Highlander's Cursed Bride: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  “It is not that I am searching,” Hilda said.

  “I understand the way of things,” Lady Marjorie shook her head slightly, taking Hilda’s arm in hers. “But I feel that you do not look forward to your wedding the way that all the rest do.”

  Lady Marjorie nodded to a gaggle of ladies, fawning over a tall rugged Scotsman who seems to be sulking in the corner. Hilda was taken aback as she realized it was the same red-haired Scot that she had seen riding into the castle before them. Camden Aragain.

  “Who is that?” Hilda asked, nodding towards Camden.

  “Why, that’s my nephew,” Marjorie commented. “He sits and he sulks despite all the attention paid him.”

  “I have heard that he killed Lord Clifford at Bannockburn, is it true?”

  “Ask him yourself,” Marjorie winked. “But do not expect much of an answer.”

  Marjorie led Hilda towards Camden’s corner. The sea of wealthy women parted with daring glares in Hilda’s direction as she came into their arena.

  Hilda could feel their venom through their eyes boring into her. Who am I, this tall lanky English girl, to play their games?

  “Ladies,” Marjorie smiled politely as the crowd filtered away from them, and then pushed Hilda slightly forwards. “Camden, I should like you to meet somebody.”

  “Eh?” Hilda watched the young man raise his face to his aunt, lazily setting aside his ale. “Me lady,” he said with a nod.

  “This is Hilda Leighton. Her father is an important merchant from London. Hilda, my dear, this is my nephew, Camden of Aragain, Laird of Troudel.”

  “My Lord,” Hilda bowed her head again, but when she brought it back up, Marjorie had disappeared. “Where did–?”

  “Aw, leave it,” Camden chuckled, gesturing to the bench. “She won’t stop ‘till I’ve a wife and bairns.”

  “We have that in common,” Hilda smirked. She had never heard so thick a Scottish accent, and something about it washed over her in a pleasant way.

  “I havenae seen ye before,” Camden remarked, as if only half interested. Hilda found herself slightly annoyed by his arrogance.

  “And?” Hilda challenged him. Camden seemed to perk up.

  “And what?” he gestured with his hands. “Are ye here to win me heart? Many have tried.”

  “Rather for you to win mine, I would imagine.”

  “And how will that go?” Camden teased back, folding his arms. “I’ve not such luck the last few times.”

  “You are in a sorry state,” Hilda was growing cross with the drunk, famous, extremely handsome, supposedly legendary warrior. His attitude was boorish and crude. Who is he to speak down to me?

  “I have been, these past three years,” Camden sighed, tilting his head back in boredom.

  “I think it is no wonder you have not yet found a wife. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Where are ye goin’?” Camden sat forward quickly, nearly spilling his ale. Clearly he was not accustomed to seeing a lady walk away so swiftly, and this made Hilda hide her grin.

  “Away from a drunken bore,” Hilda shot back, twisting the edge of her lips into a tight smirk.

  “Oy!” Camden leapt to his feet. There was a twinkle of excitement in his eyes at her attitude. “Who’s the bore then?”

  “He’s the drunk one,” Hilda smiled fully, enjoying the bit of banter despite the fact that she found Camden rude and obnoxious. She left him swimming in her rebuke, and darted through the feast hall to her father. She found him talking with a grim looking, one-eyed Englishman.

  “Hilda, there you are,” Neville gestured to the man he was speaking with. He was a tall, well-constructed specimen with a brooding face and a fine tunic, and he was quite blatantly missing an eye. “This is Sir Roger Horseley.”

  “I greet thee,” the soldier bowed deeply. Hilda could see that he was a somber man, scarred both inside and out from a life of war, and yet there was a darkness about him, something that could consume even the kindest of souls. He was the same as every other old knight she had ever met.

  “It is an honor to meet you,” she smiled and curtsied.

  “Sir Roger Horseley was the last defender of Stirling Castle after Bannockburn, you know, the only one who wouldn’t surrender. A good show, man, truly,” Neville kept up his blabbering, always waving about with his hands when he was trying to make himself seem larger and more important.

