Highlander’s Devious Ally (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance)

by Adamina Young

  Highlander’s Devious Ally

  Adamina Young

  Contents

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  Prologue

  1. The Funeral

  2. Ailith

  3. The Gift

  4. Learning to Barter

  5. First Kiss

  6. Breaking the Betrothal

  7. Another Night

  8. Lyall and Jock

  9. Kidnapped

  10. The Search

  11. The Meeting

  12. Six Years Earlier

  13. Planning and Execution

  14. The Ambush

  15. Getting Well

  16. In Heaven

  17. Many Things Happen

  18. An Unexpected Visitor

  19. Beginnings and Endings

  20. The Wedding

  Highlander’s Untamed Lass

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Also by the author

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  About the Author

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  Prologue

  A week before her death, May Stevenson, Lyall and Fenella’s mother, was talking about it almost as though she was looking forward to it.

  “Remember, you two,” she said, wagging a finger at them as they sat on either side of her bed, “I will be looking down on you from heaven—if I get there, of course!”

  “Of course you will get there, Mama!” Fenella took her mother’s hands between her own and laid them against her cheek. “And you and Papa can look down on us and wish nightmares upon us if we misbehave.”

  May laughed. “I would never do that,” she laughed. Her gray-green eyes crinkled as she looked fondly at her daughter. Her voice was hoarse and her breathing was heavy and labored, but she had not lost her sense of humor.

  “However, if you do not follow my instructions exactly, I will come back and haunt you!”

  Lyall took May’s other hand and kissed it, smiling at her. God, I love her so much, he thought. “So what are your instructions, Mama?”

  May was suddenly seized by a bout of coughing that was so violent that she lost the power of speech for a moment. Fenella and Lyall looked at each other anxiously, then Lyall sat on the bed and put his arm around his mother. He waited until the paroxysm ceased, then gently kissed her hair.

  “Perhaps you should stop talking now,” he suggested.

  “No!” Her voice was firm and definite. “I am not dead yet, Son, and I will talk until death steals my last breath from me!”

  Lyall knew his mother; it was best to stay silent at a time like this. She then said, “As I was saying, I expect you both to marry nice, kind people. They do not have to be beautiful or rich, but they must be kind and generous. You must have at least four children each, two of each sex, to ensure a new generation of Stevensons. You and your children will all go to Confession once a month and confess every little trifle!”

  She loved them and could not get enough of looking at their faces, as she knew that she did not have much longer to live. The consumption that had affected her for the last five years, which had stripped her of her flesh and almost robbed her of her breath, was greedily eating her up as if she were a tasty morsel of meat. However, she did not fear death, for she knew that her beloved husband Roy was waiting for her in heaven, having gone there six months previously, and she was desperate to see him again, for her life was empty without him.

  As he was now the Laird proper of the Stevenson Estate, Lyall knew he would feel May’s absence keenly, for the weight of running the entire estate had landed on his shoulders after his father’s unexpected demise. His mother had been a constant source of support and advice, and he knew that when she died, not only would he miss her on an emotional level, he would feel the absence of her valuable help and support since she knew almost as much as her father had about matters of animal husbandry, agriculture, and accounting. She also had a way with people that he did not have and never would. She was not just his mother—she was one of the most extraordinary people he had ever met.

  Presently May’s maid came in to give her a bed bath, then Fenella and Lyall kissed her and left.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Fenella burst into tears. Lyall put his arms around her and held her for a while. “Shhh, my little sister,” he murmured. “We will miss her, but she will be with Paw and will no longer be suffering. She will be in paradise.”

  Fenella nodded. “I know, Lyall, but the thought of never seeing her again…” She burst into fresh sobs. Lyall gathered her more tightly against him, feeling as if he could weep himself.

  He was ready, he told himself, over and over again. He was ready, but when May breathed her last breath, he realized he was nowhere near ready, and never would be.

  1

  The Funeral

  May Stevenson’s funeral was attended by the whole population of the village of Kinlochan, the estates surrounding it, and the tenant farmers for miles around, which was a measure of how much she was loved. She considered herself a very fortunate woman, and believed in sharing what she had with those who had much less.

