It hit the English soldier in the back, and he fell down with a cry, as the other two spun around in disbelief. They drew their swords, but Rory had rushed forward, striking one hard as he let out an anguished cry. The other turned tail and fled, leaving his fellow soldiers lying dead by the trail, as Rory and Duncan looked around in astonishment.

“What?” Duncan said, “where?”

“Over there,” Rory said, pointing through the trees.

There, standing tall and proud, was a beautiful woman. The sight of her quite took Rory’s breath away, and he was amazed that they had been rescued, not by any man, but by a woman with long auburn hair and a proud look on her face. Now, she stepped out of the trees and approached them, and with every step, she appeared more beautiful.

As she came to stand before them, she looked down at the English soldiers and up at Rory, who shook his head in disbelief. He had never seen such a woman before, her piercing green eyes locked with his,  a look of satisfaction on her face.

“Who are ye?” his uncle asked, and she looked away, as though unwilling to reveal the truth.

“A friend it seems,” she said, in an English accent.

But, as she did so, she raised her hand to her forehead. She turned back to Rory, her cheeks suddenly growing pale before she sank to the ground with a sigh.

“Quickly, she is delirious,” Rory’s uncle said, rushing forward to catch her.

Rory stooped down, cradling the woman in his arms. She really was very beautiful, with pale soft skin and long hair trailing across her shoulders. She murmured something, but Rory could not understand what she was saying, and he looked up at his uncle in alarm.

“What is wrong with her, uncle?” he said, but Duncan shook his head.

“I daenae know, lad. But quickly, we must get her to Lanercost. We are too far from Kirklinton to turn back now. Besides, the apothecary will know better than we what to dae,” his uncle replied.

The woman was barely conscious, and it seemed that in the excitement of the fight, she had fainted, though she continued to mutter under her breath in words that Rory could not discern. He thought he heard the word “Musgrave” and perhaps ‘soldier,’ but that was all. Together, he and his uncle helped her stand and carried her between them along the path towards the monastery.

“What if more soldiers are on the road ahead?” Rory said, glancing warily around.

“I daenae think there will be. Those men had nay business on this path, though it worries me why they were here. The English are growin’ bolder of late, and we have heard reports of English soldiers as far north as Buccleuch, unheard of before,” his uncle replied.

Rory nodded. He felt nervous, but the need to get the woman to safety spurned him on. She had saved their lives, and they owed her that much, if not far more. He kept a close watch on the path either side, looking out for any further ambush. But it seemed the way was quiet, and they met no one until they came in sight of Lanercost.

The ancient monastery sat close to a river, surrounded by farmland and paddock. A motley collection of houses had grown up around it, inhabited by peasants who worked the land alongside the monks.

Rory was glad at the sight of the red sandstone walls, bathed in the late afternoon sun. He had always loved visiting his uncle at Lanercost, and he was looking forward to seeing Owen again too. But the presence of this mysterious woman was unsettling, and the sooner her identity was discovered, the better.

“What dae ye think can be done for her?” Rory asked as they came towards the monastery gates.

“We shall see, lad. I think she is simply in shock, there are herbs and remedies to help her. If only yer father were here, tis’ ailments like this that he was often called upon to assist with. His healin’ hands as they used to say,” Duncan replied.

“My father was well known for it, but of late he …” Rory began.

“Of late he has had other matters to attend to. Come now, let us get her inside,” Duncan said.

They helped the woman along the track, and, as they did so, several of the peasants peered curiously around their doors.

“Brother Duncan, what is this? Who is this woman? Is she hurt?” one of them asked, stepping forward.

“Tis’ all right, she will be fine. We came across her on our way here from Kirklinton. Tell the others to take refuge in the monastery walls this night. There are English soldiers on the path, and ye will be safer behind our gates,” Duncan replied.

The gates of the monastery were open, as they always were in the day, for the monks welcomed travelers and pilgrims. As they came to the threshold, an elderly monk stepped out from the gatehouse with a curious expression on his face, holding up his hands.

“Brother Duncan, the prior has been lookin’ for ye, but what is this?” he asked.

He was ancient, with a beard like Duncan’s almost down to his waist and with a keen eye and a look of wisdom about him.

“This lass saved our lives on the path. I would have been back far sooner, but we were set upon by three English soldiers, and if it were nae for her, we wouldnae have survived. My headstrong nephew here was ready to fight them, but this lass intervened, much to our benefit,” Duncan replied.

The monk appeared worried, glancing over Rory’s shoulder as though he expected to see an army of English soldiers charging up the track towards the monastery.

“We should sound the bells, call the peasants inside the walls,” he said, and Duncan nodded.

“I have already told the villagers to seek shelter here. Though I daenae think that even the English are bold enough to attack a place of peace and prayer,” Duncan said.

“Ye daenae know what the English are capable of, Duncan. They killed my parents long ago, and they will kill us all in our beds one day, ye mark my words,” the monk replied, shaking his head.

“Nay one will kill ye in yer bed, Seth. I promise ye that,” Duncan replied, “but now, we need to get this lass to the apothecary. Is there space in the infirmary for her?”

“Aye, the two who were sick have left us now. Take her there, and we shall pray for her recovery and the safety of us all,” the monk replied.

Rory and his uncle helped the woman through the gates and into the cloister. It was an ancient place and had stood for some five hundred years, its bell now tolling out from the great tower above. There was a sense of timelessness here, for it had been a place of constant prayer in good times and bad.

They made their way through the cloister’s arches towards a staircase that wound up to the monk’s refectory above, opposite, which was the infirmary. The woman was trying to say something, but still, her words were delirious and muddled.

“Tis all right,” Rory said, as they came to the great old oak door of the infirmary, “now ye shall have the help ye need.”

Duncan pushed open the door, revealing the infirmary beyond. It was a large hall, beamed in heavy oak, and with a row of neatly made beds along one side. The sun was streaming through the windows, and on the other wall were shelves lined with hundreds of dusty old bottles and books.

At the sound of the door opening, one of the monks looked up from his duties. He was young, no older than Rory, his hair tonsured in the same manner as Duncan’s, and was tending to a man lying in a bed at the far end.

“Brother Duncan, dae ye bring me another patient?” he asked, looking at the woman.

“Aye, Callum, we met this lass on the path between here and Kirklinton. She collapsed shortly after rescuin’ us from English soldiers who attacked us. She seems delirious, too,” Duncan replied.

“Then get her to bed, we shall to see to her,” he replied, hurrying over and calling out to another monk who sat at a table by the window writing in a large ledger book, “Brother Luke, bring lavender oil and we shall see if we might revive her.”

The other monk went to the shelves, pulling out a large bottle of purple liquid, as Rory and Duncan helped the woman onto one of the beds. Rory was pleased to see her settled there. It had been a long walk to Lanercost, and he was tired, as was his uncle, who sat down heavily on a chair at the side of the bed.

“What a thing, God bless the lass for helping us,” he said, mopping his brow.

Brother Callum poured some of the oil into a dish and held it carefully by the woman’s face. The scent of it seemed to revive her immediately, and she opened her eyes, blinking in the light, and trying to sit up.

“Tis’ all right,” Brother Callum said, “ye are amongst friends here.”

The woman looked nervously around her, but all of a sudden, she fell back onto the bed as the monks tried to catch her.

“Tis’ some illness of the mind,” Brother Luke said, “perhaps a stronger method of revival is needed?”

Brother Callum nodded, turning to the shelves and pondering the array of remedies before him.

“I think,” he said, turning back to Rory and Duncan, “that it would be best if ye left us to care for her. I will send for ye when she is revived. I daenae think she is permanently damaged. There is shock in her, and shock must be rested and allowed to subside. We will dae all we can for her in the meantime, I promise ye. It will soon be time for the evening office. Prayer is yer duty now.”

Duncan nodded and stood up wearily from his seat.

“Come now, Rory. We shall see yer brother after we have sung the evening office,” he said.

Rory nodded. He paused a moment, looking down at the woman laid peacefully on the bed before him. She really was very beautiful, despite her pale face. Her hair was thick, falling across the pillow on which she lay, and he could hardly take his eyes from her, her cheeks soft and supple, her eyes now closed as she breathed gently in the peace of sleep. He had never seen such a woman before, and she was surely no peasant. Who was she? Where had she come from? And why would an English woman attack English soldiers in defense of two Scots? It was a mystery and one he had every intention of solving.


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Temptation in the Highlands (Preview)

Chapter I

Isle of Mull, Scotland, November 1717, Seat of Clan MacLean

Calum MacLean rode hard and fast, following the coastline of his beloved isle. He saw the beauty of the green hills and the gray of the rocks and the blue of the sea, but he didn’t really see. His teeth were set, and he breathed sharply and quickly as he rode. Riding was the only way he could escape the truth of what kept gnawing at his mind. He was losing his clan.

Everything he had dreamed and learned about since he was young would soon be gone. And it was all his fault. He could barely bring himself to look at the portraits of his ancestors that hung within his castle walls. Soon, if he did nothing to stop it, the Campbells would come for his land and his castle, either merging his clan with their own and making ties with the English, or pushing them off their land entirely, leaving them as homeless orphans, wandering the desert like Moses.

