Daring the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Kendall, Lydia

  * * *

  “How is she?” Lord Nibley asked as Guinevere entered the room. She had just returned from visiting Bernadine in her chambers. Guinevere had instructed the footmen to follow her with two carefully selected stacks of books, all romantic, adventurous novels that the older woman was sure would “buoy the girl’s spirits.”

  “Dejected,” was Guinevere’s short response to Lord Nibley’s question as she took a seat adjacent to him at the table. She was frowning, her eyes trained on her empty plate as a maid set a cup of tea down in front of her.

  “Well, surely the books will fix that,” Lord Nibley said, taking a bite of the kippers on his plate.

  “Hm,” was Guinevere’s reply. Lord Nibley looked up.

  “Is something the matter, Guinevere?” he asked.

  She made a noncommittal noise as she took a sip of tea from the delicate china cup.

  “Please, if you have an opinion, speak it,” he said, wincing at the impatience in his voice. But he could not help it. It had been five days since Bernadine had been locked in her room, and still every time he visited her, all she spoke of was that bloody Scot.

  He had hoped that time alone with her thoughts would make her see the error of Donnan’s ways, the fallacy of the love they supposedly shared. Instead, Bernadine seemed to pine for him all the more. He could hear her lovelorn sobs all over the house, her cries in the middle of the night begging for Donnan.

  He had initially assumed that Guinevere would agree with his plan of action, to lock Bernadine away until such time as she was improved and ready once again to resume life in England as normal, but he could see now that such was not the case. The older woman was clearly siding with his daughter in this matter.

  “She is depressed, my Lord She missed Scotland, misses Donnan ...”

  “Do not speak his name!” Lord Nibley shouted. Guinevere stilled, her eyes going wide. He had never raised his voice at her before. Never, in the more than thirty years that he had known her, said so much as a cross word to her. It was a sign of how truly affected he was that he did so now.

  “I am sorry, Lord Nibley. She misses that man, and I am beginning to think that what they share for each other is real affection born of a genuine connection, not some nefarious plan of the Scot’s to control our Bernadine. I think locking her away was the wrong decision, my Lord. She’s only going to grow more miserable up there, all on her own. She needs to be with us, with people who love her, not alone in her room with no one and nothing to occupy her.”

  “Until such time as she returns to the daughter I know, the one I went to that ball with, she will not leave her chambers,” Lord Nibley said, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “If you think she needs the company, you are more than welcome to continue to visit her, but do not let the toxicity of that Scot begin to infect your mind as well, Guinevere. Mark my words, he is nothing but a monster, and she is well rid of him.”

  Chapter 24

  “Well! No wonder you enjoy these novels so, my dear. I’ve never heard anything so scandalous in all my years!” Guinevere said, pretending to fan herself.

  She and Bernadine were sitting by one of the windows in Bernadine’s chambers, looking at the trees, their vivacious leaves swinging in the summer breeze. Her father would not allow the windows open, too concerned that she might escape, but Guinevere snuck them open anyway, allowing a much-needed breeze into the stuffy sitting room.

  It was Bernadine’s ninth day locked in her chambers. She had thus far read seven novels, three books of poetry, and was nearly finished with a hefty tome outlining the rise and fall of the Roman empire. And yet, despite so much consumption of literature and twice-daily visits from Guinevere, she was bored out of her mind. Bored and depressed.

  Life without Donnan was even worse than she could have imagined. Every hour without the sound of his voice, the gentle lilting of his brogue, was pure torture. What she would not give for a conversation with him, hearing him say he loved her, that all was well. Anything to comfort her. For she found no comfort in the house she had once called home.

  Even the presence of Guinevere was no balm to her wounded soul, though she did her best to help. Right now, she was smiling serenely at her, leaning over and adjusting a curl that had sprung loose from Bernadine’s bun.

  “You have always had the most beautiful hair, my dear,” Guinevere told her.

  “Donnan said the same. He told me it reminded him of spun gold. He used to love running his fingers through it. He often did it before bed, lulling me into sleep.” Bernadine knew it was an improper thing to mention, but she did not care. It felt so good to be able to talk about him, to speak his name. Her father forbid her from doing so in his presence, but Guinevere did not seem to mind.

  “Your mother was like that, as well. When she had nightmares as a child, a few strokes of her hair would send her straight back to sleep. I did it the day she died, too, when she was in the greatest pain. I do not know if it helped any, but it did seem to calm her, which was all I was able to do at that point,” Guinevere said, her eyes shining at the memory.

  “If she were here, I would not be locked up so. She would have understood. She would not have kept me from…from…” Bernadine stuttered, burying her face in her hands as the tears came. They often did these days, when thoughts of Donnan and their separation became too much. She cried herself to sleep more nights than not, her face permanently puffy from so many tears shed.

