Taming the Highlander: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Novel

by Fiona Faris

  She turned to the refreshments on the table. She was loath to partake of them since she had no wish to be there and felt that the hospitality was being pressed on her. However, she was thirsty from the journey and so decided to take a sip of the wine. She poured half a glassful from the jug. It was a fruity pink clairet, and she found the hint of raspberry it left on her palate refreshing.

  She sipped the wine and began pacing the room, her mood fluctuating between being angry and being downcast. She paused for a moment in one of the recessed windows and watched the sun go down over the distant bens. Her mood simmered like the light from the setting sun.

  After a while, the sun was gone, and there was only the gloaming, the last throes of the light before darkness fell. She was bored and impatient.

  How dare Cailean misuse her so. How dare he keep her waiting like this.

  She also reflected on how inappropriately dressed she was for her surroundings, now that she had been transported to the castle. She was still dressed in her outdoor riding clothes and looked like a common squire rather than a chieftain's daughter. Heaven forbid that she would be obliged to appear in public dressed like that.

  How dare he. If he had wanted her to visit Inveraray, Cailean need only have asked and let her go home to prepare. There had been no need to abduct her in the manner he had. It was not so strange that he should want her to visit to see her future home and be presented to his family; she would not – could not – have refused. And now he had left her, alone and unattended, in this attic room for what seemed to her an eternity. It was intolerable!

  After what felt like another eternity, the door opened, and Cailean entered.

  The first thing she noticed was that he had bathed and changed out of his riding clothes and into trews, doublet, and a strikingly white shirt with a frilled collar that spilled out over the neck of the short, close-fitting padded jacket.

  Renewed fury reared and pawed the air, but she succeeded in reining it in.

  He kept me waiting all this time, while he attended tae his own comforts an’ appearance! she thought to herself.

  She felt her face color, and she bit her lip to stop herself from saying something. Instead, she folded her arms and waited for him to explain himself.

  "Siusan, dear, I am sorry tae hae kept ye waiting all this time," he began, having the good grace to look penitent, though he somehow also managed to look smug. "I had some urgent an’ important business tae attend tae; otherwise I would no’ hae neglected ye so. Hae ye taken some refreshment?"

  She held up her goblet to indicate that she had but still said nothing. She was not going to let him off so easily.

  "Good." He took her by the hands and led her over to the window seat in the central of the three recesses, where he sat her down opposite him. "I hae arranged fer a modest supper tae be served up here, in this private chamber, while we discuss the arrangements fer oor upcoming nuptials."

  Siusan's mouth dropped open in disbelief, her hands forgotten in his.

  "I appreciate ye hae no things here," he continued, oblivious to her reaction, "but if ye provide me with a list o’ all the things ye immediately need, I will obtain them fer ye. A suite of apartments has been prepared fer ye in the east range o’ the castle," he continued still without pause, "that gives a pleasant prospect o’ the loch, an’ where ye can live until the wedding takes place. After that, o’ course, ye will come tae share my apartments."

  Unable to hold her temper in check any longer, Siusan’s anger flared. She shot to her feet, her blue eyes flashing dangerously, her brow dark with fury.

  "How dare ye so presume," she raged. "I would prepare fer my wedding in my own home, among my own people, with my maither. Ye would deny me that, withoot so much as a by-yer-leave?"

  He leaned back and blinked in surprise.

  "An’ no’ only that, but ye hae yer ruffians manhandle me an’ truss me up like a pig at market, throw me o’er yer horse, an’... an’... ye slap my bottom?"

  "That was fer the benefit o’ appearances, with the men, ye ken..."

  "Aye, aye." She impatiently waved aside the interruption as an irrelevancy. "I ken it was no’ meant in earnest; it lacked spirit. Even yer men noticed that; ye did no’ impress anyone by it."

  He looked crestfallen.

  She had fallen silent too. She stared at him, her head cocked enquiringly, waiting for some sort of explanation.

  Cailean stared back at her, completely nonplussed as if he had no idea what she was expecting of him.

  "This," she prompted, indicating to the room with a sweep of her arms. "Whit is this all aboot? Why hae ye brought me here? Why could ye no’ hae just invited me tae visit, like any normal suitor?"

  His eyes narrowed in confusion as if he just could not see what the problem was. Then he laughed, as he realized that he had forgotten she was just a weak-minded woman who needed to be spoon-fed.

  "Why, it is all rather simple, my dear," he explained, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head to show there was nothing more to it. "I hae taken ye intae my custody tae protect my interests against the MacGregors."

  Her jaw dropped open even further. She had heard the words but thought she must have mistaken their meaning, or else that was going insane.

  "Ye hae whit?" She breathed in astonished disbelief.

  "I heard that the MacGregor whelp has been sniffing 'round ye an’ that yer faither is considering breaking his pledge tae me an’ giving ye tae him instead. I am just protecting what has been promised me."

