Daring the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Kendall, Lydia

  “Fine, lass. Yer my captive. But seein’ as I’m bein’ so kind as to keep ye fed and watered, providin’ ye with a wardrobe and private chambers, daenae ye think ye might repay me by talkin’ kindly to my people?”

  “What exactly are you expecting of me?” Bernadine asked tentatively.

  “Friendliness, lass. Be friendly to the cooks, the maids, the servants. And,” he said, shaking his head when Bernadine tried to protest that she had been kind to the maids, to Freya. “And I dinnae mean kindness for yer own gain. Be kind just because ye can, lass. Be kind, show yer face now and again, and mayhaps I’ll think about lettin’ ye go sometime soon.”

  “Really?” Bernadine asked. Her heart was fluttering at the idea of going home soon, the idea of finally getting to see her father and Guinevere again. At the idea of escaping this prison, for all that it had the trappings of a laird’s castle. To her, it was nothing but a jail.

  “Aye,” Donnan said, nodding. “But only if ye agree to spendin’ time with me as well. No more avoidin’ me, lass. Like as not, yer here to stay for at least some time, and ye might as well get to ken me in the meantime.”

  Bernadine’s happiness of a moment ago fell, and her smile with it. Now he was going too far. Leaving her room and smiling to maids and cooks was one thing, but spending time with him? Her kidnapper? Her captor? The man she could not spend five minutes with before she spouted something horrible at him?

  “Get to know you? Come now, sir, surely you realize by now that my dislike for you goes rather deep. It would be uncomfortable for the both of us were we to spend any amount of time together. Do you forget you kidnapped me from my home and brought me here against my will?”

  Donnan looked taken aback at Bernadine’s protests, but really, should he be so surprised? While she might acquiesce to vacating her room now and again, did he really think she would so willingly agree to spending time in his company, knowing who he was and what he was capable of?

  Bernadine was about to continue her arguments against him when Donnan stood from the window seat and stalked toward her, not stopping until their noses were nearly touching.

  “Hear me verra carefully, lass. I am the Laird of this castle and the lands beyond it. Now, that might no’ mean much to the likes of you, but to the rest of the people around here, that means I’m deservin’ of respect, deference, and anythin’ else I migh’ take me fancy too. And while yer under me roof, you’d do well to follow the same rules, ye ken?”

  Bernadine rolled her eyes, but when Donnan took a step closer, crowding her space, no doubt in an effort to intimidate her, she nodded and squeaked out a “Yes, My Laird.”

  She was so browbeaten that she didn’t even inject any vitriol into the title when she spoke it, the “My Laird” coming out sounding practically respectful. Lord, what was this man doing to her? Who was she becoming under his roof? And why was he so intent on spending time with her?

  Chapter 7

  Donnan had expected to feel some sort of release once the lass was out of her room, a sense of relief knowing there was one less thing to worry about now that she was no longer locking herself away in her chambers like a spiteful child, making all the castle think their newest guest rude. But on the contrary, his anxiety had only grown now that Bernadine was walking the castle floors and its surrounding grounds every day.

  This was due, in part, to the fact that she seemed to be visibly wilting with each passing day. Yes, she interacted with the castle inhabitants and staff in a perfectly pleasant manner, making conversation during mealtimes and even taking an interest in the castle garden and its workers.

  But though she had a smile pasted on her face at almost all times and laughed at the right moments, Donnan could see that Bernadine was deeply unhappy. And it irked him.

  He wouldn’t have minded if she wasn’t smiling, if she was frowning and screaming at everyone in her path, because at least that was the Bernadine he knew, the spitfire he had kidnapped, who never for a moment let him forget just how much she hated him. However, as he watched Bernadine now, making her way to the corridor that led to the library, he did not see a frown or any other look of consternation on her lovely face.

  What he saw was sadness. Tears unshed. A miserable grimace formed from a mouth that should only ever be smiling or kissing. He had to do something to fix it. And, barring sending her home to her father, which he was not about to do, there seemed only one solution.

  * * *

  “Freya, my dear, I know that you are fairly new at your trade, but surely you must be able to tell a riding habit from a morning dress!” Bernadine said, smiling at her maid to show her she meant her comment in jest. The girl had been rather sensitive since her reprimand from Donnan and was far quieter than she had been when first she and Bernadine met.

  There was some truth to the jest, however, since there was indeed a riding habit hanging on Bernadine’s wardrobe, rather than the soft muslin dress she had been expecting to wear that day.

  “Aye, miss, there’s a reason for that. The Laird told me he’s takin’ ye ridin’ this mornin’,” Freya told her as she put the final pin in Bernadine’s hair, securing it in a large plaited bun.

  “And when was that decided?” Bernadine asked, wondering why no one had asked her if she fancied a ride. She did, of course, she always did, but still, she would have liked to take part in a conversation that involved the activities of her day. Her desire to be the mistress of her own fate had not receded.