  “Oh, my dear,” Guinevere said, moving her chair until she was able to reach for Bernadine and draw her into her arms. “I cannot stand to see you so sad. What can I do? Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  Bernadine wiped her nose indelicately on her hand and looked up, pointing to the writing desk. “Please, let me send him a letter. Let me tell him where I am, what has become of me. I know he is as worried for me as I am for him. If you help me send it, perhaps he will come and save me, like one of the knights from my novels.”

  Guinevere looked hesitant at the request, but when tears began to leak anew from Bernadine’s eyes, through no fault or machination of her own, the woman relented. She drew her hands to Bernadine’s cheeks, wiping the tears off her face and placing a kiss atop her forehead, as she had done so many times when Bernadine was a girl.

  “All right, my dear. Anything to see you happier than this.”

  * * *

  Donnan,

  Before I say anything else, I must say this: I miss you so. My heart aches every time your name crosses my lips, which it does often. My father has locked me away, disturbed at my claims that we are in love. I have been stuck in my chambers these last nine days thinking of little else but you. I long for your touch, your kiss, your embrace. Please, come take me away from this place. I must be with you again. I cannot bear the distance any longer, and without your help, I fear my father will never let me out of the house again. Please, come quickly.

  All my love,

  Bernadine

  Donnan’s heart skipped a beat looking at Bernadine’s signature. He had never seen her handwriting before, never had reason to before now, but looking at its perfect loops and swirls, the ink so thick on the page it bled through to the other side, it seemed perfectly, completely her. Feminine and masculine, strong and sweet, all in one page. It was yet another layer to her, yet another discovery about his love. He would have been excited, were it not for its contents, the words themselves on the page. As his eyes scanned over those again, he felt not excitement, but fear and anxiety so raw he could feel them in the depths of his stomach.

  She is miserable, and I cannae help her. I should never have let her go.

  “When did this arrive?” Donnan asked, his voice coming out far louder and gruffer than he meant it to. He saw Camdyn’s eyebrows rose in response, but to the lad’s credit, he schooled his face back into a mask of indifferent emotion, hesitating only a moment before responding.

  “Ten minutes ago, sir. I took it from the messenger and went immediately to find ye
,” Camdyn said. The dark circles were still marring his young face, and the fatigue had now gone to his shoulders, causing him to stoop slightly as he stood, hands clasped behind his back. Donnan had been meaning to take the lad aside and figure out just what was keeping him from a good night’s rest, but that time was not now. Now, all that mattered was Bernadine, and how best to get her back in his arms, where she was safe.

  “I thank ye for yer swiftness, lad,” Donnan said, rising from his desk and rounding it. He had not a moment to lose. “Ready a horse for me and call the very best of me men. We leave for London in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?!” Camdyn exclaimed, his voice cracking on the words. “Are ye needin’ me to come as well, me Laird?”

  If Donnan had been paying better attention, if he had not at that moment been so distracted with thoughts and worries of Bernadine, he might have noticed just how anxious the lad looked at the prospect of accompanying him on the trip south. But Donnan was distracted, his eyes glazed over and his mind elsewhere, so he did not see Camdyn looking so filled with trepidation. He simply barked, “Nae! Ye’ll stay here and look after things for me. I daennae ken how long I’ll be gone and I’ll be needin’ someone to ensure things at the castle run smoothly in me absence.”

  “Aye, sir,” Camdyn said, visibly relaxing where he stood. “I’ll see to it yer men are rounded up and waitin’ fer ye at the gates. Are ye needin’ anything else from me, me Laird?”

  ‘No,” Donnan said, shaking his head. “That’ll be all, lad.”

  He watched Camdyn walk out of his study absentmindedly, his mind already on what he would say to Lord Hammilton once he arrived at the man’s house. Hammilton House would, after all, be his first port of call once he arrived in London. He needed his friend’s help and advice, needed to know how best to handle Lord Nibley so as to be sure of succeeding in his aim of taking Bernadine away from that horrible place and back with him to Scotland.

  Hammilton was Nibley’s oldest friend, after all, and was no doubt the only person who could decipher the madman’s odd ways. He was the only person who would understand how to talk Nibley down from whatever crazed plan had pushed him to lock Bernadine away against her will.

  For if nothing else, it was clear from Bernadine’s letter that all sense had fled from her father’s mind. Fathers did not lock their daughters away like Rapunzel in her tower unless they had gone truly barmy. And though Donnan’s first instinct was to give the man a sound trouncing before hustling Bernadine out of the house in his arms, he knew such a plan was foolhardy. Madmen did not take kindly to such violence, and Donnan knew he ought not to agitate the man any further than his presence no doubt would.

  Donnan also did not want to worsen his relationship with Bernadine’s father any more than had already been done by his kidnapping and falling in love with the lass. Lord Nibley was, after all, his love’s only real family, and Donnan needed to respect him, however little he thought the man deserving of such respect.

  Tis a delicate situation I’m headin’ into, Donnan realized as he ran up the steps leading to his chambers to hastily pack a bag. This was, in many ways, a far more difficult battle to wage than any he had fought in before. Though the outcome affected far less people than the battles of the past, the person it did affect was far more important to him. The most important, truly. There was nothing Donnan would not do for his love.