  “Thank you, Mister Leighton,” the old knight clearly soured at the mention of Bannockburn, as any present Englishman would. It had been a poor showing on their behalf, or so Hilda had heard. In her position, little news of battle and war reached her searching ears.

  “What brings you to Scotland, Sir Horseley?” Hilda gave him the respect he was due, but no more.

  “Just a bit of a venture,” he said dismissively. “My name is Roger,” he added. “Feel free to use it as such.”

  “Of course,” Hilda smiled politely. All these knights, lords, and ladies never want to be called as such. How strange it all was.

  “Honored guests!” a voice boomed out from the high table, and all turned to see the Laird of Elmiron, Kenneth Innes, standing to address his guests. The hall fell largely silent, awaiting his speech.

  “I thank ye all for being’ here,” Kenneth Innes called out. “As ye all know, we gather here to celebrate the third anniversary of oor victory at Bannockburn!” The hall erupted into fist pounding and hollering, and Hilda frowned at the blatant drunkenness.

  “Let us all hold up our goblets to our King! Bruce the King!”

  “Bruce the King!” the Scottish bellowed back, but Hilda noticed her father and Roger had not joined in.

  “Now I’ve had me minstrels write a ballad, and I’d like to share it with ye all! Should ye like to hear it?”

  “Aye!” cried the Scots, and the English present flinched.

  “But first! We must recognize a hero in our midst!” Kenneth went on. “Me own Nephew! The man who killed Lord Clifford! Camden o’ Aragain!”

  The Scots cheered again, pounding their feet against the floor. Hilda saw Camden as he was put in the center of attention. She saw that he hated it, that he squirmed with discomfort and anger, or was it dissatisfaction? She had thought him to be the type to soak in such praise, but instead she saw him hide from it, and she was intrigued by this wrinkle in what she thought was his character.

  So The Innes gave the mark, and his harpers launched into a revised ballad to the tune of Robert Bruce’s own composition. Hilda, her father, and Sir Horseley were horrified by what they heard. It was the most blatant insult to the English monarchy, and it was done with joy on the minstrel’s faces.

  “Should this song ever be heard in London, I—” Neville trailed off, truly in shock at the music.

  “I shall take some air,” Hilda announced, and whisked herself out of the hall quick as she could, not looking at the boisterous Scotsmen celebrating their victory.

  Hilda walked out of the hall and drew her shawl around her as the crisp northern air whisked through her. Thinking herself alone, she walked to the ramparts and looked out over the festive soldiers below. Each Laird had brought their own retinue, ranging from five to fifty men, and now all of them reveled together in the castle yard while the nobles did the same indoors.

  “Ye dinnae like the tune?” Camden’s voice startled her, and she jumped a bit to see him emerging from the shadows further down the wall.

  “I found it brutish and uncouth,” Hilda fired back. I will not be intimidated by this ruffian.

  “As did I,” Camden sighed, drawing nearer, but he stopped ten paces from her and turned to watch the night sky.

  “You did?” Hilda blinked.

  “It’s all hogwash, isn’t it?” the Scotsman went on. “A bleedin’ stain.”

  “How do you mean?” Hilda could not help but be drawn to him in that moment, and she took several paces towards him.

  “I’ve been fightin’ all me life,” Camden turned to face her. “Fightin’ th
e English, fightin’ the Irish, fightin’ the Welsh. I’ve seen enough of it, I dinnae need to hear it over supper.”

  “Are you not a patriot?”

  “Oh aye, I’ll bleed for Scotland. But I won’t suffer nonsense.”

  “Such as the ladies that flock to you?” Hilda asked coyly.

  “Ha,” Camden summoned a smile, the first time Hilda had seen him do so. She was struck by his fine face in the moonlight, and found herself becoming more receptive to what he was saying. “They won’t leave me alone.”

  “You’re the man who killed Lord Clifford, after all,” Hilda decided to test him further. Was everything she had heard about him untrue?

  “Aye, I killed him,” Camden’s face darkened. “After he fell in the mud.”

  Hilda was speechless. If what he said was true, then Clifford should have been awarded the right of ransom, rather than be killed. To deny ransom, after your opponent was beaten, was directly contrary to chivalric values.