Calum’s horse, Fìor-Ghlainne, named for the supposed purity of his former wife, knew the land well, and she rode steadily, beating her hooves against the ground, hoping to bring her master some solace. Calum thought about his brother and second-in-command, Angus, and the words he’d just said that set Calum to riding.

“We need food, brother. We must hunt! Yer clansmen are starving around ye, and ye have nae eyes tae see it! Ye can only see yer own pain. We need tae work the land. We need tae establish trade. Brother, ye will lose yer people if ye dinnae stop it. The English are here! And they will spot yer weakness and exploit it. Whether ‘tis they’ or the Campbells, Clan MacLean will become nae more upon the Isle of Mull.”

Angus was younger than Calum by 5 years, but in many ways, he was so much wiser. He had been the smarter of the two of them in their studies with the tutors, but Calum had been the jollier one, the more sociable, until the event happened which broke Calum and made him the unpleasant man who was riding along the coastline today.

Once Angus had spoken the words, Calum had left, feeling the fury rise in his throat. How dare his brother, his own subject no less, speak to him in such a way? Surely, he, the laird, would know best what to do with his own clan. His father would never have tolerated such remonstrances from their uncle. Why must he?

But the more he rode, and the more he fell into a sullen reverie with each beat of the horse’s hooves, the more he realized his mistakes. Yes, he had made many and had let the clan, clan lands, and the castle fall into disrepair. As he stared across the isle as he rode, it was as if he was seeing it for the first time in a long time.

The ground was brittle and dry. Fishing boats were in need of new wood. Animals wandered without fences and were sickly. He knew they were often lost in high tide or from simply wandering too close to the Sound. And Duart Castle, which rose before him in the late morning light, still looked formidable, but also looked tired and weak.

He rode towards the old gray stone walls which looked solemnly out to sea as they had for hundreds of years, and he suddenly felt a pang of regret. He would have to do something to make up for his mistakes. And maybe apologize to his brother as well. Maybe.

***

Julia scrawled into an old leather notebook atop her uncle’s desk. “2,000 pounds, Uncle. Why that is double what you earned at the tables last week. You are improving, I see.” Her voice was flat and emotionless.

Julia’s Uncle Andrew grinned at her from the fireplace, sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. He had grown rather fat in the past fourteen years, despite being a decorated General, and Julia did not like to look at him long. His powdered wig sat untidily upon his head, and he spoke with great obsequiousness and condescension, as he always did with her.

“Well done, Julia, my dear, my beauty. You are so talented with numbers; your mind has been blessed by Pythagoras himself.” He winked at her, and Julia looked away quickly, a sharp pang of nausea filling her stomach. He came up behind her at the desk, placing his hands behind on her chair. Julia pretended not to notice, continuing to scrawl away in the notebook, preparing columns for the next round of gaming her uncle was sure to engage in.

“My dear, you are growing prettier every day, you know, and it has not gone…unnoticed.” Julia wished she could disappear, but she continued to appear as calm as she could. It was true. However much she would have wished to stay a child, free from men’s clutches and desires, Julia had grown into a woman. And her uncle was reminding her of it nearly every day. He painted that compliment under a guise of wanting her to get married and find a wealthy husband, but if ever a man showed too much interest at balls and gatherings, her uncle would shoo them away, saying they were unsuitable. No one seemed to be good enough for his niece, who had become like a daughter to him.

And while the thought was so disgusting and so unusual, Julia could not shake the feeling that underneath everything, there lay a desire for her from her very own uncle, and she feared what might happen if she lived alone with him for too much longer under his roof. It seemed impossible, but every time he mentioned what he was about to say, the idea came ever closer to reality.

“Your bright blue eyes, my dear, and your smooth, pale complexion against your dark, ebony hair.” Julia could feel her uncle’s fingertips slowly caressing the top of her head. “They are enough to tempt any man.”

“And yet, no one has proved suitable to you, Uncle.” Julia pushed the chair back into him, and he made an ‘oomph’ sound, bending over slightly with a grimace of pain. But he soon regained his composure. Julia stood by the hearth, farther away from him and crossed her arms. While it was the fashion for young ladies to have low necklines and tightened waists, Julia felt uncomfortable under her uncle’s gaze, and so she would cross her arms in an attempt to cover what she could.

He chuckled. “Your usual stance, I see. And yes, no one has quite come up to scratch, I’m afraid, but it is not true any longer.”

Julia’s heart stopped, but she simply lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes, dear niece. I have found a friend who I believe will be quite suitable for you. He is a military man and one of my contemporaries. We will travel to Scotland tomorrow to meet him.”

Julia’s arms fell to her side, and her eyes opened in surprise and anguish. “What? You have found…” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words.

Uncle Andrew took her surprise and speech as her enjoyment of the news. “Yes! You will be a wife at long last. Is that not what all women aspire to?”

Julia grimaced. Not quite, she thought. Especially not when marriage was what it was so often evidenced to be: a prison for the woman who must do exactly as her husband says and live a life of lonely desolation. “But, he is your contemporary? He will be too…old.”

Not often was Uncle Andrew angry, but when he was, Julia would recoil in fear at the intensity of it and how quick he could flit from cheeriness to anger. He stepped ever so slightly closer to her, but she stood steady, only moving her face slightly back from his.

“You would do well to remember, Julia, who it is who controls the wealth of this estate, who controls to whom it goes, and who has taken care of you all these years. It is not in your best interest to disrespect me or those whom I call friends. You will marry this man because I wish it. You will live a life of ease in Scotland, and I will reside there as well.”

Julia was confused. “You will be there?”

He returned to his earlier cheery mood, smiling back at her. “Why yes.” He reached his hand out and lightly touched the side of her face. Julia stood still, hardly daring to breathe. “I have been transferred for the time being to work along with General Wade’s plan to improve that brutish, wild land and bring it to English standards. I also thought that you might be lonely without family about, my dear. General Whiteman is a very old friend of mine, and he has welcomed me to stay with you both. I hope you do not mind?”

Julia knew best not to argue at this moment. But she had to think of something. “No, Uncle. ‘Twill be good to have family about me when I embark on this new adventure.” Uncle Andrew did not notice the lightness and artificial cheer that filled her voice.

“Excellent. Send your maid to begin packing. We will leave tomorrow morning.”

Chapter II

Angus MacLean sometimes wished he could punch his brother in the face as hard as he could. Of course, being brothers, such a thing was possible, but he didn’t think it would solve anything. Laird Calum MacLean was about as stubborn as stubborn can get, especially since his loss. He had always been so merry and joking, full of happiness from day to day, the very opposite of the quiet, reserved, stoic Angus; but now, he was a changed man. Now it was Angus who appeared to be the jolly one. Calum had been cold and hard the past four years. Nothing seemed to lure him away from his bitterness and sorrow.

However, Angus was hopeful this morning. So many things had come to a head that it was time he told Calum the truth of what was going on. He hoped it would wake him out of his stupor. He had given his brother enough time to grieve. They needed to start building up the clan again, to bring it back to its former glory. But over the past years, Calum had not moved. He had seen nothing wrong, and so had let the clan fall into weakness and uselessness.

But after Angus had spoken this morning, Calum had hurriedly left in anger to ride away on the coast. Angus waited in the main hall, pacing, hoping with each second that passed that Calum would return, the old vigor in his eyes. Even if he did not, Angus had arranged a group of men to meet with the MacLeans on the coast of the mainland to hunt and trade wares.

Even if Calum did not agree, he would take them across the Sound. The clan would not survive the winter if he did not do something. As he paced, Calum burst into the room and surprised him. It was not unusual for Calum to be bursting, but Angus had been on edge ever since he’d left.

“Brother! Ye have returned from yer ride. I hope it aided ye?” Angus asked hopefully, a little too cheerily for Calum, and so Calum’s eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. He called for wine.

“Aye, I’ve returned, but I cannae say I’m in a better mood than when I left. Brother.”

Angus’s heart fell. He supposed it was too late to ever hope for a change. He would just need to take matters into his own hands, or the Campbells would take over and bring shame to the MacLeans, being traitors and dogs who were in league with the English.

The wine came, and Calum sat gruffly down on one of the chairs against the stone wall. His voice softened. “But, I ken yer right, lad. Go. Send the hunters. The MacLeans on the mainland will help us and let us use their land.”

After saying that, Calum drank his wine in one gulp and then put his face in his hands. It was as if the effort of trying to make changes took everything out of him. An excited Angus moved closer to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. He whispered, “She is not worth this, lad. She is not worth a lifetime of sorrow.”

From beneath his hands, Calum said, “But how could ye know what she is worth? How could ye know what she has cost me?” His voice was raspy with emotion.

“Be the laird our father always knew ye would be. Dinnae let clan MacLean suffer because of what she has done.” With that, Angus left, knowing there was nothing more to say. His heart ached for his brother, it really did, but it was time for action. And Calum was still young, not being yet 30 years of age. He had his whole life ahead of him, and he was wasting it on that bitch. What Calum needed was a swift punch to the face and to find a good woman. Angus yearned for that for himself as well, but he would never have said so, and he had never found any woman to be enough for him. But for Calum, it was time he married again.

