Daring the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Kendall, Lydia

  Surely Brodie, the games keeper, would have separated such an animal into its own paddock, to ensure its safety.

  Bernadine did not think before sliding into the slippers next to her bed, grabbing her robe and candle and striding towards the door. She did not think just how she, a woman who, while an avid gardener and outdoor enthusiast, had never actually touched a sheep in her life, was going to help the poor thing, whatever its ailment might be.

  She simply crept from her room and quickly and quietly made her way toward the ground floor of the castle, where she knew a back door always left unlocked would take her to the fields and the ailing animal beyond.

  Little did she know that at that exact same moment, Donnan Young was donning his own robe and following the very same path she took, his large footsteps just behind her own small ones.

  * * *

  Och, what I would give for a good night’s rest, Donnan thought as he lay staring at his ceiling. He had been awake for three hours now, having tossed and turned in a restless sleep for most of the time before that.

  The fire he had lit prior falling to bed was now reduced to burning embers, giving out barely any warmth in the chilled night. Not that Donnan cared. He needed the chill to calm the raging fire travelling from his belly downward, to the seat of his desire.

  Bernadine was the cause of this sleeplessness and heat, her soft voice, gentle laugh, rosy lips, fierce spirit, and acute remarks making him hard and agitated. He had never been this worked up over a lass before, never had his mind been so invaded by thoughts of a particular female at all hours of the day and night.

  The women Donnan usually associated himself with were bonny enough and quick to laugh, appreciating his humor and the attention he showed them. They did not require true lovemaking, happy enough for a quick and heated tussle in the cot before returning to their own beds about the castle or the neighboring villages in the early hours of the morning.

  They gave themselves to him freely and asked for nothing in return, an arrangement that generally suited them both. They came and went quickly and quietly, never staying in his bed more than a week or two, allowing Donnan to satisfy his need for companionship without the complications that love and true affection might saddle him with.

  But Donnan knew without asking that Bernadine was nothing like that. She was a lass a man gave his whole heart to, a lass a man laid down his life for. She was worth far more than quick tussle, a few tups before he went on to the next lass. She was not easy to catch, and no doubt harder still to keep.

  Yet Donnan found himself wanting the challenge, wanting to catch her and keep her for his own, and not as a captive or prisoner. As a wife, a lover, a friend. He wished not just her body, enticing as it was, but her mind as well, her soul, her heart, her everything. He wanted it all, but he knew he could not have it. If only she did not hate me, then I migh’.

  Donnan knew that for the rest of life, for as many years as he lived, he would never get the words Bernadine had spoken to him that morning after the ride out of his head. He would never forget the lass telling him he was a brute, that, in no uncertain terms, she would never be his friend, nor anything else of the sort. That he had used her, that he was one of a thousand such men who used women for their own ends.

  Those words had run through his brain every day since then, making him analyse his actions and realize that yes, he was a brute, or had been in the past, at the very least. And yes, he had used women. He had used his sister to create an alliance with a neighboring clan, which was no doubt why Ilene no longer visited.

  She might have fallen in love with Laird Douglas, but that did not excuse Donnan forcing the man’s hand. And he had used the women he took to his bed, taking them for pleasure and not giving them the love they deserved in return.

  Bernadine was right about him. He deserved every one of her insults and more. He was not the man she deserved, though he wished so desperately that he was. He needed to better, for her, and for himself. He could not continue in this vein. His father, may he rest in peace, would turn over in his grave to see the man that Donnan had become.

  Donnan looked down and was not surprised to see that the need his body had so openly displayed only moments ago was now gone. Self-pitying thoughts could do that to a man, he supposed, and it was all the better, for now that his body was cool and his mind full of admonishments, perhaps he could finally fall asleep for a few precious hours before the day and all its attending complications began anew.

  Donnan was about to blow out his candle and fall back into the soft pillows lining his bed when he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps outside his door. His hearing had always been good, the result of living his youth during a war between the Young and Fraser clans. His father had taught Donnan to always keep his ears open for the sound of enemy footsteps outside the castle.

  Donnan had never lost the knack for it, the sharp hearing that allowed him to detect the faintest hint of someone nearby, knowing from the sound of their gait alone whether they were friend or foe.

  If ye hear ‘em, it means the guards are dead. It means we’re in danger, lad, had been his father’s words. Donnan could hear the old man’s raspy voice in his mind clear as day, and it pained him even sixteen summers later.

  Which is how he knew that what he heard were not quite friendly, not quite dangerous footsteps outside. They were feminine, light little taps on the stone floor, retreating away from his door down the hall.

  Bernadine. The woman he wanted so desperately to be his friend but she seemed determined to be nothing but foe. No sooner had his mind thought her name than he was out of bed, the covers thrown off and his robe taken from the chair in the corner of his chambers, which was laden with his clothes from the day before.