  “I killed Clifford for he killed me faither,” Camden shot out, unapologetically. “And I’d do it again, if it were not for this fame that I do not crave.”

  “I am sorry for your father,” Hilda said, studying the Ηighlander’s complex gaze.

  “Do ye still think me a drunken bore?” Camden squared his shoulders. “Or have I redeemed meself?”

  “You’re certainly not a bore,” Hilda smiled at him, and he smiled back. There in that moment she felt a strange spark of attraction, one that may have always been there but had disguised itself as curiosity and annoyance.

  “I’ve only had a wee bit of drink,” he laughed.

  “Miss Hilda?” Francis’s voice came from behind them, and Hilda saw the old man at arms coming up the steps towards them. “Is everything well?”

  “Yes. I am fine, thank you, Francis,” Hilda remarked.

  “Evenin’,” Camden bobbed his head. “Who might ye be?”

  “I am Francis of Sandwich, Miss Hilda’s house guard.” Hilda saw that Francis’s hand rested not so gently atop the hilt of his sword.

  “Well, she is certainly well guarded,” Camden laughed, and Hilda followed his eyes as he looked Francis up and down.

  “It is cold on the wall, My Lady,” Francis said.

  “She has not mentioned it,” Camden seemed to accept Francis’s challenge, and Hilda sighed. Men are such beasts on occasion.

  “It is cold, isn’t it Francis?” Hilda smiled politely at him. “I must return to my father, if you would both excuse me.”

  “Of course, My Lady,” Camden frowned, but did not protest. Hilda saw the smile of victory on Francis’s face as he began to follow her back to the hall.

  “I shall return to my father alone, Francis, thank you,” she said.

  “Of course,” Francis bowed his head, clearly disappointed, and Hilda flashed a fast wink at Camden as she went back into the hall.

  As she rounded the doorway, she caught one last look at the strapping young Highlander. He stood as a majestic silhouette against the pale moonlight, his red hair flying in the breeze, and Hilda felt her heart skip the briefest of beats.

  Chapter 2

  Lady Marjorie Innes was less than thrilled with her husband’s performance at the feast. The morning after the festivities, she crossed the floor of the Laird’s chamber at a rapid pace, flinging open the heavy drapes and letting the morning light flood in.

  “Ah!” Kenneth groaned out, his hangover clearly taking the better of him, as he twisted about in the bed. Marjorie stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at her husband.

  “Up then, what have you got to say for yourself?”

  “What?” Kenneth’s bleary eyes strained as he tried to familiarize himself with his very familiar surroundings. “Marjorie?”

  “I told you not to play that composition, didn’t I? And you went on and did it anyhow. You enraged all of our English guests with that pomped up tune.”

  “Oh, nay, I won’t hear it,” Kenneth rolled over again, smothering his face with his blankets. “Yer old friend Roger, he was bloody there. Fightin’ to keep us as slaves!”

  “And he lost an eye for it. Need he be remembered every time, when I should like to host my old friends?”

  “Aye,” Kenneth grunted from beneath his pillow. “He should.”

  “I have matters to attend to,” Marjorie exited the Laird’s chamber bitterly, wringing her hands together in a moment of deep frustration. She moved through her castle halls until she found Neville Leighton and his daughter at breakfast.

  “Good morrow,” she said, gracefully entering the dining chamber.

  “And to you as well, My Lady,” Neville Leighton stuttered over a piece of bread. Hilda smiled with a bow of her head.

  “I must apologize, Mister Leighton, for my husband’s choice in tune the evening last. It was wrong of him,” Marjorie spoke as she took a seat at the table, ushering in a servant holding a pitcher of water.

  “It was unexpected, to be sure,” Neville nodded as if he were pleased by her apology. “But after considering it, I cannot take offense to what a Laird does within his own halls, in his own country, no less.”

  “You are very kind,” Marjorie replied.

  “You yourself are English.”

  “Ye know that I am.”

  “Does it stir you at all then, to see such a display?”

  “Of course it does,” Marjorie said tartly. “But it is not my place to challenge my husband, is it?”

  “No, I should say not,” Neville said with a chuckle. Marjorie saw Hilda roll her eyes.