But now, to the hunters. They would be assembled quickly and sent across this very afternoon. And perhaps, clan MacLean would have a new chance at survival.

***

Julia’s lady’s maid had packed her case with care, providing everything her young mistress would be in want of. Books and notebooks, of course, filled a great portion of it. She would not need too many ball gowns in Scotland, but they were necessary all the same. Julia sat across from her Uncle Andrew in the carriage as they said goodbye to her family home in the fashionable area of London and headed towards Scotland.

She barely had time to write to her cousin, Charlotte Andrews, about her departure. She and Charlotte had hardly seen each other since her Uncle came into his wealth, yet she was still the closest friend Julia had. There was no one else she really knew, aside from mere acquaintances she met at social gatherings. And so, with tears in her eyes, Julia had written to Charlotte to let her know her fate. It had finally come.

She knew it would, but she had hoped she would be married to someone in her beloved London and not someone who was stationed off in the wilderness. She did not know much about Scotland, other than what she had read. The English seemed to disdain the people there, especially the Highlanders, who were reputed to be fierce, uncivilized, and uneducated.

She was not one to enjoy geography as much as science and mathematics, and so she was terribly unsure as to the exact location of Fort William on a map. And she was, of course, unsure as to whom her bridegroom would be. She’d heard of General Whiteman, for his fierce reputation preceded him, but she’d never seen him or heard him described. But her heart told her that he would look just as Uncle Andrew looked: balding with white wisps of remaining hair, fat, old, and ugly. And he would probably be just as…uncomfortable as Uncle Andrew was.

Ever since her father died, and her uncle began taking over her day to day life, Julia’s experience with men had been mainly limited to him and the servants. She spoke occasionally to men at balls until their liaisons were swiftly interrupted and broken. In her heart, besides her father, she thought all of them vile creatures. Men, especially wealthy, greedy men, were of the worst kind, and she had no false illusions as to the happiness of her future wedded life.

Julia lay back against the carriage seat as it bumped along, allowing her mind to help her accept what was about to happen. Uncle Andrew was asleep, and his mouth opened and gurgled with each breath he took. She made a face of disgust and wished she could tear open the carriage doors and push him out into the road to be feasted upon by the wild animals. Julia looked out at the countryside that surrounded them.

They had long left London behind, and what was around them now was rolling hills, dotted with sheep. The sky was a beautiful bright blue, and Julia thought she was looking upon a storybook page. She had never been outside of the great city, and so this seemed like another world. Her father had always meant to take her on his occasional travels, but after his death, she was stuck endlessly in the same place.

Julia pulled away from the window, feeling the sting of impending tears behind her eyes. Father’s death changed my life for the worse. It’s as if I’ve lived two lives. One of happiness before and one of sorrow and tragedy after. I can honestly say, I have not felt happy for one day in these fourteen years.

Then escape. Julia sat upright in surprise. A voice not her own felt like it had spoken to her mind. She looked around, feeling unnerved by such a phenomenon.

She attempted to speak back. Escape to where? We are nowhere.

The time and opportunity will come. Take it.

Julia gripped the edges of the carriage seat and bit her lip. She felt oddly comforted by the voice. But surely it was just her own voice speaking to her. They must be her own thoughts. The time and opportunity will come, she repeated to herself.

She looked across at Uncle Andrew and felt hatred in her heart grow so strong; she thought she would nearly burst. He had been no father to her, but merely a benefactor who was making her more uneasy with each passing day. How could this man have been her lovely father’s brother? Julia squinted her eyes at him. The area around his eyes reminded her slightly of her father, but that was it. That was where the resemblance ended. What would her father say if he knew what was happening now?

Julia wanted to scream. She repeated in her head, the time and opportunity will come. But would she know when it came? And would she take it?


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Phantom of the Highlands (Preview)

Chapter I

“Here they come,” Col muttered to himself.

He scaled down the tree and dropped into the middle of the soft dirt road. His cousin Finlay — Fin to most — stepped out of the thick bushes that lined the road that cut through the dense forest. Fin was armed with his bow, the short sword strapped to his back, and a pair of matching dirks that hung on his belt. Col looked him up and down, a grin quirking one corner of his mouth upward.

“Think ye’re needin’ all them blades then?”

Fin shrugged. “I just like tae ‘ave options.”

Col chuckled. “Daenae be stupit, ya bleedin’ dobber. If this goes off the way I planned, we ain’t gonna be fightin’.”

“Yeah, well, what ye plan ain’t always what actually happens,” he added with a laugh. “I tawt it best to be prepared, eh?”

A wry grin pulled one corner of Col’s mouth upward, and he shook his head. “Git your arse into the bushes already.”

Fin chuckled as he stepped back, getting himself into position. Col picked up his quiver of arrows and slung it over his back as the sound of horses whickering, and the loud creaking of carts filled the forest around him. He stood in the road, waiting for the carts to come around the bend.

The trees pressed close on either side, the sunlight filtering through the thick canopy overhead left much of the forest in gloom and shadow. Col felt his stomach tighten, and the beads of sweat trickle down his chest.

He saw the pair of foreguard riders come around the bend first. They wore the standard of the House of Hamilton — a yellow griffin bracketed by three white stars on a blue field. It was a standard that Col was well acquainted with since he and Fin, a couple of rabble-rousers from the Scottish Highlands had spent the previous year making life miserable for James Hamilton, the Duke of York.

The taller of the two men at the front held his hand up, signaling to the cart drivers behind them to halt. He turned to Col, his expression one of pure irritation.

“You there,” called one of the foreguards in his clipped English accent. “Clear the road. Make way immediately in the name of the Duke.”

“Seems to me ye’re on a good Scottish road, laddie” Col grinned.

“Clear the way, or you’ll be dealt with,” the man replied, sounding bored.

Two more riders came up from the rear, their armor gleaming dully in the murky light. An older man with long graying hair and deep lines etched into his face stared hard at Col, his jaw clenching. He turned to the man who’d spoken to Col.

“What goes on here?” His voice was authoritative; he was obviously in charge. “Why have you stopped the caravan?”

“This — man — refuses to remove himself from the road, sir.”

The older man turned to Col, his eyes filled with disdain. “What is the meaning of this?”

“As I was tellin’ yer friend here, this is a good Scottish road,” Col explained. “And to travel it, ye must pay a toll.”

The older soldier laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. The humor, however, did not reach his eyes as he glared at Col.

“I will give you exactly three seconds to remove yourself from our path –”

“I wull give ye two seconds a’fore me men out there in the woods fill ye full of arrows,” Col interrupted. “How’d that be, eh?”

A moment of tense silence filled the woods as the English soldiers glanced nervously around at the dense, dark forest around them. Col saw the uncertainty in their faces, not sure if he was telling the truth or not.

“Shall we start countin’ then, laddie?” Col asked.

The old soldier stared him down, the younger ones growing even more nervous.

“Tell ye what… I’ll start,” Col pressed, not wanting to give them more time to think. “One –”

“Kill him,” the old soldier yelled.

The words had barely cleared his mouth when an arrow came sailing out of the forest and hit the man square in the neck with a wet, meaty thump. The shaft of the arrow was buried deep in the man’s neck, the sharp head of it protruding from the other side. Blood ran from the man’s mouth, and his eyes stretched wide as a wet gurgling sound bubbled up from his throat.

“Well feck me,” Col muttered to himself. “Wasna s’pose to happen like that.”

All was still and silent around them for a long moment, as if the entire world was holding its breath. Col exchanged wide-eyed stares with the English soldiers, none of them believing what had just happened.

But then the old soldier slumped in his saddle and fell to the side, hitting the ground with a dull thud, breaking the paralysis. The two soldiers who’d been at the head of the line spurred their horses and came charging straight at Col, their swords drawn and raised. Behind them, Col noted four more soldiers coming up the line with their blades bared.

Another arrow streaked out of the bushes, narrowly missing the two soldiers riding toward Col, but it made them slow for a heartbeat. It was just long enough for him to pull an arrow from his quiver, nock, and release it in one fluid motion. Col’s bolt punched through the first soldier’s breastplate, knocking him backward off his horse. He drew another arrow, nocking it as he spun and released. It took the soldier in the arm, and he let out a grunt of pain but wheeled his horse around, another arrow from the forest just missing him.

As the four other soldiers reined to a stop beside their fallen commander, Col aimed with another arrow.

“Stop, stop!” Col called. “Stop ye’re bleedin’ shootin’.”

The soldiers all cut glances at their dead then stared hard at Col. He kept his arrow nocked but lowered the tip and stared back at them.

“We’re gonna give ye this one chance to git the feck outta here,” he told them. “Dae that and ye’ll live. If not, ye’ll die.”

The soldiers exchanged glances, none of them seeming to know what to do without their commander there to give them orders.

“Leave the carts and get the feck outta here. Now.” Col tried to sound as authoritative as he could.

They continued to hesitate, waiting for somebody to step up and assume command. Col grimaced, knowing he needed to squeeze them even tighter to get them moving and put an end to more violence and bloodshed.

“Daenae do this. We daenae want to kill ye,” Col said, and after a moment of silence passed between them, he called out to the forest. “Archers.”

“Okay, okay, bloody well wait,” one of the soldiers nearly screamed. “We’ll go. Just — don’t fire.”