  He nearly did not bother with boots as he practically ran toward the door, but then stopped when he realized that without them, were they to go outside, the grass would stick to his toes and slow his progress as he followed the lass wherever her journey took her. To England, he suspected, though he would not let her any farther than the castle gates. He would stop her well before she ever came into the sight of the guards that were permanently stationed at the castle entrance.

  He quickly laced the boots and then crept toward the door, stopping to ease the old, creaky wood open slowly so as not to make a sound. He needed the element of surprise if he was to catch her. Up ahead, in the dark, he could make out the retreating figure of Bernadine, her dark hair plaited down her back, her tempting muslin-covered hips swaying back and forth as she hurried toward the stairs.

  He followed her down the stairs, keeping distance enough that she did not hear his progress toward her. The castle was dark, but the lass had a candle with her lighting her way. Even without the candle, Donnan would have been able to make his way about the place in the dark.

  He had walked its dark corridors by himself on many evening occasions when sleep had evaded him, during those first grieving years when his siblings had passed, one after the other, leaving only him and Ilene, and again when his mother and father had been taken from him.

  They descended three floors before finally finding themselves in the castle entryway, which Bernadine quickly sped past. She turned right, toward the back of the castle and the stairway that led to the kitchens and the servant’s quarters.

  Bernadine eventually stopped at the back door to the castle, the one that was usually kept open for the farmers and other servants who attended to livestock and needed to be up early or out late attending to the animals. She slipped through the door, her petite frame sliding easily through the large width, and Donnan could see her hurrying across the yard.

  And then he heard it: the sound of an animal in distress. It was a torturous sound, a keening that made his skin crawl and his teeth grind. It was a sheep, an ewe, to be precise, and she was in pain. As he looked up, he saw Bernadine making her way toward the sheep.

  She’s going to help it. She’s not escaping at all, he realized, quickening
his footsteps to catch up with her. Once again, the lass had surprised him. Donnan quickened his steps, his interest now piqued.

  Chapter 12

  Bernadine had never been particularly adept at seeing in the dark, and she realized as she traversed the fields of Castle Venruit that perhaps she should have brought an extra match or two. Her swift movements had caused her candle to blow out, and she had left the thing in the middle of the grass, too intent on her mission to bother carrying around the useless thing.

  However, that meant that now she was only guided by the light of the moon, which, it turned out, was a lot less helpful than it she assumed it would be. Bernadine could barely see where to put her foot and had to hope she wasn’t about to step on a tree root, rock, or some other obstruction. A twisted ankle would certainly hinder her progress toward the sheep. Her wrist had only just healed, and she did not fancy another injury so soon.

  The animal in question was crying as she walked, causing her to hurry as much as she was able despite her fear of possible impediments. Where is the shepherd? One of the livestock caretakers? That man Brodie I met my first day? Am I really the only one who could hear this awful noise?

  The little fluff of white was in sight, a few hundred yards away, when Bernie heard footsteps behind her. She turned, and would have screamed, had a hand not come to her mouth, silencing her instantly.

  * * *

  “It’s me, lass. Donnan,” he told Bernadine, his palm pressing against her soft lips. He had felt her stiffen the moment his hand had come to her mouth, his other arm around her middle, but when she heard his name, he saw the back of her head nod. He turned her around and lowered his hand, gratified to see the fright leave her eyes as she gazed at him. Her shoulders slouched and she sighed in relief.

  Seeing her relax in his presence made Donnan’s heart leap for joy. Perhaps she was finally warming to him. But then, of course, the lass had to ruin it, pushing him back so hard he actually stumbled on the grass. She then began to berate him, as seemed to be her preference of late.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, skulking around like some common criminal in the dark? You nearly gave me the fright of my life, Donnan!” she hissed at him, each word more biting than the last.

  Donnan rolled his eyes, stepping back toward her. Why did she always have to ruin these moments between them, when they existed not as enemies, as adversaries, but as equals, friends, even?

  “I dinnae mean to scare ye, lass. There was no way of notifyin’ ye of me presence, and I thought it best ye kept yer screams to yerself, so as not to scare the beast,” he said, nodding toward the sheep ahead of them, who was again making that awful noise that told them it was in distress.

  “Yes, well. You have a brain. Think of something that does not involve assaulting me with your hands next time,” she said on a huff, turning around and stalking toward the sheep.

  “So ye heard it, then? The sheep?” Donnan asked as he caught up to her, changing the subject.

  “Yes. I was up late reading in my chambers, and I heard a strange cry from outside. I looked out the window and saw it on this little hilltop and knew something must have been wrong. I don’t know much about livestock, but I do know they aren’t suppose to sound like that.”

  “Righ’ ye are,” Donnan agreed, nodding his head. “But why did ye no’ call one of the servants, rather than journeyin’ out here in the dark by yerself?” he asked, genuinely curious. Bernadine Nibley did not strike him as someone who gave up her precious night’s rest, or reading, as the case may be, for the welfare of an animal.

