Siren of the Highlands: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance (Highlanders of Cherrythorn)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “All right, well, thank ye for yer time,” Fin said. “If ye can think of anythin’ else or hear of somebody toyin’ with monkshood, send for me.”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  Fin gave her a nod, then turned around and left the shop, his mind full of questions that he had no answers to. He was frustrated and was growing irritable because of it. When he stepped back out into the sunshine, he took a long, deep breath of the unperfumed air. Finally able to breathe clean air again, he looked around and found Hollis sitting on a tree stump, eating something he’d obviously gotten from one of the vendors.

  But Fin’s stomach lurched, and his eyes widened slightly when he saw that Hollis was not alone. Standing beside him was none other than Ivy Welton, the Lady of Elix. As if he sensed him, Hollis looked up and waved Fin over. Clearing his throat and trying to control the churning in his gut, he walked over.

  Chapter Seven

  Ivy

  When Ivy saw him step out of the apothecary, her heart lurched, and warmth began in her belly and started spreading outward. She looked down at his friend Hollis and gave him a small smile. She had been talking to him, waiting for Fin to return, and when he stepped over to them, Hollis gave her a wink and a grin.

  “I’m goin’ tae head back tae the keep,” Hollis said. “I want tae - check on a couple of things.”

  “Check on what?” Fin asked.

  Hollis chuckled. “Things,” he said. “I’ll catch up with ye when ye return.”

  Before Fin could reply, Hollis stood and walked away quickly, leaving Ivy standing there with him. An awkward silence stretched out between them as they looked at one another, and Fin cleared his throat. His eyes shifted and looked behind her, and Ivy realized Brixton was still hovering behind her. Ivy shifted on her feet uncomfortably as the tension in the air thickened.

  “Who’s this then?” Fin asked.

  Ivy cleared her throat. “This is Brixton,” she said. “He - looks over me.”

  A smirk flickered across Fin’s lips, and although she wanted to say something rude and put him in his place, her head was spinning, her stomach churned, and her thoughts were chaotic and disordered. Ivy thought she would have had a difficult time telling Fin her name right now if he asked. Standing so near him muddled her thoughts and made her feel strangely nervous.

  “Looks over ye, eh?” Fin said. “Like a wet nurse?”

  Ivy felt her cheeks flush, and a spike of anger lance straight through her. She narrowed her eyes and glared daggers through Fin. She felt Brixton moving behind her, and she quickly held up her hand to stop him. He did with a low growl, but she chose to not pay attention. Ivy did not need somebody protecting her anymore than she needed a wet nurse.

  “How dare you,” she spat, her voice low and husky. “You… you… boorish lout!”

  Fin chuckled. “Relax, lass. I was just windin’ ye up.”

  “That was rude and wholly unnecessary.”

  “Aye. It was,” he said. “Twas uncalled for and I apologize tae ye.”

  Ivy pursed her lips and wore a look of pure indignation. Even in the face of his apology, she was not quite ready to let go of her anger. Of course, part of her knew that it also made it easier to put off the apology she had tracked him down to deliver in the first place.

  “Dae ye forgive me?”

  Ivy blew out a loud breath. “I suppose.”

  Fin chuckled. “Ye are a stubborn one, arenae ye?”

  “You will address her as Lady Welton, Scotsman.”

  Fin’s eyes flicked to the man standing behind her, and Ivy felt herself cringe. The last thing she wanted was for Brixton and Fin to clash. Things were tense enough already. She drew herself up as tall as she could and gave Fin an imperious and icy glare. His response was to smirk, and she knew he had no intention of calling her Lady Welton. He was as brash and improper as anybody she had ever met and had no regard for social protocols. He was maddening, and she had the idea he did it on purpose, but she was not going to let him get under her skin. Small and petty as it was, she would not give him that victory.

  “It is fine, Brixton. He may call me Ivy,” she said, her tone colder than ice. “I do not expect proper manners from somebody who smells as if they slept in a barn.”