“Hold,” Col called out, locking eyes with the soldier who’d spoken. “Leave the carts, and go now.”

He watched with grim satisfaction as the drivers climbed down off the carts and followed the departing soldiers on foot, running down the road away from them. Col walked along well behind them, making sure they were leaving and didn’t have reinforcements waiting on the road behind them. However, it was clear, and soon the soldiers and drivers disappeared from view.

“Ye can come oot now, Col chuckled.

Fin stepped out of the bushes, a broad smile on his face. He slung his bow over his back and joined Col beside one of the carts.

“Worked agen,” he said.

“The English ain’t none too smart. More’s the pity,” Col replied with a grin. “Takes the bloody sport oot of it. ”

Col turned and eyed the two dead English soldiers on the road behind them then turned back to Fin, giving him a pointed look.

“Mosta the sport at any rate.”

Fin shrugged. “I was aimin’ fer his leg. He musta moved.”

“Aye. Musta.”

Col clapped his cousin on the shoulder and turned to the three carts sitting idle on the road. The horses whickered and stomped their hooves on the soft earth.

“Let’s see what we got,” Col asked.

Fin rubs his hands together, a broad grin on his face. “Aye. Let’s do that.”

As they rifled through the carts, tossing aside the things they had no use for, Col kept an eye on the road behind them. He was still concerned about the English. He knew that eventually, the raids would take a toll. And he knew Duke Hamilton would send more than eight easily intimidated soldiers to protect his caravans. He ultimately knew that the Duke would send his army to deal with them.

Col knew it would happen and worried about what they would do. As much as the clan elders disapproved of what they were doing, even they understood the necessity of it. They would never actively support him and Fin, but they reaped the benefits all the same. Their clan chief lived many miles to the north of their village and proved to be as useless as the elders — though he demanded his share of the spoils. It was a bone of contention that Col held onto, but the good of the clan outweighed everything else for him. Their people needed to eat.

“Lotsa food,” Fin’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Vegetables. Taters. Some salted meats. Should keep the bellies full a couple o’ weeks at least.”

Col nodded. “That’s good… real good.”

He turned to Fin, hopped up on the cart, and hefted a small wooden chest. Fin looked up at him, curious but hopeful. Col opened the small chest with a flourish and grinned. He reached in and pulled out a gold coin, tossing it to his cousin, who grinned with delight.

“Gold,” Fin nodded.

“Couple o’ hundred coins in here if there’s one.”

“That will do some good fer the clan.”

Col nodded. “Aye. But not as good as that food will do for them. For now, daenae tell the elders about the gold. I daenae want it disappearing.”

“Aye. We turn that over to them bleedin’ vipers, we’ll never see it agen. Neither will the clan.”

They continued to dig through the carts, loading what they planned on taking into one of the wagons for easier transport. Col knew they needed to get moving. The soldiers would likely be coming back to claim the bodies of their men and would soon be bringing help. And he did not want to be around when they did.

“God is good,” Fin crowed. “This mebbe worth more than that wee chest of gold ye got over there.”

Col turned to find his cousin holding up a bottle of a brown liquid he took to be whiskey. Fin was grinning as he pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a long swallow. He grimaced as the liquid burned its way down to his belly then nodded.

“That’s good,” he rasped. “I’ll be keepin’ that to meself if ye daenae mind.”

Col laughed. “All yers, Fin. Let’s just finish up and get outta here a’fore the Ainglish come back with friends.”

Fin corked the bottle and looked at it longingly before stowing it in a bag and setting it on the seat of the cart they were loading before hitching the other team of horses… they could always use new mounts.

When they were finished, Fin hopped up onto the seat and got the cart moving. Col mounted one of their newly acquired steeds and followed along behind Fin, keeping an eye on the road behind them. They took a circuitous route back to their village, careful to mask their path to avoid giving the English a map to guide them when they came seeking retribution.

As they entered the village, people flocked to them, a cacophony of cheering and voices calling to them as if they were conquering heroes, returning from battle. Col supposed in their eyes, he and Fin probably were hero-like. Especially when compared to the elders who refused to do anything to improve their situation.

Fin climbed down off the cart and handed the reins to Bernard, a large burly man with no hair and a foul disposition. Bernard was in charge of doling out the things that the villagers needed, such as food and medical supplies — a position he took very seriously. He gave no real sign of it, but Col knew Bernard appreciated what he and his cousin were doing on behalf of their clan.

“Made it back alive, did ye?” Bernard said.

“Daenae we always, old man?” Fin replied.

“Aye. Until you daenae.”

“With all that bleating, ye sound like an old goat, Bernard,” Fin quipped.

Fin and Col both chose horses from those they’d taken from the English as the older man grumbled and climbed aboard the cart and steered it all away to where he stored the goods for the village.

“Col,” a voice sounded behind him. “A word, laddie.”

He let out a soft sigh and turned around to see Hugh, the oldest of the elders and leader of their council, striding toward him. He turned back to Fin and handed him the reins of his horse.

“Will ye take it hame fer me, please? I’ll be along shortly.”

Fin nodded, a sour look on his face. He cared no more for the elders than Col did. Col watched his cousin walk away before he turned back to Hugh. He was a tall man with long gray hair, a close-cropped beard, and a body once broad and strong but now turning to flab. Col had watched him year after year, growing fatter as the people went hungry.

Eventually, Col had enough of it and had started to do something about it. He had acted where Hugh had not. He had provided for his people when the elders sat idly by as crops grew rotten and fields lay fallow, the soil not fit for planting. The elders never skipped a meal though their people had missed many. Col saw to it they never went to bed with an empty belly.

“Whatsit then, Hugh?” Col snapped. “I’m tired and wish to go hame, not stand ‘ere and fight with ye.”

“Always so disrespectful, laddie,” Hugh replied. “If I weren’t so used to it, I’d take bleedin’ offense.”

“Take offense if ye wish. It troubles me not,” Col growled. “All that matters to me is doing what ye and the elders should be doing. And that’s providing fer and protecting our people.”

“Protecting them?” Hugh chuckled ruefully. “You call bringin’ the might of the Ainglish army down on us protectin’ them? And mark my words laddie, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.”

“Ye assume tae much, old man.”

“And ye don’t think enough, boy,” Hugh yelled.

The older man looked away as he took a long breath, then let it out slowly. Col glanced at the people milling about in the village square, all of them doing their best to appear as if they weren’t listening. Hugh finally raised his gaze, and Col could see the anger burning in the old man’s eyes at his defiance. At his lack of respect.

“Sooner or later, the Duke, with his whole army, will come searching fer whoever’s filchin’ his goods,” Hugh said. “And what’ll ye do then, boy? How’ll ye protect this village against an entire fecking army?”

Col opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, knowing he had no response to the question. The truth was, although he and Fin took precautions against being found and covered their tracks as well as possible, being discovered was always a possibility. And if it came to that, if Duke Hamilton marched his forces on their village, their only recourse would be to run and hide deep into the Highlands. He knew some… maybe most… in the village were willing to assume the risk and the consequences for what he and Fin brought home. Others he knew shared Hugh’s opinion on the matter. Not that it stopped them from partaking of their bounty.

Col stepped closer to Hugh, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. He leaned forward until the tips of their noses were but inches apart.

“Mebbe, if you did something to help provide fer our people, we wouldnae have to do this,” Col growled through gritted teeth. “Mebbe if you didnae sit on your arse, waitin’ fer God Almighty himself to rain food down upon us, we wouldnae have to do this. Our people are hungry, Hugh. Our people need food.”

Hugh stared hard at him for a long moment, the air between them crackling with tension and the whispered promise of violence. Col gritted his teeth and, with his eyes, dared the older man to make a move. He knew Hugh would be no match for him, and unleashing on the man he blamed for their people’s hardships might feel good.

As much as he wanted to take a swing at Hugh, Col held himself back, and the moment passed. He let out a frustrated, angry breath and turned, choosing to walk away from the situation.

“Ye’re gonna be the death of us, boy,” Hugh called after him.

Col thought it was a possibility, but until the English brought the hammer down on them, he would keep doing what he was doing … providing for his people.

Chapter II

“I see your uncle has returned,” Jane said.

“If this is the part where I’m supposed to break into song and dance, I fear that will be a long wait for an unsatisfactory result,” Gillian replied.

Jane laughed and turned away from the window. “Cheeky.”

Gillian shrugged but smiled. Jane had been her handmaiden and best friend since childhood. She probably knew Gillian better than anybody else in the world and was the only person she allowed herself to speak freely around. Jane knew well that Gillian’s relationship with her uncle was often contentious. But Gillian knew the importance of keeping up appearances and never indulged her feelings in public. Her uncle did the same.

“The wagons your uncle was supposed to be escorting did not return with the caravan,” Jane noted.

At this, Gillian put down her book and raised an eyebrow. “Did they not?”

“It did not appear so.”

Gillian got to her feet and smiled. “Shall we go see what my father has to say about that?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

Trying to stifle their giggling, Gillian led Jane by the hand as they rushed down the corridor in a swishing of silk skirts and the scuffle of slippered feet. They dashed down the stairs and followed the corridors usually used by the servants, doing their best to be unobtrusive.