  “I…” she said, faltering. She stopped a few feet away from the sheep and turned to him. “You know, I do not know why. I just knew the poor thing was in need of help and went to it. I did not even think of stopping to call for assistance.”

  “Well then I suppose it’s lucky I was awake as well and heard the poor beast,” Donnan said, slowing his steps as he approached the animal. He saw it was ewe.

  Many of the ewes had already had their children; only a few were still waiting to give birth, and those who were waiting were supposed to be grouped together in a comfortable, warm part of the barn, surrounded by blankets and hay to aid and warm them and provide what little comfort they could.

  Donnan was not sure how this one had gotten out, but he would definitely be discussing the matter with Brodie when he had the chance. The lad was a third-generation shepherd; surely, he knew how to secure the ewes well enough that they could not get out?

  “What is wrong with it, do you think?” Bernadine asked from behind him.

  “She’s lambing,” he said, noticing the bulge in the ewe’s belly, the tell-tale tang of broken water sacs, the quick breathing that all denoted an impending birth.

  “Why is she doing it all the way out here, rather than in the barn?” Bernadine asked, sitting down next to the animal and reaching a tentative hand out to her flank. The ewe twitched at the contact at first, but eventually, after a few strokes of Bernadine’s hand, it settled back into the relaxed standing position it had been in when they first approached.

  “Sometimes they come to a higher point so they can look for any impendin’ danger when they birth,” Donnan said, watching Bernadine’s pale hand tangle itself in the ewe’s short wool. “She might have also just wandered out here, and then her water broke, and now she won’t move.”

  “Can we not move her together? Perhaps she would be more comfortable back in the barn,” Bernadine said, her tone laced with worry. Donnan found it endearing how concerned she was for the poor beast.

  “Nay, lass. Ye cannae move a lamb once her water’s broke. Smell that?” he asked, gesturing to the air between them. Bernadine sniffed, made a face, and then nodded.

  “That’s the smell her water makes when it breaks. It anchors her to this spot for the duration of her labor. Try and move her, and it’ll only cause her distress. Best to just let her take care of business here,” he told her.

  “How long will it take?” Bernadine asked, peering anxiously over at the sheep. Donnan thought he could hear her whispering to the animal, something about “not worrying” and “all will be well soon.” His heart lurched again at the lass; how sweet she was being to the beast. He only wished she treated him with similar care and affection.

  “I dinnae ken, lass. Every ewe is different, and it’s been quite a while since I assisted in a lambin’,” Donnan told her honestly. The last time had in fact been when he was a child, the spring before his parents were killed. It was one of the last happy memories he had of his father.

  He remembered the old man teaching him about the miracle of birth, putting the newborn lamb in Donnan’s outstretched arms and letting him feel the soft fur, the warm heat of the little thing against his chest. He had not eaten lamb for months afterward, worried that every slab of sheep that showed on the table was the remnants of his small, furry friend.

  “Well then, I suppose we ought to make ourselves comfortable,” Bernadine suggested, manoeuvring about in the grass to a seated position with her legs to one side. As she fidgeted, her robe gaped, and the nightgown beneath was loose enough that Donnan caught a glimpse of the creamy, rose-tinted skin of her chest.

  He was treated to a quick flash of nipple as she leaned forward to tuck her skirts over her feet, and that was more than enough to stoke the fire in his belly that always seemed near the surface these days, ever since she had arrived in his life. He cursed his body, but he knew it was useless. It could no more avoid reacting to the lass than he could avoid breathing.

  He wanted to know what she looked like under that robe and nightgown. How curved was her waist, how full were her breasts? He wished to see her with her hair undone, the curls running over her chest, the dark locks a contrast to her porcelain skin. He imagined the softness of her belly under his rough hands, the feel of her body as he traced it with his fingertips, going so slow and lightly that the little hairs on her body would rise with sensation as he traversed the dips and curves
of her.

  He was awoken from these thoughts by another cry from the sheep beside him, and Bernadine’s furrowed brow as she leaned over the animal, whispering again to the ewe, no doubt still attempting to calm it.

  Donnan wished she would lean over him in the exact same way, plant her lips to his ears and whisper sweet things, though he knew that instead of calming him, they would only increase his desire still further.

  Looking at the bleating ewe, Donnan quickly reprimanded himself, for here he was, thinking of his own selfish, corporal needs when next him was one of his flock, her own discomfort far worse than his.

  I am a selfish bampot, Donnan told himself as he scooted closer to the ewe and bent down to examine her. The least he could do for the poor thing was use what little expertise he had to ease her birth.

  “What are you doing?” Bernadine asked as Donnan looked at the lamb’s rear.

  “Assessin’ how far along she is in the birthin’ process,” he told her, realizing from his observations that the ewe should begin birthing any minute. It was more than ready, according to the signs his father had told him to look out for.