  “Tell me, did you accomplish your aim at the feast?”

  “One of them, I did,” Neville looked sharply at his daughter. “A Laird, The Hawrick of Hawrick, has agreed to take on our wine trade, to his good judgment, may I add. I also had the good fortune of meeting an old friend of yours, a true war hero, Sir Horseley.”

  “Yes, Roger and I go back many years,” Marjorie spoke as food and drink were laid out before her. “He was in the service of my late husband, the Earl of Chester.”

  “I did not know you were previously married,” Hilda spoke up, suddenly interested in the conversation.

  “My late husband, God rest his soul, died fighting against Wallace. I was foolish to think that I might see his earldom pass to our son, what between his quarrelsome brothers. So you see, I was forced to look elsewhere, to protect my boy. I just so happened to be fortunate enough to find Laird Innes.”

  “I did not know you had a son, My Lady,” Hilda looked surprised. “And he is the heir to Chester?”

  “Alas no, nor will he ever be. His uncles have seen to that.”

  “That is tragic, to be robbed of one’s home,” Hilda said.

  “But we have a new one now,” Marjorie became more chipper, trying to uplift the mood. “And it is a fine one, as fine as can be. Tell me, Hilda, did you enjoy the feast?”

  “I did, My Lady,” Hilda grinned at the end of her words, as if lingering on a pleasant thought.

  “And how did you find my nephew?” Marjorie watched for her reaction, and her heart fluttered to see the shine in Hilda’s eyes revealed.

  “You mean Camden?” Marjorie could see Hilda trying to hide her feelings.

  “I have no others, not any longer, at any rate.”

  “He is very charming, in a Northern way,” Hilda finally said.

  “Well said,” Marjorie cooed.

  “Will he be joining us today?” Hilda asked, ever so innocently.

  “I am afraid not,” Marjorie said. “He and his party have already left for Troudel.”

  “Oh,” Hilda looked dejected.

  Marjorie saw Neville angling to interject, and quickly switched the conversation. “So then will you be traveling to France? Now that you have found your buyer?”

  “Why, yes, yes I will, just as soon as my guards are ready.”

  “And will you be returning directly to Edinburgh after France?”

  “Precisely,” Nevill
e bobbed his head along, oblivious to Marjorie’s line of questioning.

  “Allow me to make a proposition,” Marjorie leaned forward, folding her hands before her bowl. “Leave Hilda here with me while you travel to France. I could so use the company.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Neville looked confused.

  “I promise you she shall be perfectly safe and well,” Marjorie went on. “Not only will it bring speed to your travels, but it may allow me an opportunity to find her a Laird to wed, just as you desire.”

  “You would do this for me?” Neville was warming up to the idea. She had him.

  “Only if Hilda would wish it.”

  “Father, I should like to go to France,” Hilda protested.

  “Oh, France will always be there,” Neville snorted. “It will be time well spent, as you did not speak to but one Laird at last night’s feast.”

  “But Father—”

  “That is the end of it, then,” Neville held up his hand, and it was done. Hilda stood up abruptly and stormed from the hall. “She’ll come around,” he said absently, looking back to his food.

  “She has a strong personality,” Marjorie remarked, watching Neville with slight disgust.

  “That she does,” he chuckled, as he spoke through a mouth full of food.

  “Perhaps it would be of comfort to her if you left some of your guard behind?”

  “Right you are,” Neville gestured with his knife. “I shall leave Francis to look after her with five men.”

  “That should be sufficient,” Marjorie smiled. Everything was falling into place. “When will you be departing?”

  “This afternoon, should it please.”

  “My husband is also journeying to Edinburgh, and he will be traveling with my friend, Sir Roger Horseley. Would you like to accompany them?”

  “I should like that very much,” Neville sat up. “Would it be permitted? I should not want to intrude.”

  “It would be so,” Marjorie assured him. “I shall speak with them. It can be dangerous, so close to the border here.”

  “So I have heard. We sailed to Edinburgh, for we would not take the risk of Highland raiding parties. They come in droves, harrying York and everywhere around it. It won’t stand, I say.”