Sidling down a long corridor, they came to the door that led into a small antechamber outside of her father’s office. Her father was the Duke of York and a significant man. Unfortunately, his duties also necessitated his attendance at Court in London quite often. Gillian missed him when he was gone, but he would not let her go to Court with him, saying she was not ready for that viper’s nest.

Her father was a good man who doted on her, and she loved him. He said he wanted to shelter Gillian from it as long as he could. But at the same time, Gillian knew he could not keep her from it forever. Not if he wanted to find Gillian a proper suitor. While she desperately wanted to go to Court, the thought of so many men vying for her attention as if she were a cow at auction tempered her enthusiasm.

Gillian looked at Jane with a broad smile on her face. “Okay, now be quiet.”

Jane stuck her tongue out at Gillian grinned. “As if I didn’t know that already.”

“Don’t be cheeky.”

Stifling their giggles, they quietly slipped into the antechamber and softly closed the door behind them. On the other side of the room, a wooden door was cracked partially open and led into the Duke’s office. Gillian could already hear her father and uncle inside … and her father did not sound well pleased.

“How in the bloody hell did this happen? Again?” Her father roared, punctuating his displeasure by slamming his fist down onto his desk. “You assured me you had this brigand… this Phantom… in hand.”

“Actually, your Grace, I believe I said we will have him in hand. And we will. I assure you,” William replied. “Also, I will not dignify this man by using that name. Nor will I suffer my men to use that stupid name.”

“And yet they are using it anyway, whether you suffer it or not,” the Duke howled. “You have been assuring me that you will have him in hand for months now, brother. When will I see results? When will I see this brigand in shackles in the cells below this keep?”

“Soon, your Grace,” William said. “I assure…”

“Yes, yes. You assure me,” James cut him off. “I am growing tired of your increasingly empty assurances, brother.”

Gillian and Jane huddled near the door, eavesdropping on the conversation. She knew it was childish, petty, and even vindictive, but she could not deny feeling a certain sense of satisfaction at hearing her father tan her uncle’s hide.

But more than that, she wanted to hear more about this brigand who had bedeviled her uncle for months. All she knew was that he was a Scottish Highlander with a knack for outsmarting and outmaneuvering her uncle and his men.

For almost a year now, this brigand had been ambushing the Duke’s supply trains. In one sense, he scared Gillian. Her uncle was many things, but stupid was not one of them. That this brigand had been making him look the fool for a year now was terrifying. What if he suddenly decided to sack York?

On the other hand, Gillian was fascinated by this brigand… for the same reason. His undeniable intelligence was utterly captivating. Gillian knew she was probably romanticizing his exploits, but she could not help it. The whole situation was more than a little amusing to her. Gillian had long enjoyed tales of adventure and action.

“Your Grace, I will take my men north, and we will root out…”

“No, you will not. I will not have you laying waste to Scottish villages because you are angry,” her father interjected, his voice echoing around the anteroom. “How you conduct yourself reflects upon this House and me.”

“With all due respect, your Grace …”

“William, the King has tired of war. He feels it has proven to be costly and fruitless. He now desires to end hostilities and establish commerce with the Scots.”

A door slammed heavily somewhere close by, and Gillian tensed. Hard footsteps approached the door to the anteroom before fading away. Jane looked at her with wide eyes and gripped her hand tighter. Gillian knew if her father caught them eavesdropping, he would stripe her backside.

“We should go,” Jane whispered.

Gillian shook her head. “Not yet. Just a bit longer.”

“Your Grace…”

“I know how you handle situations like this, and I will not have you laying waste to Scottish villages,” her father interjected. “I will not have you tarnish my good name any further than you already have.”

“Your Grace, their nobles are warring with themselves. They have no king. They are weak and vulnerable,” William interjected. “Now is the time to strike.”

“War is proving to be counterproductive. I see it. The King sees it. And we both agree that finding a peaceful resolution is in all of our interests,” her father added.

“And how do you achieve a peaceful resolution with bloody savages?”

“We can have greater influence over the Scots if we help choose their next king. One that will be a friend to the Crown,” her father said evenly. “And if we can hold influence over the Scottish king, then all the better for our king. Understand?”

Gillian’s uncle muttered, but it was too low for her to hear. She frowned as if she was missing out on some vital piece of information, listening to the conversation with rapt attention. As much as she loved tales of action and adventure, she enjoyed politics and intrigue even more. That was one of the reasons Gillian wanted to go to Court so badly… to see it first hand.

“To that end, you will travel to Edinburgh on the morrow. You will assure their nobles that we bear them no ill will for the doings of this brigand, and you will work with them to ascertain this man’s identity,” her father went on. “You will also treaty with the Scots to ensure that when caught, this brigand will be brought here to York to face the King’s justice.”

There was a long, tense silence, and she pictured her uncle turning several shades of purple. The man was boorish and did not enjoy being ordered about by anybody. Surely he must be apoplectic by now?

“Will there be anything else, your Grace?” he finally muttered.

“No, that is all.”

“Then, by your leave, I will take my ease for the day,” he replied, his voice tight. “It would appear I have a journey ahead of me.”

The next thing Gillian heard was the sound of heavy boots stomping on the hard stone floor of the chamber, followed by the door slamming shut. Her father sighed, and Jane took her hand, pulling her toward the door they had entered by.

“Gillian, would you be so good as to come in here, please?”

Her father’s voice froze the blood in her veins. She and Jane shared wide-eyed, fearful expressions. He had known they were there the whole time! Jane silently urged her to withdraw, but Gillian shook her head. She took her hand from Jane and motioned for her to go. She would face whatever punishment awaited her alone. Standing up straight, she smoothed out her skirts and put on an expression of careful neutrality before going through the door and closing it solidly behind her… giving Jane the chance to escape.

She crossed the chamber and stood before her father’s desk with her hands clasped before her. Gillian’s heart fluttered in her chest like the wings of a hummingbird. Her father looked at her as he took a long drink of wine.

James Hamilton, the Duke of York, was an imposing man. Tall and broad through the shoulders and chest, his hair was dark, though beginning to gray at the temples. His hair, like his beard, was trimmed neatly and short. Lines were forming at the corners of eyes that glittered like chips of sapphire and carried within them, a fierce intelligence.

Gillian’s father was not an overly demonstrative man, emotionally speaking. He was usually very even, though he did have a temper and could be provoked to a fit of anger that most feared. Gillian had heard most speak of him as being cold and aloof. Many were intimidated by the Duke… some outright terrified of him.

Yes, he carried himself with that royal bearing… a product of his station. Gillian knew that was how he had to be seen. But she had never known him as anything other than warm and caring. He doted on her and always favored her with the warmest of smiles. He allowed himself to be less guarded and more open around her, and she loved him for that.

“Correct me if I am mistaken, daughter,” her father started, “but have we not discussed your penchant for eavesdropping before?”

He set his goblet of wine down on the desk and looked at her, his eyebrow raised, eyes twinkling. She knew that he should be cross with her, but a mischievous smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“We have father,” she added, trying to sound abashed.

“And I further seem to recall telling you what would happen if I caught you at it again,” he said.

Gillian swallowed hard and nodded. “You did, father, but my curiosity has won out again.”

He chuckled softly. “Curiosity can be a virtue,” he said. “But it can also be a curse… the sort of curse that leaves one with a striped backside.”

“I… have been told,” she lowered her gaze to the floor.

“Master Covey has just carved himself a new paddle, and I believe he is most anxious to break it in.”

Gillian’s stomach lurched, and her heart fluttered anew at the mention of Master Covey… the Sergeant-at-Arms of the household. Or as Gillian liked to call him, the Chief of Cruelty. Covey was the one who doled out punishments for the household staff who broke House rules or worse. Gillian had even heard whispers that he carried out executions for her father. She had seen him whip somebody to within an inch of their life but she had thankfully never seen him lop somebody’s head off.

“Father, I did not mean to eavesdrop…”

She fell silent as he arched his eyebrow again. Gillian looked down at the floor, fearful she had finally crossed the line with her father and had earned a striping for her transgression. Looking up at him, she decided to be honest, hoping to avoid an appointment with Master Covey.

“I only wish to learn, father,” she said. “I am curious about a great many things… how you conduct the affairs of your office among them.”

Her father sat back in his chair, a look of interest on his face. He had not expected that… Gillian admitted that she could be a girl of whimsy and fantasy. But deep down, there was a thirst for knowledge that could never be slaked. Even her tutors had noticed that about her… though most did nothing to encourage it. Most of her tutors believed she should focus on what it took to make a good wife to a royal husband.

They believed her education should consist primarily of affairs of the house, rather than the affairs of state. But her father had insisted that she received a well-rounded education commensurate with that her brother, Henry. Her father believed that a woman of his House should be intelligent, articulate, and knowledgeable about all things. And Gillian loved him for that too.

“It is why I wish to travel to Edinburgh with uncle William on the morrow,” she added.

Her father pursed his lips and looked at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. But he had not immediately dismissed her idea as ridiculous, and to Gillian, meant that he was at least open to the possibility.

“I believe that watching uncle William negotiate on your behalf would be quite instructional,” she pressed. “I believe it would greatly enhance my education.”

