Daring the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Kendall, Lydia

  Tears began to well in her eyes as she continued to chastise herself, the scene in front of her no longer bringing her the pleasure it had a moment ago.

  “Lass?” Donnan said behind her, and Bernadine quickly wiped the moisture from her eyes, took a deep breath to steady herself, and turned. She would not let him see her weakness.

  The glare she gave him must have proved effective, because he raised a brow at her and wordlessly got off the horse, not bothering to wait for her before starting to walk back toward the castle.

  Questioning eyes followed Bernadine as she ran after him, but she ignored their stares, intent on catching up with Donnan, who seemed to be striding even faster than normal.

  “Where are you going?” Bernadine said, out of breath as they walked through a passageway and approached a source of light.

  “Inside, obviously,” Donnan barked back, and Bernadine rolled her eyes.

  “Well, yes, obviously, but where specifically inside?”

  Donnan stopped so suddenly that Bernadine bumped into him, her chin connecting with his shoulder blade in a smack of pain that left her reeling.

  “Ow!” she cried, rubbing at the bruise at the same time as she marveled at just how sculpted that particular part of Donnan’s body was.

  “Look where yer walkin’ lass!” was Donnan’s rather unsympathetic response.

  Bernadine simply glared at him and kept rubbing her chin, thinking now not of the enticingly-smooth muscle underneath his shirt and how it might feel under her hands, but instead of clonking him on the nose with her palm. The image dulled the pain in her chin considerably.

  Donnan rolled his eyes at her and pointed beyond them, where Bernadine could just see the hint of light fixtures and a fire glowing in a large fireplace. “Go through there and wait by the fire. I’ll find a maid to escort ye to yer chambers, and a meal and bath’ll shortly follow. Does that please Your Highness?”

  Food. Real food, not just porridge and bannock cakes. Bernadine’s stomach growled at the thought of eating true sustenance, not just the dull grains she had been ingesting the past few days. Never had she missed the estate’s cook quite so much as now, when she was practically salivating at the thought of a good roast chicken and some treacle tart.

  However, Bernadine could not let Donnan know quite how excited she was at the prospect of such creature comforts as a meal and the chance to wash, and so, rather than professing her gratitude, she scoffed.

  “I am not royalty, Donnan. Merely a member of the ton. Though I do appreciate the false elevation of my station. My Papa did use to call me his princess when I was little, so you see, it is not so very far from the truth in one way.” She ended her statement with a wicked smile that served its purpose, which was to make Donnan growl in consternation at her and storm off, leaving her blessedly alone for the first time since the morning she had tried to escape.

  As Bernadine entered the small room just off the passageway, she found a seat by a roaring fire and took it gratefully. The fires they had while travelling had been paltry, providing little more than enough heat to cook a pot of oats. They were not nearly enough to warm anyone’s cockles, and so Bernadine relished the opportunity to warm her hands and feet.

  It was some minutes later that she heard footsteps behind her, and she turned to find Donnan standing next to a young brown-haired girl with the most arresting hazel eyes Bernadine had ever seen.

  “Bernadine, meet Freya, yer new maid. Freya will show ye to yer chambers,” Donnan said gruffly, gesturing to the girl next to him.

  “Pleased to meet you Freya,” Bernadine said, her eyes fixed on Freya as she spoke. She knew it was insolent to look away from Donnan and not give her gratitude, but she did not think him deserving of another moment of her eye contact. In fact, she would be rather happy if her eyes never met his again. She was tired of his company, of his outward appearance of kindness and generosity, when she knew inside lurked an immoral beast.

  Donnan nodded his head and left, and Bernadine breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to Freya.

  “Hello there, me lady. My name is Freya, and I’m to be yer maid,” the girl said to Bernadine, curtsying to her, or doing what must pass for a curtsy north of the Scottish-English border.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Bernadine told the girl, gesturing for her to stand back up. “But there is no need to stand on ceremony with me. You may call me miss, or Bernadine, and you need not curtsy in my presence.”

  The girl looked intensely relieved at these words, placing a hand over her chest and breathing out swiftly. “Och, thank God! I only learned how to curtsy five minutes ago, and I fear I’m rather bad at it.”

  Bernadine laughed. “I shall tell you a secret, then,” and she crooked her finger, gesturing for the girl to come closer. “So am I.”

  And with that, she had placed herself in the good graces of her maid, ensuring the girl would be amenable to her bidding, when the time came.

  As she settled into her bath half an hour later, Bernadine resolved to get a letter to Guinevere and her father the next day, using the maid to deliver the post to wherever post went up here in the wilds of Scotland. The letter would do much to both assuage her guilt and also, hopefully, allow her family a better idea of just how to rescue her from Venruit Castle. There was no way that Bernadine was staying in the company of Donnan Young another week, not if she could help it.

  Chapter 6

  “Sir? We found this in the lass’ washin’ this mornin’. Seemed she was tryin’ to bribe her maid to send it for her,” Camdyn, MacKay, Donnan’s secretary said as he walked into Donnan’s study.