  She heard Brixton stifle a laugh behind her as she held Fin’s gaze. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and surprisingly, a broad grin crossed his face. Ivy’s eyes widened as the man actually had the nerve to burst into laughter. He doubled over, slapping his knees, laughing as if it were the funniest thing he had ever heard.

  In other words, his reaction was exactly the opposite Ivy had been expecting. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, but she forced herself to stand there, unmoving, willing her face to show no expression - nothing but a cool, regal detachment. Oh, but it was difficult. Fin was utterly confounding to her, and she wanted to lash out. But she would not. She would remain calm and appear unmoved by his outburst.

  Slowly, Fin’s laughter tapered off. He stood up straight and wiped the tears from his cheeks and took a moment to catch his breath and gather himself. When he had himself back under control, Fin cleared his throat but couldn’t quite wipe the smirk off his face.

  “Apologies, Lady Welton,” he said. “I didnae mean tae laugh. But yer a clever woman. Funnier than I expected.”

  “That is fine. No offense taken,” she said imperiously, befuddled by the unexpected and yet backhanded compliment. “I understand that things in the north are - different. I understand that manners are not as important as they are here in England.”

  Fin’s smirk was feral. “Aye, ye are right. We Scots are nae nearly as uptight as ye Ainglish,” he said. “We daenae invent reasons tae be upset.”

  Ivy opened her mouth to say something nasty to him but bit it back. She did not want to escalate or prolong things. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing herself to be calm. She had the idea that he was winding her up so badly because of what she had said to him the previous day. And if that were the case, she could not let herself be too mad about it. She probably deserved it for the way she had treated him. But at the same time, he was pushing things and was in danger of going too far over the line.

  “So, what are ye doin’ here?” Fin asked. “Did ye follow me?”

  Ivy felt her cheeks flush with heat, knowing how it would sound if she answered the question. But it was obvious that she had been following him, and if she said otherwise, he would probably use it to embarrass her further. And that was the last thing she wanted. He had already humiliated her enough for one day.

  “I saw you passing through the market, and I wanted to speak with you,” she said evenly. “I chose to wait out here until you had concluded your business with the apothecary.”

  “I appreciate that, Lady Welton,” he said. “So, what can I dae for ye?”

  She cleared her throat as her stomach roiled. She had always found apologizing for her mistakes difficult simply because she did not like to acknowledge that she had been in the wrong. Especially when it came to something like this. What made it worse was the fact that Fin could be exceptionally rude and boorish. But then, what did she really expect from a Scotsman?

  “I just… I wanted to apologize for the way I treated you the other day,” she began. “When we arrived at York I assumed you were a servant and treated you poorly. For that, I apologize.”

  She let out a breath and felt a profound sense of relief wash over her. She’d done it. She had gotten it out and was now done with it. Fin, though, did not seem ready to let it go just yet and gave her a mischievous smirk.

  “So, dae ye always treat yer servants that way?” he asked. “Are ye always that mean to ‘em?”

  “I was not mean,” she objected. “Besides, they’re servants. They are there to serve me. It is their job.”

  “Aye, but their job is nae tae be abused by ye.”

  Ivy gritted her teeth and glared hard at him. “Are you really trying to tell me how I can and can
not treat my servants?”

  “Nay. Tis nae me place tae tell ye how ye can and cannae treat yer servants,” he said. “I’m just tellin’ ye that ye may want tae consider how ye treat yer staff.”

  “They’re my servants.”

  “Aye. But they’re still human bein’s.”

  “I cannot believe you are going to stand there, after I graciously offered you an apology, and lecture me about how to treat people,” she growled. “In particular, how I treat my staff.”

  Fin shrugged. “Just offerin’ a little friendly advice.”

  She blew out a noisy breath. “The next time I wish for your advice, I shall ask for it,” she huffed. “Brixton come. We are leaving.”

  Without waiting for Fin to reply, she stormed off. Her face burned, and her belly churned with anger.

  “The nerve of that man,” she hissed. “Who does he think he is?”

  “He’s a bloody Scot,” Brixton offered as he fell into step beside her. “They have no sense of decorum or propriety.”