“I just do not know if it is safe, my dear child,” he said. “Not with this… brigand… still roaming freely.”

“Father, my understanding is that this brigand attacks supply wagons. From what I have heard, he does not attack people or take hostages. His interest is in the goods those wagons carry. Which means he is a commoner simply trying to provide for his family.”

“Perhaps.”

“For a year now, he has taken only wagons…”

“For the moment. That could change, my dear girl.”

“Father, in all our time here in the north, I have never been,” she pleaded. “I would love to see it. And I would love to see the negotiations with the Scots first-hand.”

“Gillian, …”

“Father, you have always stressed the importance and value of education and experience,” she urged him. “I want to add value to this House and be prepared to help advise my husband when I marry.

Her father took another drink of wine, giving her a long, considering look. Finally, he sat forward and set his goblet down, a small frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward.

“I cannot allow it, Gillian. I am sorry, but it is too dangerous. I cannot have you risking your life. I will not.”

“Father…”

“I have made my decision.”

Gillian stood before her father pouting for another moment before turning and fleeing his office, slamming the door behind her. She dashed through the castle until she reached her chamber, barged through her door and slammed it behind her. Jane looked up from her seat near the window and lowered her book.

“You look vexed,” she said.

“I am vexed!” Gillian almost shouted. “He will not let me go to Edinburgh.”

Gillian dropped heavily into the chair across from Jane, her expression dark. Folding her arms, she frowned deeply, as Jane closed the book and set it on the small table next to her.

“And why won’t he let you go?”

Gillian’s expression soured. “He says it’s too dangerous,” she hissed. “He’s worried about the brigand swooping in and stealing me away.”

Jane rolled her eyes and laughed softly. “That is…”

“Ridiculous,” Gillian cut her off.

“So, what will you do?”

Gillian shrugged, “What can I do?”

A wicked smile touched Jane’s lips. “That depends. How badly do you want to see Edinburgh?”

“Very badly,” Gillian complained. “I have wanted to see Edinburgh for as long as we have lived in the north.”

A mischievous light sparkled in Jane’s eyes that brought a smile to Gillian’s face. She knew that look well… it meant that Jane was about to propose something entirely outlandish and daring. Gillian watched as Jane got to her feet and sauntered over to the window.

“Well, you can sit here moping about it,” Jane said. “Or, you can do something about it.”

Joining Jane at the window, Gillian casually surveyed the bailey below, watching for a few moments as her uncle directed his men to load the wagons and prepare for their ride to Edinburgh. And as she stood there watching, an idea took root in her mind.

Gillian looked over at Jane and smiled. She had been Gillian’s courage and sense of adventure since they were young. Jane often prodded Gillian into taking a chance. Into taking a leap of faith. Jane had always been able to get Gillian to do things she did not usually believe she could do.

In some ways, it was a good thing. It helped bring Gillian out of her shell. In other ways, it had caused her endless trouble throughout her life. Their antics did not always amuse her father. But Gillian sometimes enjoyed the way Jane pushed her to do things that made her uncomfortable. She played things so safe in life, and doing something out of character was fun.

“What’s going through that mind of yours, Gilly?”

A devilish smile touched Gillian’s lips. She looked at the men loading the carts in the bailey one more time then turned back to Jane.

“Fetch me some breeches, a long-sleeved shirt, and a cloak,” Gillian said with a smile. “I am going to stop complaining and do something about it.”

“You are wicked,” she laughed.

“I have learned from the best.”

 


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Highlander’s Gypsy Lass (Preview)

Chapter I

The covered wagon bumped and sloshed through mud and over rocks. The highlands unrolled around the small traveler caravan making its way towards Loch Awe of Argyll, Scotland. Her feet bouncing as she sat on the back of the wagon, Rosalie watched the passing of the burnt sienna and pale green glens blanketing the slender winding trail on either side. She pulled her travel cloak tighter to shield the child against the light drizzle and gentle breeze. As they approached the settlement banking along the loch, the smell of juniper and myrtle awakened her excitement.

Dogs barked alongside the wagons. The wheels creaked and moaned as they cut through thick mud and rattled over uneven rocks. The clang of pots and falling items from within the caravan made Rosalie bite down on her lip and cringe.

“How much further?”

Magda braved walking through the rocking vehicle to hear the young woman speak. Rosalie looked up tenderly at her adopted mother as the old woman braced herself against the arched frame for support.

“Patience, Rosalie, patience,” Magda’s aged voice cracked. “Aye, not much longer, ma dear. We’ll pro’ably settle o’er there. You know, as much as I do, it’s up to Alexander.”

Rosalie smiled up at Magda, taking a moment to appreciate the wise eyes framed by shocks of gray and white streaking her thick, dark hair. The two women peered over the landscape. They could see the first signs of civilization sprouting over the meadows and pastures. There was always uncertainty about what a new place would bring.

Alexander, the eldest man, had traveled through most of the country at one time or another. Regardless, each place he brought them back to was a gamble. Time changed people and their opinions of their kind. Some welcomed the travelers and the trades they offered, bringing their wares for repair, or enlisting the services of the women to mend and sew new gowns. Other times, they were met with the prejudices and fears of the villagers, driven off like rabid dogs before they could prove their good intentions.

“I have a good feelin’ about this place, Magda.” Rosalie rubbed out the folds of her wool gown, warming the flats of her hands against the rough-spun cloth.

“Aye.”

Magda agreed, but the young redhead could see uncertainty twisting her cracked lips. The ancient eyes remained trained on two men tending a field nearby. They paused their work to watch the caravan roll through. Neither of them waved, just stared, passing unknown words to one another as they watched the procession tumble through.

In the distance, a castle tower arose, twisting five stories high into the air. “There’ll be work ‘ere. They can afford a castle; they can afford labor.” Magda turned to shield her aching bones from the early autumn cold in the shelter of the rounded wagon. “Get that damned dog ‘fore it keels over. An’ mind your gown.” Her voice trailed off, but Rosalie could hear her mutter something about the girls’ carelessness and making a decent impression.

Rosalie offered no response, and Magda waited for none before disappearing inside. Rosalie lifted the hem of her skirt as she jumped down, mud splashing up and sucking around her leather boots. The dog stopped at her feet, panting relentlessly from the hours it had spent alongside the wagon. Rosalie tried her best to mind its paws as she scooped the creature in her arms and ran to catch the back of the wagon once more. She tossed the dog up and took one more glance at the men nearby before clambering in herself.

“Kin’ o’ handsome that one is, ay dog?” She scratched behind the animal’s ears as the two men disappeared behind them. One was tall, about her age, with red hair a shade lighter than her own. The other was an older man, older than even Magda.

Although they habitually kept a low profile, it was impossible to go unnoticed as their caravan passed the humble homes stretching out from the loch and castle. It took them over an hour to reach the tree line cloaking the mouth of the Awe River. Juniper, willow, birch, and the thick underbrush of late summer enveloped them. Rosalie stayed on the back of the wagon, stroking the tired dog, as the caravan stopped and started while the men checked out spots for them to set up camp.

In the heart of the woods, they found a clearing large enough for their vehicles. Through the vegetation, the young girl could still hear the roar of the river nearby, although it was no longer in sight. The wagons moved in a large circle, creating a protective ring around the camp. The rain let up, but despite the bright sun and clear blue skies, moisture still hung in the air, nipping at noses and cheeks.

“Get on it, girl. Go help Anna,” Magda called out.

Rosalie felt flush with excitement. Exhilaration always filled her when they came to a new place. Her heart pounded with hope and excitement as grand fantasies of adventure played out in her mind. She found Anna already picking the site clean of twigs and brush, piling it in the center, where the men would dig out a pit for the fire.

Anna was Rosalie’s childhood friend. Although Rosalie was unsure of her own age, as Magda had adopted her in infancy, she guessed Anna was a year younger than her. She always felt envious of Anna in the most loving way possible, admiring her olive complexion, rounded curves, and the contrast of her dark, thick hair against light amber eyes.

Rosalie dove into her duties, creating a makeshift basket out of her apron. “Did ye see the gentleman we passed?”

“Aye,” Anna grinned. “Ye fancy him?”

Rosalie blushed, wishing Anna hadn’t said anything. There was no point in entertaining such thoughts. To marry an outsider would mean exile from the ones she loved.

“Why? Did you?” Rosalie shot back.

Anna smirked and shrugged. “I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em. Those arms…” she shuddered playfully.

Rosalie giggled and shushed her friend, looking around to make sure no one heard their banter as they worked. The men set to their duties, and Rosalie let out a sigh as she realized no one was close enough to listen to them. Anna was bolder than Rosalie. She admired her for that, but there was less risk for Anna.

Rosalie never quite fit into either world. Her auburn hair, bright green eyes, and fair complexion were a daily reminder she did not belong. Outsider’s blood coursed through her veins. She was destined to a life never entirely fitting in with the travelers, yet always cast out by the rest of the world as well.

“Y’know Enoch is sweet on ye.” Anna saw Rosalie grimace. “Wha’, you don’ like him?”