  Camdyn was a scruffy lad, far too thin and bony for a boy of fifteen summers, but he was a smart lad. Donnan had found him trying to poach a bird on his land just over six months ago and had taken pity on him, hiring him first in the kitchen and then, when he realized that the boy could not chop a carrot to save his life, but was quite good at remembering things like recipes and pantry lists, made him his secretary.

  It was a position that had served them both well thus far. Donnan had someone to keep track of all that he had to do in a day, to shine his boots and ensure the maids mended his shirts when they ripped, and Camdyn was given the food and shelter he so desperately needed. Couple that with the fact that the lad was able to suss out even the most conniving servants, and he was truly worth keeping.

  “Did ye now? Give it here. Let’s see what she wrote,” Donnan said, reaching his hand out for the folded square of paper.

  Camdyn handed it over, and Donnan scanned the script, noticing the lass’ perfect penmanship, graceful loops in every letter, each word slanted just so on the page. There was personality to it, too, in the way she slashed the i’s rather than dotted them, the brash crossing of her t’s. Bernadine Nibley wrote exactly as she spoke, and Donnan found he rather liked that about her.

  But this affection for her way with a quill and ink did not change the fact that she had, once again, tried to escape from his care.

  In her two letters, one to her father and one to a woman named Guinevere, who appeared to be some sort of governess-like figure, she had pleaded for them to come rescue her. Her pleas were accompanied by a surprisingly detailed account of their location, considering that she knew nothing of the area or any landmarks around it.

  “Have ye read this?” Donnan asked.

  Camdyn shook his head. “Nay, sir. Figured ye would like to open it yerself.”

  “Aye,” Donnan nodded, glancing back down at the pages. “She gives quite a good description of where Castle Venruit is. Where dae ye think she kenned that from?”

  “Her maid,” Camdyn replied immediately. “I have already questioned the woman and she’s admitted to aidin’ the lass. Said she was promised a position in London upon the lass’ return, for her help.”

  “Shall I fire her?” Camdyn continued, looking positively gleeful at the idea. The lad, like so many his age, was eager for power of any sort, even the kind that could mea
n ruining someone’s life.

  Donnan shook his head. “Nay, though I will be givin’ her a good lecture, to be sure. I cannae fault her for her adventurous nature. She’s not the first maid to dream of London and she won’t be the last. What we must do is show her why Castle Venruit is far better than that grimy, crime-ridden city.”

  “Yer a good man, sir. Better than I. I’d have already turned ‘er out,” Camdyn said, laughing softly to himself.

  “Aye, well, I dinnae take such an act lightly, boy. Most everyone that works here is supportin’ one family or more, and I willnae let those people starve because of one indiscretion.”

  Donnan saw Camdyn wince, no doubt objecting to his use of “boy,” but it was hard to not refer to the lad as such. For all that his position was one of the most coveted in the household, he was nothing but a young lad after all, knobby kneed and innocent of the ways of the world. His face still held the roundness of childhood after all.

  “Thank ye for bringin’ this to me, Camdyn,” he said to the lad.

  Camdyn bowed his head and walked out of the study, shutting the door behind him, leaving Donnan alone to decide just what to do with that troublesome Sassenach lass.

  It had been days since they had arrived at the castle, and she was still refusing to see him. She had practically chained herself to her room, ignoring his repeated pleas for her to come out and at least talk to him.

  After the first day, when she had stayed in her room the whole day and missed not one, not two, but three meals, and very good ones at that, Donnan had realized that she was even stronger than he gave her credit for.

  But while he was happy to give her the time and space to throw her tantrum, he would not let her starve. The same maid that she had apparently been colluding with was paid extra to press the lass to eat, which she eventually did.

  Alone. In her room.

  Donnan imagined the chambers must smell something fierce by that point. He had given her the larger of the guest chambers, but still, even with the windows open, the stench of her anger was sure to be leaving its mark.

  Fingering the key ring that Donnan always kept in his sporran, he sat for a moment and wondered what the chances were of capturing her in her nightdress were he to suddenly barge in on her. It was nearly midday, but with nowhere to go, there was a chance she might still be abed. And Donnan had been sure to give her only the most flattering of clothes.

  He had let the maids chose all her gowns, stockings, corsets and other finery from what his sister, recently married and now residing miles away with Laird Douglas, had left. Ilene and Bernadine were of similar stature and coloring, and Donnan, with his limited understanding of women’s fashions, assumed they would suit their purpose well enough.

  However, he had chosen the lass’ bedclothes himself. It was presumptuous of him, to assume that the lass was anywhere close to allowing him into her bed, but he was a hopeful man. Donnan hoped that one day soon, he would be in Bernadine’s chambers, looking at the way the ivory lace nightdress he had chosen for her would offset the gold of her hair, the blue of her eyes, the blush in her cheeks that he himself would be the cause of.

  For now, however, he would settle for surprising the lass, for interrupting her self-imposed imprisonment with his presence. Perhaps she might even be happy for the company after so many days alone.