  “This mornin’, while ye were wakin’ and washin’,” Freya told her in a tone that told Bernadine she was silly for even asking the question.

  Freya was not only quieter since her scolding but, when she did talk, she was also a touch more insolent. However, Bernadine rather liked that about her. It reminded her of Anne, whom she missed dearly. Bernadine had only recently realized how much the Frenchwoman’s friendship and care meant to her once it was gone, and of course now she couldn’t tell her, since she was barred from any further correspondence-related activities. The quill and ink in her room had been spirited away the moment she left her chambers, replaced by a hand mirror and silver brush, no doubt in an effort to lessen the blow which it did not. Bernadine loved brushes and mirrors as much as the next girl, but they were rather useless for writing.

  “Well, then I suppose you had better help me into the habit so I can go choose my horse,” Bernadine said, rising from the chair in front of the mirror and walking toward the wardrobe. She could feel from the freedom of her movement that her stays were perhaps a little looser than she was accustomed to, but she wasn’t going to reprimand the girl for that. She rather liked being able to take a full inhale and exhale without feeling like her ribs were being slowly crushed with top-grade whalebone.

  “Nay, miss,” Freya said as she helped Bernadine into the skirt. “The Laird’s already chosen ye one. Says he thinks ye ‘ll like her. She’s a mare called Iona. Beautiful gray coat, fast.”

  Bernadine grumbled as she held her arms up for Freya to slip the chemisette over her head. Next came a tailored jacket that was perhaps just a touch too tight on her. Apparently, all of her wardrobe had once belonged to Donnan’s sister, who, while much taller than Bernadine, must have had a much smaller bust.

  Bernadine looked down and nearly burst out laughing at the way her breasts were straining against the constricting fabric. She was used to feeling able to stretch to her heart’s content in her riding habits, but Bernadine feared that one wrong arm movement would have all her buttons flying off.

  Freya’s eyes followed hers and she frowned. “Och, yer practically burstin’!” she cried.

  Bernadine couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped her, and Freya soon joined in.

  A few minutes later, when they had collected themselves and Bernadine was making her way toward the stables, she found herself feeling lighter, happier, than she had since the night Donnan had first taken her from her bed.

  She knew it was due in part to the fit of gigg
les she and Freya had engaged in, but as she approached the horse barn and heard the familiar sound of whinnying and the chomping of horse teeth on oats, Bernadine thought that perhaps part of her joy was due to the fact that she was about to engage in one of her favorite activities.

  She rode every day in Cornwall, long rides that took her along the cliffs that bordered the sea, the wind coming off the ocean was so strong that her hair was often blow completely out of its do. On days, which were thankfully infrequent, when a storm came in or snow touched the ground and Bernadine was unable to ride, she could feel the restlessness settling into her bones.

  Growing up with a father who prized exercise above all else meant that Bernadine hated being cooped up. The days in her chamber at the castle were bad enough, but even once she was spending her day walking about the castle and its gardens, the exercise still was not quite satisfactory enough to satiate her need for exertion. Only a ride on horseback could do that, really.

  “Lass!” a voice called out to her, and Bernadine turned to find Donnan striding toward her.

  She found it odd that all Scotsmen seemed to dress the same no matter their station. If she didn’t know him, she would assume that Donnan was just another stable hand or gardener, for his kilt and shirt were practically identical to that of all the other men who worked for him.

  Still, she could not deny that there was a certain excitement in seeing so many bare legs. Bernadine had never seen a man’s naked form before, but, thanks in part to the kilts and the deep necklines of the men’s shirts, she had a much better idea of what it might look like. This trip to Scotland was good for something, at least.

  Motioning for her to follow him, Donnan walked past her and into the barn, nodding hello at a few of the workers within.

  “I trust Freya informed ye that I’ve chosen yer steed for the day?” he called over his shoulder as he continued to the end of the barn.

  There, standing in a stall, her head bowed as though in contemplation, was the most beautiful horse Bernadine had ever seen. She immediately chastised herself for thinking so, for all the horses at her father’s estate in Cornwall were fine thoroughbreds that had served her well. But, she had to admit, none of the quite drew the eye like the mare before her.

  “Iona’s her name,” Donnan told her, but Bernadine barely heard him as she stepped forward and placed a hand on the horse’s nose. Her hair was the most interesting color, gray at first look but it almost turned blue the more the eye concentrated.

  Her mane must have been recently brushed, for it shone even in the dim light of the barn, its silkiness calling out for Bernadine to touch it. And touch it she did, finding it even softer than she could have ever imagined.

  “She’s beautiful,” Bernadine whispered reverently, her hand sliding from the horse’s mane to her flank, where the hair was speckled with darker spots of grey.

  “Aye, she is. And a good rider, too. She’ll serve ye well, I reckon,” he said.

  Bernadine looked at him and spoke without thinking. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Donnan. She is perfect.”

  It was only after she spoke these words that she realized they were perhaps the first she had said to Donnan that were not laced with derision or unmasked hatred. Bernadine was about to backtrack, to add some biting remark to show him that she still hated him just as much as ever, when Donnan shook his head.

