Daring the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Kendall, Lydia

  Bernadine nodded and turned to him, still smiling. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

  Donnan was about to comment on how bonny she looked when she smiled, but just as he opened his mouth, her smile dropped, replaced by the frown she had worn practically since the moment they met.

  They had shared a moment just now, a moment where he was certain her hatred for him had ebbed in the face of the beauty of the Scottish landscape, but it had ended just as soon as it had begun. Nevertheless, Donnan was determined to make this woman smile again. At him. Because of him. He would not let the outing end until it happened.

  * * *

  Bernadine was finding the ride rather difficult. Not because of the terrain – though she did have to keep her eyes trained to the ground to watch out for high branches and rocks in the forest – but rather because Donnan was being so kind to her.

  He has been rather kind since he kidnapped me, her mind unhelpfully reminded her.

  And it was true; Donnan had been nothing but accommodating, gracious and, at times, even friendly to Bernadine since they had arrived at his home in Scotland days before.

  The only time he had appeared anything but polite was when he reprimanded her for staying in her room for so long, and even then, his words had lacked the bite that Bernadine’s most assuredly would have, had their situations been reversed.

  Because of his affability, Bernadine was finding it hard to reconcile the idea of a man who would kidnap a woman from her bed with the Scot riding just ahead of her. Everything she knew about men who kidnapped women told her they were immoral scoundrels with no concern for the lives they disrupted. They hated women, despised the wealthy, and thought nothing of raping their captives.

  But Donnan Young was nothing like that. He cared about Bernadine’s welfare, giving her a new wardrobe, plenty of food, her own chambers, a maid, and the freedom to roam the castle whenever and however she chose to. He did not seem to despise women, the English, or people of the upper classes, being the latter himself of course, and he had not once tried to lay so much as a hand on her, other than that massage she tried so hard to forget about, and the few times he had caged her with his arms to keep her from escaping. And, of course, the time he had unceremoniously dropped her from his arms.

  Donnan Young was, in essence, a gentleman; a gentleman who had kidnapped her, of course, but a gentleman, nonetheless. He was a paradox, and his enigmatic nature frustrated Bernadine. Frustrated her so much that it rather increased her ire toward him, because Bernadine hated not understanding things. And she most definitely did not understand Donnan Young.

  “The clearin’s just up ahead, lass,” he called from over his shoulder, and Bernadine was so startled by his voice that she did not see the branch just ahead of her. It smacked into her forehead a moment later with a force that threw her off her horse’s back and onto the ground below.

  Thankfully, the forest floor was padded with leaves, which, along with her bustle, did much to break her fall. But her potential bruised bottom was not Bernadine’s chief concern, because no sooner had she sat up than she came face to face with a wild boar not three feet away from her, growling with menace.

  Chapter 9

  Donnan was just thinking to himself that this might be the finest morning he’d had in quite some time when he heard the lass’ scream. It sent a shiver of fear straight to his soul and shattered any peace he was feeling, for it was a scream that spoke of fear, not of something trivial, but for her life.

  Donnan turned the horse around just in time to see Bernadine scrambling back on her hands and knees. Her eyes were wide with terror and her face was so white it looked almost blue as Donnan flicked his raced back to her.

  “Lass! What is it?” he called as slowed Alan, worried he would unknowingly tread over the attacker, who he could not see in the dark, dense forest. He had been near the clearing a moment ago, the sun breaking through the clouds, and his vision was having trouble adjusting from the light back to the gloom. He could hardly see anything except Bernadine’s face.

  “Boar!” she shrieked, still scrambling backward. It took Donnan a moment to understand what she said, but as soon as he did, he alighted from Alan and landed softly on his feet. Stepping around the horse, he halted in his tracks when he heard the growling of a wild boar.

  It was now closer to him than Bernadine since she had managed to scramble back a few feet, but it was moving steadily toward to her, intent on the hunt.

  Donnan did not even think about what he was doing; he just grabbed his dirk and jumped on the animal, stabbing its neck before he even realized he had taken a step forward.

  Bernadine screamed when she saw what he had done, but he noticed that the fear had gone from her eyes, replaced by disgust as she watched the blood gushing from the boar’s neck soaking Donnan’ s shirt and kilt.

  He stayed on top of the animal until he felt it stop struggling, making sure it was dead. He could not risk getting up and having it run away, straight into Bernadine. The impact of its horns alone would kill her. He would not let harm come to her. He had promised her that their first night together and he meant it still.

  “Is it…” she asked as Donnan rose and wiped his knife on his now-soiled kilt.

  “Aye, lass. It’s dead,” he said, storing the dirk back in his boot and walking around the animal and toward her.

  Bernadine shrank from his approach, scrambling backward as his footsteps came toward her.

  “Lass, I dinnae mean to hurt ye. Only to see if yer all righ’,” he said, bringing his hands up in supplication.

  Bernadine looked about to spit back a witty retort, still moving away, when a loud crack sounded and she gave another shriek.