  “And to think, I lowered myself to apologize for being so rude to him,” she huffed.

  “There truly is never any reason for you to apologize to a Scot, My Lady,” he said. “They are beneath you. They are barely human.”

  Ivy was not prepared to go quite that far in describing the Scottish people, but she had always found them to be very different from the English in terms of manners and temperament. But Fin was something else entirely. He seemed to live to infuriate her. It seemed to be his only joy and purpose in life.

  “Do not let him trouble you, My Lady,” Brixton said. “He is not worth the upset he is causing you.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that,” she snapped. “Thank you for informing me of that fact, Brixton.”

  As she stomped her way back through the town and toward the castle, rage crackled along Ivy’s every nerve ending. She muttered to herself angrily, and the people in her path, seeing the look of fury painted clearly upon her face, moved out of her way quickly. Ivy knew she shouldn’t let Fin get under her skin. She should not let him get her this worked up. She was a noble and should know better than to let a man of his station upset her like this.

  But he had seriously overreached by telling her how she should and should not treat her servants. Who did he think he was to tell her that she was mistreating them? He was a smug, arrogant man who thought he was clever and who thought he was on her level. He mistakenly believed he was her equal.

  Those thoughts and even more uncharitable ones rocketed through her mind as she stormed back to the castle, her anger at the Scotsman ruining her day and killing her desire to shop at the market any longer.

  Chapter Eight

  Fin

  “Ye know yer a bleedin’ arse, daenae ye?”

  Fin turned his head and looked at Hollis. “What? What dae ye mean?” he asked. “What did I dae?”

  Hollis shook his head. “Are ye serious right now? Not even ye can be that dim, can ye?”

  “What are ye talkin’ about?” Fin asked. “All I did was tell the truth.”

  “Aye. And that’s the problem, ye bleedin’ bampot.”

  Fin sighed as they walked down the corridor, heading for the stairs that would take them to the subterranean levels of the keep. They were bound for the dark cells to have a talk with Marcus to see if the night spent in the dungeon changed his perspective on things. Fin’s hopes weren’t exceptionally high, but as long as there was a slim chance, it was better than no chance.

  “A woman like that, a noblewoman daenae want the bleedin’ truth,” he said.

  “Nay?” Fin asked. “Then what dae she want?”

  “Other than for ye tae fall to yer knees and worship her like a livin’ goddess?”

  Fin laughed as they made it to the staircase that would take them below. He stopped, though, and turned to Hollis, curious to hear what he had to say.

  “Other than that,” Fin said. “What did I dae?”

  “The first thing is that ye insulted her by laughin’ like a bleedin’ idiot,” Hollis said. “The second is that ye tried tae tell her how tae talk tae her people. How tae treat her servants. Ye all but called her a bleedin’ tyrant, ye fool.”

  “I didnae--”

  “Ye did,” Hollis cut him off. “And if ye daenae believe me, yer a fool.”

  Fin chuckled. If there was one thing he could always count on, it was that he would never fail to get the whole and unvarnished truth out of Hollis.

  “She came tae see ye tae apologize tae ye,” Hollis went on. “Dae ye not ken how rare that is? Nobles daenae apologize tae commoners like us.”

  “What? Col apologizes all the bleedin’ time.”

  “That’s because Col’s not a normal noble,” he pressed. “In most ways, he’s more like us than thae Scottish or Ainglish nobles.”

  “Fine, fine,” Fin relented. “Ye’re right. He’s nae like a real noble.”

  “So, for a real noble like Lady Ivy tae seek ye out to apologize tae ye, that’s about as uncommon a thing as ye’ll find,’ he pressed. “And from her perspective, ye threw it right back in that lovely face of hers.”

  Fin grumbled under his breath. Though it galled him to admit, he could see Hollis’ point. Perhaps that was not the ideal time to mention how poorly she treated her servants. It did not make it any less true from Fin’s perspective, but this is one of those moments Col was always in his ear about when political delicacy may have mattered more than the truth. He noisily blew out a long breath.

  “Col should’ve sent a bleedin’ politician instead of me,” Fin growled.