  Words failed her. How self-centered and selfish could a person be?

  She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear it.

  "Am I tae understand," she said, "that I am tae ye a piece of property that ye hae taken intae yer possession fer safekeeping, tae guard against it being stolen?"

  He smiled and slapped his thighs with the flats of his hands, pleased that she had finally got it.

  "Precisely!" He beamed. Then a doubt crossed his brow. "He has no’ used ye, has he?" he asked, his voice filled with anxiety. "I could no longer countenance marrying ye if ye were used goods. Ye might be pregnant with his get. I could no’ countenance the possibility o’ a cuckoo in my nest. I could only marry ye with yer maidenhead intact."

  She surprised him with a loud cry of fury and distress. She spun away from him, her fists beating the air, hot tears springing to her eyes.

  "Well, has he?" he persisted tentatively.

  Siusan rounded on him.

  "I will no’ even dignify that question with an answer."

  "Well, no matter." Cailean got to his feet. "We will discover the matter's state on oor wedding night."

  "Whit kind o’ woman do ye think I am?" she shouted. "Do ye hae such a low opinion o’ me?"

  He blinked at her again.

  "I hae no opinion o’ ye whitsoever," he confessed. "But rest assured that, if ye are unused, ye shall remain so until after we are married. I respect ye that much. But also rest assured," he added, "that after we are wed, I shall use ye as I will. I shall have no more tantrums. Ye shall comply with my every wish or suffer the consequences. Ye would not be the first spirited mare I hae whipped tae my will."

  She recoiled from him in horror, leaning on the mahogany table to prevent herself from falling.

  "Leave me." Her voice was barely audible. "Please, leave!"

  He looked at her in surprise.

  "But whit o’ oor supper?" he inquired.

  "I am no’ hungry. I believe it would make me sick."

  He looked at her with concern.

  "I am sorry tae hear that ye are indisposed. Perhaps the journey here has overstrained you. Rest, an’ perhaps ye will feel better in the morning. If ye change yer mind, let Deerin, the warden, ken. He will be posted ootside yer door all night an’ can arrange fer some food tae be brought tae ye from the kitchens."

  Cailean waited for a response from her, but none came.

  He closed the chamber door behind him as he left.
<
br />   To Siusan’s despair, she heard a key turning in the lock.

  Chapter Ten

  Meggernie Castle

  The same day

  Deep in Glen Strae, Uilleam and his father, Iain, Chief of the clan MacGregor, were playing chess at the top table in the great hall of Meggernie Castle.

  The late afternoon sunshine was streaming through the high window behind the dais, drawing a deep amber glow from the highly-polished chessboard. The chess pieces gleamed dully in the narrow shafts of light. Uilleam smiled fondly at his father as the latter bent over the table, concentrating intently on the disposition of the pieces on the board, breathing heavily, his thickly bearded chin propped in his hand.

  He had him this time; he was convinced of it.

  Uilleam fingered one of the pieces he had taken, to prevent himself from drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. It was not often that he bested his father, and his anticipation at the sweetness of his victory was almost too much to bear. The lines of the elaborately worked walrus ivory and whales' teeth were smooth and pleasing to his fingers, as were the forms of seated kings and queens, stern mitered and croziered bishops, mounted knights, standing warders, and pawns in the shape of obelisks to his eye. The chess pieces were a treasured part of the MacGregor hoard; a distant ancestor of Iain had acquired them long ago from a Norse trader, and they had since passed down the generations along with the clan chieftainship.

  Uilleam took a long draught from the wooden flagon of the ale they were drinking while they played. He smacked his lips in appreciation of the strong hoppy flavor as he returned his eyes to the board to survey the field of his victory.

  His heart sank as his father eventually made his move.

  "Check!" Old Iain said.

  The move had changed the whole aspect of the board. Only then could Uilleam see the trap that his father had led him into, and the sixteen previous moves by which the sly old fox had led him there. He groaned inwardly as he saw there could be no escape; a few more moves and he would be defeated.

  With a flick of his hand, he knocked over his king to concede the game.

  Iain inclined his head in acknowledgment of Uilleam's capitulation. Uilleam grinned inwardly at his father's barely concealed smugness.

  "Yer trouble is that ye are far tae impetuous," Iain said, as he gathered the pieces and began placing them back in their starting positions. "In chess, as in war, as indeed in love, ye should never begin by mounting an all-out attack. That just allows yer opponent tae see whit's coming an’ arrange his defenses accordingly. Ye need tae be far craftier than that. Ye need tae take yer time an’ patiently deploy yer forces first, set yer traps an’ misdirections, yer bluffs an’ disguises. It is only when ye hae done all that, an’ when yer opponent has wandered intae yer ambuscade, that ye make yer decisive strike, by which time it is tae late fer him tae do anything aboot it."