  “Bernadine!” Donnan shouted, running toward her. The lass was wincing, cradling her wrist against her chest and closing her eyes in pain.

  “What is it? What happened?” he asked, reaching out as though to bring her wrist toward him. Bernadine shook her head, muttering “hurts too much,” and so Donnan crawled toward her, until he was on his knees, nearly level with her, were it not for his height.

  He held his hands out, whispering “I mean ye no harm, lass. I simply wish to see the wound.” To his surprise, Bernadine nodded and held her arm out.

  Donnan could see the swelling already, her wrist bloated and red where she had strained it. “I put my hand down on a rock and it slipped, and my wrist twisted. Oh, it hurts,” Bernadine moaned, taking her arm back to her chest and cradling it. Donnan could see tears falling from her eyes as she slowly rocked back and forth.

  “Ye must have sprained it, lass. Ye ‘ll need the healer to see it. Will ye let me carry ye back to the horses?”

  Donnan could tell it pained Bernadine to accept his help, but she reluctantly nodded, and did not protest when Donnan carefully gathered her into his arms. Bernadine said nothing as Donnan carried her back to the horses and carefully placed her on his saddle. She sat quietly as he climbed on behind her, carrying her horse’s reins in his hands.

  He looked back as he settled into the saddle, the sight of the boar just visible through the trees.

  I’ll need to send Brodie for it, he thought. He can clean it and send it to the cook for butchering.

  Looking forward again, his face so close to Bernadine’s hair, he instinctively drew her closer, worried that she would fall over the saddle if he did not hold her. He knew it was a daft notion, but he had the sudden, overwhelming desire to protect her.

  “Stop,” she bit out when Donnan’s hands came around her middle, intending to bring her towards him. “I am perfectly fine where I am, thank you.”

  Donnan nodded silently, letting his hands drop from her body and rest in his lap. He felt cowed, reprimanded, and suddenly wondered if this was how the lass had felt when he had bossed her around in the past.

  If this is how I made her feel, I’m a worse man than I thought.

  “I’m sorry yer hurt, lass,” Donnan whispered, her ears close enough that he need not raise
his voice.

  “It is not your fault,” she muttered back.

  “Aye, but I’m sorry nonetheless.”

  * * *

  The next day Bernadine was ensconced on her windowsill, reading yet another novel, this time one-handed, when a knock sounded on her door. Placing index finger on the page of what she considered to be a supremely sub-par attempt at gothic romance and closing the book around it, so as not to lose her place, she called “Yes?” and was surprised to see Donnan stride through the door.

  “How are ye this mornin’, lass? How’s yer wrist?” Donnan asked, his voice coming out gruffer than normal, as though emotions were caught in his throat. Bernadine eyed him, waiting for him to clear the blockage, but he just stayed sitting on her bed and watching her.

  “I am fine, thank you,” she said, immediately turning back to her book.

  She did not want to talk to Donnan, ever, and most certainly not now, not when her novel’s plot was moving forward and the main character’s secrets were about to be revealed. In this case, as with so many others, literature was preferable to real life. Bernadine would feel that way for as long as she was a captive at Venruit Castle.

  “Glad to hear it, lass,” Donnan said, nodding fervently. He was staring at Bernadine, making her feel rather uncomfortable. She could see his face out of the corner of her eye, scanning over hers.

  “Was there something else?” she asked impatiently, looking up from her page.

  “Nay, not in particular. I just…I wanted to check on ye, to ensure yer well cared for. Freya is tending to yer arm, is she?”

  Bernadine put down her book, not bothering to mark the page this time. She turned in her seat to face Donnan head on.

  “Donnan, I understand why you came to me today,” she said, glaring at him.

  “Ye do?” Donnan asked, looking perplexed.

  “Yes, I do. You think that because our ride yesterday morning started out rather well, and we shared a brief truce in the barn, that we are suddenly friends. But you are sadly mistaken.”

  “I am?” Donnan asked.

  “Yes, you are. Because you and I are not friends, Donnan. I am your captive. You are holding me here against my will, keeping me away from everyone I know and love as some strange form of revenge which you seem to feel you are entitled to.”

  “Strange form of revenge? So ye think I’m acting outlandishly, do ye?” he asked, his voice suddenly far stronger and louder than it had been a moment ago.

  “Yes, I do. I know that my father said horrible things about you and your people, but that is no reason to take it out on me. Did you not think how I might feel, being the sword with which you choose to wield your pain and suffering? That I might suffer myself?”

  “It is not just about you, lass. It is about …,” Donnan started, but Bernadine would not let him finish.

  “Your pride, yes. You men and your pride! What of us women and our pride, hm? What of our feelings, our hopes and dreams? Are those completely inconsequential to brutes like you?” Bernadine asked, rising to her feet and stalking toward Donnan.

  He was glowering at her, but his brow was furrowed, as though he was searching for the perfect, witty response. But Bernadine beat him to the punch. “Do not bother to respond and try to claim that you are not a brute, a beast, or any such thing. As long as you act in the way you have been, you are nothing better than what my father accused you of being, Donnan Young.”