Rosalie was not sure how to answer. There were few choices for marriage, and her time was approaching—lest she wanted to be a maid for the rest of her life, or say goodbye to those she loved. Enoch was a handsome man, dark and about as tall as Rosalie, but growing up in the small community, she knew things about him.

“You know how he is.” Her face grew dark as she thought of the few times she’d overheard him boasting to his friends about some of the ways he came into revenue for the Roma community. It was men like him that gave travelers a criminal reputation, and whether Magda and Alexander knew of his nighttime occupations, Anna and Rosalie had heard his proud stories of bravado and treachery.

“Aye,” Anna nodded, dipping the second jug, “I do, but he’s strong, Rosie. He’s got good blood in ‘im, an’ ye know he’d keep ye safe and provided fer. Isn’t tha’ what matters?”

As if he could sense them speaking, Rosalie looked up to see Enoch approaching them. She gathered her skirts and rose, not wanting to deal with both of them at the same time.

Anna’s mouth fell open at Rosalie’s sudden change of course. “Where’re you off to?”

“I’m goin’ to help Magda with the wash.”

Anna looked over her shoulder. She saw Enoch closing in on them and stared Rosalie down, pursing her lips. She knew what her friend was thinking. It was foolish for her to throw away such blatant opportunities for marriage. It did not matter what she felt about him. All that mattered is if he could protect her and her future children from the dangers of the world.

“Suit yerself, Rosie,” Irritation underlined every word as Anna stood, “Ye could think aboot others fer once. Maybe spend a li’l less time alone in the woods.”

As Anna turned away from her, Rosalie snatched her wrist with the speed of a viper. “I’ll think on it.” She met her friend’s amber eyes, wishing to qualm her fears. It was enough. She watched Anna’s anxiety lift a bit, and the smile return to her eyes.

“Good; ye’d be a fool not to.”

Rosalie hurried away, stealing a glance over her shoulder at Enoch. Their eyes locked for a moment. He gave her a look like a wild cat crouched and ready to pounce on her. It sent a warning up her spine, telling her not to let him catch her alone or test his temper. Disturbed, she ran to find Magda, still feeling his eyes boring into her back.

Magda was waiting for her. Whatever grief Anna gave her, her mother was worse. She had watched the whole thing from beneath the canopy stretching from the wagon. Rosalie cursed under her breath; the old crone was cross.

“Are ye daft, girl?”

Rosalie knitted her brows. She could feel her patience thinning. There were too many people nagging her—and she was too tired to coddle the lot of them. “No.”

“Yer sure actin’ like it. He was comin’ right to ye. What’re ye thinkin’?”

“I was thinkin’ the life o’ a spinster sounds nice.” She couldn’t help but smile as she heard Magda’s sharp gasp.

“Don’ joke, Rosalie!”

Rosalie started to gather the laundry, Magda, right on her heels. “Aye, it’s no joke. The way I figure it, I can save a whole lotta time if I skip the family bit. Get a nice sheep or two—”

“Bite your tongue.” Magda looked around to see if anyone could hear, and Rosalie let out a peal of laughter. The woman’s hands shook. “You’ll be the death o’ me, child.” She was downright mad, and Rosalie knew better than to push her too far, “Tomorrow, yer goin’ with him into town. No excuses. You hear?”

“Aye, I hear,” she heaved the basket into the crook of her arm and stepped out of striking range, “but today, I’m lookin’ at sheep. Ye think the clan’ll notice if their flock’s down a few?”

“Ohh…” her hand grasped at her chest in a dramatic gesture. “I swear, the devil gave ye that red hair. Get out o’ here. Go on!” Magda picked up a small rock and threw it at Rosalie’s feet. “Get! I cannae look at you right now!”

Rosalie smiled to herself as she watched Magda fret. She paced, cursed, and prayed to God for help with her daughter. It was too easy to give her a hard time.

Yet the joy slipped away as soon as she was alone in the woods. All jokes aside, she knew she would have to marry another traveler if she wished to remain in the Roma’s good graces. The thought of exile was too much for her to bear. The idea of leaving Magda and Anna tightened her chest until she couldn’t breathe.

Her thoughts circled over and over until she pushed them out. With a small prayer, she decided to let fate take care of the situation. The woods calmed her. Being alone out there awakened her sense of adventure, and helped her forget about everything else. Out there, without fear of judgment, she could be herself.

The river was just far enough away from camp to give Rosalie complete privacy. She was grateful for the clear skies and bright sun fingering through the trees. The traveler followed the shoreline until she came to a bend extended by large boulders. Someone had pushed a log across this part of the river to make a footbridge.

It was an ideal location for her to spend the rest of the day. She washed the clothes, beating them against the rocks until her hands were dark red from the cold water and her arms trembled. Before hanging them to dry, she double-checked the sky. Even though it looked promising, she knew the weather could change in an instant.

There was always a large number of clothes to wash following a move. It was Rosalie’s favorite chore because she could be alone for as long as she wanted. For the first hour or so, she rested, twisting daisy chains for crowns and letting her muscles relax in the warming sun. As the moments passed by, she became more and more curious about what lay on the other side of the river.

By noon, she couldn’t help herself. She was careful, hopping between the water-slick boulders to reach where the log bridged over. With a quick shake, she checked its stability. It was only as wide as her shoulders, forcing her to inch across, toe-to-heel. The bark was worn, and slicker than she thought, but the idea of turning around scared her more than continuing forward.

The rapids below roared, capped in angry white swirls. Rosalie’s heart pounded as the sound deafened her. She focused on the opposing bank, her hands outstretched for balance.

A strong wind gusted over the churning rapids. Rosalie teetered. Her feet slipped. Her balance failed, and dark water beckoned. She screamed.

Chapter II

The world spun around her. Her chest slammed against the log, knocking the air from her lungs. In a moment of desperation, she managed to cling to the trunk. The ice-cold water suffocated her. The smooth flats of her boots touched the river’s bottom. Her feet skated over the slick rocks. The current dragged her legs beneath the log, threatening to yank her under it.

There was no one within shouting distance. She tried to think of a way out, but it seemed hopeless. No matter how much she pulled, her arms were too weak to lift herself from the current sucking her down. The tip of one of her fingernails broke as she clawed at the bark. She clung for dear life as the cold froze her to the bones. Her already tired arms wouldn’t hold out long. Tears choked her as her fingers started to slip over the log anchoring her. Just when she thought all hope was lost, a hand gripped her wrist.

Someone yanked her from the rapids, and before she could register who… or what was happening, was dragged to the safety of the boulders. Disoriented, wet and panting, she fell against the strong muscles of a broad chest. Her hands fumbled for stability and sank into a damp linen shirt. When she finally looked up, she blinked in shock at her savior.

“Are ye alright, lass?”

Deep blue eyes, shades darker than the river, stared down at her with concern. It was the man she’d seen in the fields earlier in the day. His strong arms cradled her close. Rosalie became aware of the intimacy of the position, which seemed to scare her more than the rapids. She tried to yank herself away, but her balance was still off, and she almost fell right back into the water.

The man was a foot taller than her, taller than anyone from her community. He made her feel small and fragile, and his hands kept a firm hold on her. A warmth seemed to surge from every place he touched.

Rosalie’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. Her sudden feeling of vulnerability in this stranger’s embrace ignited her temper.

“Let go o’ me,” she snapped.

The man obeyed and sidestepped. His hands remained outstretched to catch her if she fell. She could not look at him as she tried her best to scramble back to solid ground. Her body shook violently beneath her heavy, soaked gown.

“What were ye thinkin’?” His brows furrowed in both concern and slight anger. “Were ye tryin’ to kill yerself? To think if I hadn’t heard ye scream—if I hadn’t been ridin’ by—”

Rosalie felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She could hardly breathe, and looking at him was almost blinding. The fact that he was attractive made it worse.

He must have seen how shaken she was because his features softened. “Sit down.” He took his coat from his back and spread it over the grass.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” The words rushed out. She didn’t want to seem rude, but she was overwhelmed.

“Aye, nice way tae thank me for savin’ yer life. Sit down.” The tone of his voice carried authority she could not protest. It sent shivers through her that weren’t from the cold. She looked at the jacket and decided to sit on the grass beside it instead.

“Yer stubborn, ye ken?” There was nothing cruel in his voice—merely amusement as he pulled his coat back up from beside her. “Mos’ people would say thank ye for comin’ to their rescue.”

Being so shaken in the presence of a stranger made Rosalie madder than ever. She considered storming off and heading back to camp, but the thought of Magda’s response to a drenched Rosalie bereft of laundry, kept her glued in place and shivering to the bone. Her teeth chattered, and she was both relieved and dismayed to see the man walk off into the tree line. Rosalie immediately set to removing the wet clothes from her body before she froze to death.

The fabric stuck to her arms, tangling her. In her frustration and panic, she tried desperately to free herself, fighting against the wet cloth. Her heart froze when she heard something drop behind her.

“Please tell me that’s not you,” she squeaked. She swallowed hard, hoping it was just an animal snapping twigs in a hurry to get away.

“I-I’m sorry, lassie. I didn’t mean tae—I was jus’ gettin’ wood. I didn’t ken, I swear it.”