  I will get her back, he vowed to himself as he left his room, his pack slung over his shoulder. I willnae fail.

  Chapter 25

  “Yes?” the butler asked, looking distinctly disgruntled. Donnan did not blame the man. It was barely dawn, the sky still dark outside and a chill in the late spring air as he stood on the steps leading to Hammilton’s house. But while Donnan sympathized with the man, the sympathy did not quite eclipse the frustration that had been building in him the last four days that he had been on horseback, riding hell for leather to England’s capital, his men but a mile or two behind him the whole way.

  “I’m lookin’ for Lord Hammilton. My name is Laird Donnan Young. If ye tell him so, he’ll admit me. I’m here as a matter of urgency, ye ken,” he said, trying to keep his tone quiet and pleasant. The butler glared back at him, unmoving.

  “The master of the house did not tell me he was expecting any night-time visitors,” he snarled, looking Donnan up and down and grimacing.

  Donnan knew he looked a sight. He had stopped but once in the last four days, at an inn for a hastily eaten meal of cold meat and ale. He had not bathed, had not changed his clothes, had not attended to any of his toilette, and as a result, he imagined he looked nothing like the titled, cultured, powerful man he was.

  Still, this was no reason for the man to turn him away, which he proceeded to tell the butler. “Look, I ken I look a sight, but I am one of Lord Hammilton’s closest acquaintances. At the risk of bein’ rude…”

  “The risk? I believe, my good man, you are well past merely risking rudeness with your presence here on this doorstep,” the butler said, moving backward as though to shut the door in Donnan’s face.

  Luckily, Donnan was wearing his sturdiest boots, and he easily slid the toe of his boot into the crack in the door frame, preventing the butler from shutting the large plank of wood in his face.

  “Look, ye bampot,” he bit out, now well and truly angry. “That’s no way to talk to a fellow man, whether or not he looks like a beast from the woodlands. I’ll thank ye to wake yer master and alert him to me presence, at which point I’m certain he’ll tell ye I’m more than welcome in these hallowed halls of yers,” he said, nodding his head toward the hallway behind the butler.

  The man scoffed in response, readying another retort, but before he could speak, Lord Hammilton’s face appeared over the man’s shoulder.

  “Donnan! What are you doing here? And Giles, why haven’t you let him in yet? Surely you recognize Laird Young? He’s been here six times in the last year, and I’m more than certain you’ve admitted him to the house at least once,” Hammilton scolded as he pushed the butler back and took Donnan by the shoulder.

  Donnan gave the butler his very best glare as he let his friend lead him into the house. They made their way to Hammilton’s study. The room was cold, the fire unlit, but rather than ringing for assistance from a maid or footmen, Hammilton crouched down in front of the grate and lit the coals himself.

  Donnan liked that about him, that Hammilton was not one of those helpless aristocrats who was incapable of taking care of himself without a fleet of household staff assisting him.

  Turning around, Hammilton gestured for Donnan to take a seat in the armchair closest to the fire. He took the seat across from him and handed his friend a glass filled with the finest Scotch whiskey.

  “To warm your cockles,” he said, gesturing to the glass.

  “Thank ye,” Donnan said, bowing his head in gratitude and knocking back half the liquid in one sip. He groaned as the liquid slid down his throat, warming its way down to his belly. The chill that had accompanied him since leaving Scotland lessened, and he relaxed back into the cushion of his chair, forgetting for just a moment all that worried and plagued him.

  Until, that is, Lord Hammilton spoke again. “So, what brings you here at this time of the morning? Not that I am not glad to see you, my friend. Though we reconciled before I left, I did worry I had lost your friendship for good after what happened in Scotland. I was deuced awful to you, believing Nibley’s claims.”

  “Nay, Nicholas, ye would never lose me friendship. And Nibley is yer friend as well. Ye had every right to investigate his lies,” Donnan said, shrugging.

  “I’ve come to get yer help. An urgent matter has come about, ye see,” he said, sitting up straighter in his chair.

  It took but few minutes for Donnan to explain the situation, aided by Bernadine’s letter, which he had kept folded safely in his sporran for the duration of his journey.

  “I’ll be happy if I never see a letter again,” Lord Hammilton muttered
to himself as he skimmed the page, his eyes widening when he read the bit about Bernadine being locked away.

  “Do ye understand me now? How important it is that we get to her as quickly as we can?” Donnan asked, sliding forward in his chair as he stared at his friend.

  “Yes,” Lord Hammilton responded, nodding fervently as he handed the letter back to Donnan. “Yes, it is clear she is in need of our assistance. I am so sorry, Donnan. Life has handed you a rather sorry lot of late.”

  Donnan dismissed this comment with a wave of his hand. “I dinnae care about me, Nicholas. All I care about is the lass, and makin’ sure she’s safe. She doesnae seem to be so under Nibley’s roof, so I suggest we remove her from the place and I take her back home with me. Where I can look after her.”