  Iain’s eyes glinted a smile above his bearded cheeks.

  "Patience, lad. Patience; that's the thing."

  Uilleam returned the smile, his heart full of admiration and affection for his father. He still had much to learn before he could be as wise a father to his clan as old Iain was. He doubted he would ever have the patience to match his father's stratagem, however. He was too hotheaded, too quick to anger, too quick to put his hand to his sword. He had inherited that, he reckoned, from his mother, along with his fiery red hair. He wondered by what cunning stratagem his father, Iain, had captured his mother's heart.

  "I will bear that lesson in mind," Uilleam assured old Iain, raising his flagon to toast his victory and acknowledge his advice.

  Just then, there was a commotion at the door. Uilleam looked up and saw a bedraggled-looking man enter, escorted by one of the grooms.

  The man was lean and wiry. He was dressed in a belted plaid, worn over a saffron tunic, and a flat blue bonnet. He was barefoot, and his legs and the kilt of his plaid were spattered with mud. Steam was already beginning to rise from his damp clothes in the heat of the hall.

  Without pausing, the groom led the man hurriedly up the length of the hall towards the dais on which Uilleam and his father were sitting. Uilleam’s eyes had widened in surprise, and he stared at the man in mild astonishment. A babble of excited conversation started up among the few clansfolk who were loafing about in the body of the hall. The visitor’s spurs rang on the flagstones as he strode purposefully up the hall, the groom scurrying ahead of him.

  Uilleam rubbed his thumb over the smooth wood of his tankard. His curiosity was aroused, tinged by a growing apprehension as to the nature of the man’s business. What had brought him there at such haste? Something important, he would wager. Uilleam leaned back in his chair and watched the man approach.

  “A messenger from Angus Gunn, Chief of the Clan Gunn in Glen Orchy, if ye please, Iain Mor,” the groom announced.

  The groom stood aside, to await his chief’s pleasure. The messenger pulled off his cap and crumpled it in his hands in front of his chest. His eyes shifted nervously about the floor in front of Iain and his son.

  Uilleam’s apprehension grew. This would be bad news, he reflected, when even the messenger is reluctant to spit it out.

  The man stood hesitant. His breathing was ragged. The babble in the hall behind him had fallen to a series of expectant whispers.

  This man had ridden hard, Uilleam reflected. He was still trying to catch his wind.

  The sweet and sour scents of horse and sweat rose with the steam from the man’s clothing. In his mind’s eye, Uilleam saw him riding hard over the passes from the neighboring Glen Orchy, pushing his mount on relentlessly.

  Uilleam was burning to know what news the man had brought. He looked to his father. What was he waiting for? Why would he not speak?

  “Ye bring news from Angus Mor?” Iain asked at long last.

  The messenger shot Uilleam a nervous look.

  “Well, speak up, man?” Iain encouraged him firmly. “Don’t be afraid...”

  He laughed, but without humor, for Iain too knew that what the man had to tell them could not be good.

  “... we don’t cut the heads off the bearers o’ bad news here an’ send them back tae those who sent them.”

  Uilleam was suddenly possessed by a great urge to grab the man by the shoulders of his plaid and shake the news out of him, but he resisted.

  The messenger swallowed slowly as if to clear a way in his throat for the words.

  “Angus Mor sends the message that his daughter, Siusan, has been taken by the Campbells,” he said, in a clear yet timorous voice.

  A wave of anger lifted Uilleam to his feet. He started forward and grabbed the messenger by the front of his plaid

  "Uilleam!" Iain shouted.

  The cloth was rough and damp in his fist, and the wave receded. He recalled that the man before him was just the messenger, and he pictured again the travail he would have had, crossing the mountain passes, to deliver that message.

  He released his grip and offered the man a frown in contrition.

  But his stomach turned. Bile surged into his throat. He swallowed it down.

  That sleekit cur, Cailean… he thought. He is behind it.

  He turned to his father.

  "The Campbells hae taken possession o’ Siusan tae prevent the alliance between the MacGregors an’ the Gunns," he declared through gritted teeth. "Ye must call oot the clan. We cannae tolerate sich an act. We must strike the Campbells, quickly an’ hard."

  Iain let out an ironic laugh.

  “An’ give the Campbells an excuse tae march intae Glen Strae an’ put the entire clan tae the sword?” Iain sneered. “Is that whit ye want?”

  Another wave of anger threatened to carry Uilleam away on its back; only, this time, the rage had been kindled by his father.

  “No,” Uilleam replied, barely holding his anger in check. “But if we strike them quick, right at their heart in Inveraray—”

  "Don’t be daft!” Iain hissed. “The MacGregors are no’
strong enough tae defeat the Campbells in open battle. We would be routed, an’ the glen left defenseless. We must just thole the insult. Turn the other cheek, as the priests say.”