Rosalie groaned in embarrassment. She peeked over her shoulder, and some of it melted away when she saw the shocked look on his face. Her people didn’t hold the same shame of the human body as outsiders did. Modesty was expressed through intention and action, not from a complete aversion to nudity, even when the situation required it. He was dumbfounded, and the control it gave her mingled with nerves enough to awaken her playful mischief.

Excuse me.”

The few sticks he still held in his arms tumbled out. “S-sorry, lassie.” Crimson flooded his cheeks. His eyes fell to the ground, shielded by one of his hands. He turned away. “I meant no ‘ffense.”

Rosalie freed herself from her dress, and with brazen confidence, walked across the open expanse to where the clothes dried in the sun. The dress she pulled on was still damp, but not nearly as soaked as the one she’d pulled off. She was surprised to see he wasn’t peeking and took a moment to admire his broad shoulders and strong frame.

“Ye act like you’ve never seen a woman before,” she teased, fishing for more information about him.

“I have, jus’ not one so…” His words dried in his throat.

“Naked?”

“Aye.” He let out a heavy sigh and nodded in a way that made Rosalie giggle.

Her voice came out like the tinkling of glass blown in the wind, light and delicate.

“Ye can turn around now if you like.”

The demure way he peeked over his shoulder, making sure she was decent, made her heart skip a beat. He couldn’t look at her directly and melted any nervousness or anger from moments before. The young man scrambled to collect the wood and set to start a fire, avoiding her blazing emerald eyes. She sat down across from him and openly admired his curly red hair and pronounced jawline, enjoying the way her ogling made him visibly nervous as he attempted to light the fire.

When the spark caught, he cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Ye shouldn’t be dressin’ like that out in the open. What if it wasnae me, lassie?” His words simmered with authentic anger.

“An’ who are you to tell me what I can and cannae do?”

He looked at her, mouth hanging open, aghast. He started to defend himself, rattled by the chain of events, but then he saw the smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. A great, contagious laugh burst out.

“Yer cheeky, lass, ye ken that?” He shook his head. A single dimple revealed itself as he smiled, feeding sticks into the growing flame, “I cannae say I’ve met anyone like you ‘fore.”

“Oh, aye? An’ is that a bad thing?” Rosalie was genuinely curious but tried her best to cloak her insecurities. She pulled at the sleeves of her gown and rubbed the cold from her arms.

The way he looked at her then made her feel more naked than she was before. Those sapphire eyes met hers, and she felt her heart race to twice its usual speed. “No,” was all he said. It made her blush, and heat rose in her cheeks. She tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear and looked down, trying to hide the flame blossoming in her stomach and warming her heart.

Silence passed between them. It was alive with the sounds of the rushing river, Rosalie’s heartbeat roaring in her ears, and the crackling of the open fire. She tried to think of some way to break the silence, the nervous tension building between them. The chattering of her teeth only seemed to intensify instead of subsiding.

“Yer still cold.”

Although relieved for the break, she didn’t like to see him frown. It was new for her to have a stranger, or any man for that matter, be genuinely concerned with her wellbeing.

Rosalie rubbed her arms and nodded. “I best get o’er it. Magda’s goin’ tae kill me.” The young woman sucked in through her teeth and shook her head, noticing the dusk stealing color from the world around her.

The stranger stood. Rosalie remained glued in place as she watched him walk around the campfire, slipping his jacket off once again. “Please,” he said. She pulled back from him, as much afraid of giving him the wrong idea as afraid of the way her body would react to his touch. Still, with each gust, she felt as if the wind cut her to the bone. She nodded her consent.

She did not look at him as he slipped it over her shoulders. It was heavy leather and instantly shielded her from the cold. His fingers grazed her shoulders, and the touch sent rippling waves down her spine.

“Thank ye,” she whispered, glancing up at him. He paused for a second, as though losing his stream of thought. As though it had crashed somewhere behind them, he snapped back to the present, cleared his throat, and took a seat next to her—so close… it almost felt as if they were touching.

“I don’t even ken yer name.”

“Nor I, yours.”

“Declan,” he said, and tossed a small twig into the shrinking flames. “Declan o’ the Gregor clan.”

Rosalie nodded. She had many names. One only her community knew, ones she used in different towns, and then the common one, which seemed to be the public catch-all. For a moment, something about him made her want to tell him her real name. It was a foolish thought.

“Rosalie. No clan.”

“Yer different than the other gypsies.” He said it with an innocence that kept Rosalie from taking offense.

“Aye,” she nodded. “I was adopted. An no,” she smiled, knowing all the rumors whispered about her kind, “I wasnae kidnapped by ‘gypsies.’”

He looked relieved to see her smiling. “Why were ye adopted? If that’s nae too personal.”

“I think we’re past personal, Declan,” she winked. His name tasted sweet on her tongue. She paused for a moment, the cheer slipping from her as she weighed whether to tell him the truth or not. She looked at his calm, strong features, and felt a pang in her heart as she realized it didn’t matter what he thought of her. This was the closest they would grow. She decided to tell him the truth. “If ye didn’t judge me a‘fore, here’s somethin’ tae scare ye off. I’m a bastard.”

Rosalie thought she saw embarrassment in his features. She stared at him, waiting for a response.

“None o’ that’s yer fault, lassie. An’ I dinnae think it makes ye who ye are.” And then, when he looked at her, she could feel their heartbeats sync. “Do ye ken who yer parents are?”

“No.” Their eyes deadlocked. “I’ve ne’er asked.”

“An’ why is that? I’d be curious, if it were me.”

“It seemed taboo, I guess. Scared Magda might take it the wrong way—think I weren’t grateful.” Maybe it was the knowing that they would never see each other again, but something about Declan opened her up. “I used to dream me mother were a lady, though, when I was a wee bairn. Silly, ain’t it?” She only gave a half-smile before breaking away from his mesmerizing blue eyes.

“No,” Rosalie startled as his fingers touched the side of her face, guiding it toward him. “Ye look like a lady.”

She closed her eyes as his fingers grazed the globe of her cheek. It first soothed her like a balm, but then her heart pattered with nerves. Part of her wanted to push into the palm of his hand, savoring how safe and accepted she felt in that moment, but couldn’t set aside reality. He touched one of the tight-wound curls. Rosalie squeezed her eyes tight and took a deep breath. She could smell sweat and dirt on him, mingling to create a unique, pleasant musk.

The young traveler slid her fingertips over the top of his hand, taking in the marks of hard work carved into his skin. She could hear his heartbeat quicken, and his breath shorten. If she let this go any further, all hope of coming out unscathed would vanish. As she pulled his hand away, a floodgate burst in her mind. A million thoughts drove her back to reality. If she let this go any further, it would only hurt her.

Besides, she didn’t even know this man. Enoch’s retelling of his conquests, how he seduced such maidens as herself, came to the forefront of her mind. When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t imagine he could play such treacherous tricks—yet fear would not let her forget.

“Still, we shouldn’t be doin’ this,” she said. The young woman withdrew, pulling her knees up to her chest and tightening the leather jacket around her shoulders. “I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to ye. If Magda found out—”

“What? If she found out I saved ye…” His brow wrinkled, but his voice remained calm. “She’d be relieved, no?”

Rosalie bit her lip and shook her head. “Please,” she begged with her gaze, “please don’t tell anyone we’ve met. If ye see me ‘gain, ye cannot know me.” She gripped his hand tight.

“I’ll see ye, though?”

“Not like this.” Rosalie shook her head. “Nothin’ good ‘ill come of it.”

“I ken ye feel it too. There’s a connection here. Ye cannot deny it, lassie.”

“Which is why if ye like me at all, you’ll stay away from me. There is no future fer us. Not o’ bein’ friends, or, or…” she did not want to say it out loud. It was presumptuous of her, a fantasy she couldn’t afford to entertain.

“Meetin’s like this don’ jus’ happen ev’ry day, ye ken.” He went to touch her hair again, but she pulled back.

Laughter came up from within her, partially from nervousness and partly from disbelief. “Like you don’ have plenty o’ appropriate women to pursue.”

That did it. It was clear she offended him. Color rose from his neck, reddening his face about as much as his hair. He just looked at her, and his expression said it all—his feelings were sincere.

A stick broke from somewhere within the darkening forest. Both of them tensed and looked back. Panic froze her.

“Rosalie!” It was Enoch.

He was further down the river, looking for where she’d been working. Rosalie looked around at the darkness and was shocked time had slipped by as fast as it did. Her eyes flew open.

“Ye have to go.” She stood and presented his jacket. “Please, if ye like me at all, ye have tae go ‘fore he sees ye.”

The anger subsided into concern. He looked towards the sound of Enoch growing closer, yelling her name, and trudging through the brush. “Tell me I’ll see ye ‘gain.”

Rosalie shook her head. “Please,” fear threatened to make her cry. Enoch was closer. “Please, jus’ take yer horse an’ forget aboot me.”

“I cannot. Promise me I’ll see ye, an’ I’ll go.” He stood, towering above her, making her feel small.

“Rosalie! Answer me!” Enoch screamed. Any second, he would appear and be able to see them together.

“All right, all right, I promise.” She slammed the jacket into his chest and started towards his horse, “Jus’ get outtae here. If they knew—” she held out the reins for him and looked over her shoulder again.

 


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