  Hollis laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Ye’ll be fine, mate,” he said. “Tis nae like this is yer first failin’ with a woman. Nor will it be yer last.”

  Fin flashed him a grin and shook his head. “Ye’re a bleedin’ arse. Yer lucky I tolerate ye.”

  “Tolerate? Ye couldnae function without me,” Hollis quipped. “Daenae worry. I’ve a feelin’ ye’ll get a chance tae make amends. I saw the way she looked at ye over breakfast. She could barely take her eyes off ye.”

  “Ye need tae stop drinkin’ mead with breakfast, me friend,” Fin countered. “She couldnae stand tae be ‘round me.”

  “That’s called flirtin’, mate.”

  They laughed together as they descended the stairs. The light of day coming from above gradually filtered away, and when they found themselves in the subterranean corridors, the only light was from the torches that hung on sconces in the wall. They strode into a small antechamber where a bored-looking soldier sat back in a chair with his feet propped up on the table in front of him, gnawing on a chicken leg. He was an older man with a craggy face that glistened with grease from his afternoon snack, droopy dark eyes, and wisps of white hair.

  “What can I do for you boys?” he said.

  “Here tae see the cupbearer,” Fin announced. “Marcus Long.”

  The old man nodded. “You’re the Scots lookin’ into the Duke’s poisonin’, eh?”

  Fin nodded. “Aye.”

  “You think Marcus had somethin’ to do with it?”

  “Not sure yet,” Fin replied. “That’s why we need tae talk tae him.”

  The grizzled old soldier took his feet off the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He looked uncomfortable but dropped the bone on his plate and cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, about that,” he said. “Marcus ran into a little trouble with the guards last night. Seems he tried to make a run for it.”

  A yawning pit opened in Fin’s stomach at the old man’s words. Marcus could be the only key that unlocked the mystery he was dealing with at the moment. And if the guards had killed him out of some misguided sense of loyalty to the Duke, Fin knew it could deal a major blow to discovering the identity of the person responsible for the plot to assassinate Duke Hamilton and Col.

  “Does he live?” Fin asked.

  The man nodded. “Oh, yes, he lives. The guards were able to - subdue him,” he said. “He
is just a little the worse for wear, I’m afraid.”

  Though he remained outwardly impassive, a wave of relief swept through Fin. But he could not let this continue, or they really would kill the lad in his cell. If he did slip the poison to the Duke, Fin believed he should face justice and pay for his crimes. But being beaten to death in his cell under cover of night was not justice.

  Fin leaned down and loomed over the old man. “Let me be clear ‘bout somethin’,” he said. “Marcus Long shouldnae’ve any more accidents or escape attempts. He should remain in his cell just as he is right now.”

  The old soldier swallowed hard, but there was a hardness in his eyes Fin couldn’t miss. It told Fin he was with the guards during the alleged escape attempt and had likely taken part in it. He was obviously loyal to the Duke, which was not a bad thing. But loyalty sometimes made men do stupid things.

  “If any other trouble befalls the lad, ye’ll answer tae me,” Fin growled. “And after that, ye’ll answer tae the Duke and the Baron of Westmarch. Spread the word as quick as ye can. Am I understood?”

  The man bobbed his head in understanding quickly and looked down, that brief light of defiance in his eyes dimming. Fin nodded in return, satisfied he had gotten his message across.

  “Good,” he said. “Now, what cell is the lad in?”

  “Down the hall,” he replied. “Fifth on the right.”

  “Thank ye.”

  Fin and Hollis marched down the corridor, their bootsteps heavy on the stone floor. When they got to the appointed cell, Fin gasped at what he saw. Marcus’ face was lumpy and misshapen. It was a mass of cuts and bruises, the dried blood giving him a ghastly visage. Anger made Fin’s blood boil beneath his skin, and his body tensed. He turned and saw the guard at the end of the corridor looking back at him.

  “Bring me a bucket of water and a cloth,” Fin growled. “Now.”

  Marcus lay on the ground, curled into a tight ball. He looked up at Fin through eyes that were swollen nearly shut.