  Though she was injured, as she loomed over Donnan, Bernadine found that in a way, she had never felt stronger, more alive. She was far more opinioned than most women she knew, yet she had still spent much of her life swallowing down her feelings because they were not proper for a person of her sex and status to have. Unleashing them on a man who thought himself her superior felt like she was a goddess of old, reigning terror on the men in her path.

  Donnan balked as she approached him, and when she pointed to the door and opened it, she was surprised and delighted to find that he actually left. Bernadine smiled as she watched him retreat, and she found, as she sat back down on the windowsill and picked up her book, that she had not felt nearly so good in the entire time she had been captive in Scotland.

  Chapter 10

  “Camdyn! Are ye even listenin’, lad?” Donnan barked at the boy, whose eyes were glazed over as though he was lost in thought. The boy slowly came out of his thoughtful haze and turned to Donnan. The laird was immediately struck by the dark circles under the boy’s eyes, the wan look of his face. He was paler than normal, his skin tone sallow and sickly.

  “Camdyn, are ye well? Ye ‘re lookin’ a might tired, lad,” Donnan said, leaning toward the boy. Camdyn flinched at the approach, taking a step back and nearly falling into the hearth behind him. Donnan flung an arm out to catch the lad, dragging him up by his reed-thin upper arm.

  “Camdyn! What’s wrong with ye?” Donnan said, letting the boy go. Camdyn wobbled where he stood before gaining his balance, avoiding Donnan’s eyes as he spoke.

  “Havenae been sleepin’ well is all, Laird,” Camdyn mumbled.

  “Well, if it’s yer sleepin’ quarters that are to blame, ye need only say the word and we’ll switch yer room. There’s a footmen’s cot that’s just opened up. Mayhaps ye would sleep better there, away from the yard and all the noise it can create.”

  “No!” Camdyn said, his eyes suddenly bright as he looked up at Donnan.

  “No?” Donnan asked, perplexed. Most servants would jump at the chance for a more comfortable bed, especially one situated in a room away from the yard, where the early-morning cock’s crow and the moos and baas of the cows and sheep could not be heard.

  “No, my Laird. I’m happy enough where I am. It’s my mind that’s causin’ the problems with me sleep.”

  Donnan nodded uncertainly, thinking that the boy was not being wholly honest with him, but he was too tired himself to press further for the truth. “All righ’, if yer sure. Just sort yerself out, hear me? I cannae have my servant half-asleep on the job, lad. It does not serve either of us.”

  “Yes, my Laird,” Camdyn said, nodding fervently. “Is there anythin’ else ye need me to attend to?”

  Donnan shook his head and watched as the lad turned on his heel and left the room, leaving him alone in his study.

  Walking behind his desk, Donnan collapsed into the soft leather chair and slouched down into it, his bottom sliding into the dent that so many years of use had created in the cushion. He knew nothing of the boy’s troubles, but his sleep had not been easy of late either. He was therefore exhausted, and felt his eyes began to close as he laced his fingers over his belly and tipped his head back.

  Dreams of the fierce, beautiful Bernadine haunted what should be his restful hours, and visions of her in the flesh made his waking ones similarly tortured.

  Since their chat the day after the ride in the woods, Bernadine had taken to speaking to him in only the sparsest of sentences. Donnan was honestly amazed at the way the woman managed to answer lengthy, complicated questions with little more than a few words, all of them laced with ire and odium. She was an impressive minx, that was for sure.

  But the more of herself she withheld from him, the more interested Donnan became. She was intoxicating, enthralling, and he wanted to know more of her, had wanted it since that night at the ball. However, for as long as she felt a prisoner at Venruit Castle, Donnan did not think his wishes would come true.

  I should let her go, he thought, and not for the first time in the last few days.

  His anger at her father had ebbed recently, since she had reprimanded him. Though he would never look kindly on Lord Nibley, he didn’t rest easily knowing he had taken the man’s only daughter from him, and without so much as a word about her whereabouts. Donnan knew that if Bernadine were his daughter, he would be worried sick about her. He could only imagine the agony her father was feeling.

  All of this was true and fair and more than reason enough for him to send the lass back home to England. But h
e could not. Not yet.

  Not until he had convinced her that he was not nearly so evil as she made him out to be. Not until he had made her smile again, made her laugh. Made her see him as something other than a brute.

  He needed to show her that he wanted to hear her thoughts, her feelings, her innermost secrets. That he wanted to know her, the true Bernadine, the one that he suspected so rarely saw the light of day. He wanted to show her that she was valuable, special, worthy of love and worship. She deserved that from him if nothing else.

  Once that is done, I can let her go. Once he had shown her how truly special he thought she was, his mission would be done. He could send her off back home with no regrets, because he had bared his heart to her and she had done the same. He hoped. Otherwise, he and his heart were in far more trouble than he knew.