  “Let it be, lass. Let us not be enemies for a moment, aye?”

  To her surprise, she nodded, and gave him a smile, one that was small, but genuine. She realized it was the first one she had ever given him. What did it mean that she was willing to show him some measure of joy? Could it be…could Bernadine perhaps not hate him quite as much as she thought?

  Perhaps I hardly hate him at all, she realized. And the idea made her cringe, because if she did not hate Donnan, then what did she feel for him?

  Chapter 8

  Donnan could not take his eyes away from Bernadine as they walked the horses into the yard and prepared to saddle up.

  He knew there was something untoward about admiring a lass in his sister’s clothing, but he could not help himself. The habit fit her nearly as though had been made for her, accentuating every smooth, luscious curve. The dress was a trifle too long, dragging on the ground slightly, but Donnan cared little for that.

  If he was being honest with himself, he cared little for anything at the moment, other than looking at the way the jacket hugged the lass’ chest, drawing his eyes to a pair of breasts that seemed to invite him with the obvious roundness and softness they exuded.

  Donnan was not unaccustomed to the female form. He had had his dalliances with lasses more than a time or two and knew that women came in a variety of shapes. He had his preferences, as did any man, but he was quickly coming to find he preferred Bernadine’s form above all else.

  And how could he not? Her ample bosom and small waist were practically made for wrapping his hands around, and though he knew that her bustle amplified the size and shape of her backside artificially, he had seen that behind in all its natural glory through the sheer lace of her nightgown that first night. That night had taught him that Bernadine Nibley’s body was one well worth worshipping.

  Since then, he had learned that Bernadine’s way of thinking was fascinating as well. Her sharp mind, quick with a retort and capable of truly biting phrases, showed him an intelligence he imagined most did not value. But he had always liked a smart lass, one who could keep him guessing. She challenged him, and after so many years as Laird and leader of his people, Donnan found her rather liked the sparring between them. It aroused both his mind and his body.

  “Donnan?” Bernadine asked, and Donnan looked up to realize he had been openly ogling the lass for at least the last minute and a half. She did not appear to have enjoyed the interlude, based on the deep frown etched into the lines of her mouth.

  “Sorry lass. Was jus’ thinkin’ of the best paths to take,” he said, knowing even as he spoke it that Bernadine could see right through his excuse.

  And, true to form, Bernadine rolled her eyes at him before turning away and climbing onto her saddle. As she settled in, Donnan noticed that she was riding astride. She had done it on their way to Scotland as well, and it had shocked him just as much then. After all, he knew that it was considered uncouth for women of her class to do so.

  “Goin’ astride, are ye?” he asked as he climbed onto his own hose, a trusty stallion named Alan who had seen him through many a good morning ride.

  “Yes. It is far more comfortable, and since there is no one from the English ton to witness my lack of decorum, I thought it acceptable. Do you object?” she asked with a raised eyebrow that practically begged him to contradict her.

  Donnan was quickly coming to realize that Bernadine Nibley was a woman who enjoyed verbally sparring, particularly with him. He wondered if she was like this with English menfolk, or it was only him who was awarded this pleasure. He suspected it was the latter, him being the man who had apparently “ruined” her life, as she seemed to be so keen on reminding him. Every one of her verbal jabs was no doubt said in an effort to remind him how much she hated him, but if she truly hated him, why bother speaking to him at all? Why agree to this ride, to anything he asked of her?

  “Nay, lass, I dinnae object. Yer comfort is most important, given the ride I’d like to take ye on,” he said, motioning for her to follow him forward toward the hills.

  Donnan knew that the Sassenachs were obsessed with maintaining their lands in states similar to only that of the palace at Versailles, but here in Scotland, they took a different approach. Donnan kept the castle garden itself neat and tidy, but the rest of the land he allowed to grow wild. There was so much of it, after all, and he himself quite fancied looking out his window and seeing the tall grass swaying in the springtime wind, the wildflowers unclipped.

  The castle had been handed down through three generations of the Young family, after being gifted to the clan back in the 16th century b
y a rival-turned-friend. Little had been added in the intervening centuries, and the ground had grown lusher and more verdant with every passing year.

  Now, as Donnan looked out, he couldn’t help but swell with pride that this was his home. He never forgot what a privilege it was, to have this title, this land, this responsibility over it and its people.

  And as he looked next to him, he found Bernadine similarly affected. She was looking ahead of her with a small smile playing at her lips, her eyes roaming over the forest of trees, the gently rolling moors, the sheep dotted here and there.

  “Beautiful, is it no’?” he whispered.

  “Breathtaking,” she replied.

  “I’d like to explore over there, if yer up for it,” he said, pointing toward the edge of the forest, where a small path was visible. “It’ll lead us through the woods a while, and then suddenly ye come to a clearin’ with a loch and hills full of flowers and the like. It’s lovely this time of year.”