  * * *

  The room smelled. Like moldy bread, stale meat, and, unfortunately, a little like body odor. Bernadine wasn’t sure how the last odor was possible, since she had been bathing every day, taking even more time on her personal ablutions than normal because, well, what else was she going to do?

  And yet still, she could detect a noticeable whiff of unpleasant sourness in the air, even with the windows open. Perhaps this was a sign that her self-imposed imprisonment ought to come to an end sometime soon. Four days was surely enough to convince Donnan of her hatred for him, perhaps even enough time for him to see that she was far more trouble than she was worth.

  She knew she was being rude, taking to her room when, as a guest of the castle, she ought to making herself familiar with its inhabitants. But then, she was no ordinary guest of the castle. Ordinary guests were permitted to leave, eventually, and Bernadine had little hope that she would be able to do so.

  Still, she was beginning to grow rather sick of her chambers. The tapestries that hung on the walls were interesting to look at for a day or two, but four days in, she was beginning to detest them. Bernadine also missed fresh air, and not just because of the smell of her room. She was used to taking exercise outdoors every chance she got, and her muscles had begun to feel oddly sore from lack of movement.

  Perhaps I will go outside today, she thought, turning back toward her window and seeing a beautiful day descending on the castle grounds. The sun was shining, almost blindingly bright after days of clouds, and Bernadine could almost feel the slight give of the ground beneath her boots as she strode purposefully up one hill and down another.

  Looking toward her wardrobe, she was just beginning to contemplate what outfit she might ring Freya to help her slip into when her door flew open and Donnan appeared in the doorway.

  “Mornin’, lass!” he called, looking at her with a suspiciously jolly grin on his face. She saw his eyes take in her unmade bed, the tray of breakfast crumbs lying on the covers, a half-finished novel she had convinced her maid to smuggle from the library lying on the bedside table. The novel was not nearly as good as Mr. P. L. Roberts’, but the book helped her escape her current situation, which was what literature was for, after all.

  “Well, looks like ye’ve made yerself quite comfortable, have ye no’?” he said, continuing into the room. He did not shut the door behind him. Bernadine didn’t blame him. Perhaps the draft would help with the smell.

  Bernadine said nothing as Donnan strode to the windows and plopped himself onto one of the seats built into them. They were her favorite part of the room, and she had spent much of the last few days ensconced on the cushions, her head either buried in her book, or staring idly at the beautiful scenery outside.

  “Mute, are ye?” Donnan said, eyeing her from where he sat. Bernadine crossed her arms over her chest when she realized he was probably staring at her nipples, which were, unfortunately, clearly visible beneath the sheer lace of her nightgown. The robe she was wearing did nothing to help the matter, being little more than a slip of peach-colored silk. She had assumed that Scottish bedclothes would be made of sturdy plaid wool, but she had been pleasantly mistaken. Though her bedclothes did not seem nearly so pleasant when a gruff Scotsman was in the room eyeing them.

  “Just as well, since I’m the one who’ll be doin’ the talkin,” he said, leaning back and smirking at her. She smirked right back, not breaking eye contact even once. That was partly due to how mesmerizing his eyes looked in the sunlight, taking on a dark bluish-green color that made her think of lakes in summertime, of the smell of verdant greenery, and the taste of strawberry jam tart.

  Of course, all thoughts of summer fled from her mind as soon as Donnan opened his mouth.

  “We found yer letters,” he said, pausing to gauge her reaction. Bernadine tried to keep her face placid as her mind raced, cursing herself for relying on that maid. She was far too young to be trusted, Bernadine had known that, but she had to do something to try and reach her family. She could not just sit idly by and accept her fate. She hadn’t been raised to do anything of the sort.

  “The maid won’t be fired, in case that’s a concern. But there will be some changes in the rules regardin’ the behavior in this place,” he said, gesturing with his finger toward the walls. “And between us,” he said, motioning to the empty space between them.

  “And what might those rules be?” Bernadine asked, lacing her words with derision, like she did not for one moment think Donnan capable of enforcing anything upon her, least of all guidelines for decorum. Because, after all, she didn’t think him capable of it.

  “There’ll be no more su
lkin’ in yer chambers, for one thing,” Donnan told her. “Ye ‘ll be eatin’ yer meals with the rest of us in the hall, and ye ‘ll be makin’ an effort to spend time in the rest of the castle. I dinnae want to hear any more talk of ye bein’ a reclusive minx, ye hear?”

  “I am not a reclusive minx. I am a captive. There is a difference,” Bernadine spat back.

  Donnan rolled his eyes. “Ye ‘re nae a captive, lass. Yer –”

  “Yes, I am! The definition of a captive is someone who is confined, someone who has been taken prisoner. Am I not confined to this castle and its grounds? Have you not taken me prisoner for your own use?”

  Bernadine could see that Donnan’s earlier joviality had disappeared; replaced with a frustration she had seen countless times on his face, and always thanks to her.