  The nobility looked down on her; indeed, there were those who thought her slightly soft in the head because of her charity work. They believed that God had given everyone his or her place in the world—some nobility, some peasants—and between those two a great gulf had been fixed, like that between heaven and hell.

  May thought this was hypocritical in the extreme. As a student of the scriptures herself, she could quote chapter and verse from the Good Book and those brave enough to take her on soon found out that the little white-haired lady with the bright blue eyes was a force to be reckoned with.

  Consequently, Lady May carried on feeding the poor, reading stories to the local children, and teaching the girls to sew. She was tireless in her efforts to improve the lives of everyday people. Her next project was a little school for the village children where they could learn how to write by the priest. They would need scrolls and ink, and desks. They could also help with chores that the priest had for them as a form of payment, learning more things in the meantime! She had everything planned, but the savagery of her illness, the scourge of consumption, had prevented her from making her dream a reality. And with her death, it would probably never become one.

  * * *

  Laird Lyall Stevenson was not good at being sociable, but a big funeral was expected by him. He cared nothing about the opinions of others, and would have much preferred a smaller, private affair, but he had to think of his sister. At fifteen, Fenella was of the age when young men were beginning to notice her, and although a funeral was a solemn occasion, it was also a chance for the eligible members of both sexes to meet and mingle. He had little time for this, especially while he was mourning his beloved mother, but he would do anything for Fenella, whose future stretched out before her, still full of promise.

  At the graveside Lyall had maintained a stiff and solemn dignity, while Fenella had sobbed on his shoulder. He wanted to weep himself, but the family honor depended on him appearing invincible.

  Now he could see that Fenella appeared to have recovered a little, and was chatting to a group of friends, laughing occasionally, albeit in a subdued manner. He hoped she would recover quickly, since she had so much to look forward to, but
she had the resilience of youth and a naturally happy disposition.

  He decided to have a moment to himself and bounded upstairs to the first tier of the battlements where he could stand and think uninterrupted for a while.

  Unfortunately, someone had got there before him. A very beautiful young woman was standing by one of the low parts of the crenellated wall, looking out to the sea. Her hair was waist-length and wavy, and of a shade somewhere between blonde and red. At any other time he would have welcomed her company, but not now. He was about to retrace his steps but she turned and saw him.

  “M'Laird," she said, curtseying. “I am so sorry for your loss. Lady Stevenson was a good woman with a big heart, and we will all miss her.”

  “Thank you,” Lyall replied. He was feeling the beginning of a headache behind his eyes and was not in the mood for talking to strangers, no matter how beautiful they were.

  “I am Ailith Galloway," she introduced herself, then frowned. “Are you well, M'Laird?”

  “No, I am not," he replied, then realizing how abrupt he sounded, he shook his head and apologized. “Forgive me, Mistress—it has been a long, hard day.”

  Ailith looked at the big strong man before her with a feeling of pity. The castle was huge, the estate enormous, and his last source of moral support had gone. No wonder he looked so depressed.

  “Of course it has, M'Laird," she said kindly. “I will leave you to your thoughts, and I will pray for you.”

  He gave her a smile and a little bow, then promptly forgot about her.

  He stayed on the battlements for a little while, weeping out of sight of everyone else. It was a womanly weakness, he knew, but he could not help it; his mother, the rock upon which his life had been built, was no more, and now he had no one to lean on. He chided himself for his self-pity, but surely even the strongest man was allowed to cry at his mother’s funeral?

  He squared his shoulders and dashed away his tears, then went downstairs. He had to be strong for Fenella.

  Ailith descended the stairs slowly, her face troubled. Poor Laird Stevenson looked like a man with the world on his shoulders, but she thought that a supportive wife might do him a world of good. She wondered why he was not yet married, since he was an attractive man in the prime of life, but no doubt he had personal reasons that were nothing to do with anyone else. She had felt a tug of attraction to him the first time she saw him, and wished that she had more time to spend with him, but she had no time to ponder the matter further.

  Her betrothed, Jock McCauley, was striding towards her, smiling from ear to ear. He was a medium man in every way—medium height, medium build, hair that was a dun shade of brown, and gray eyes. He had been chosen for Ailith by her parents, who now lived on the Shetland island of Yell. They had known his parents and considered him “a good catch,” but Ailith had her doubts.

  “Ailie!" He came up to her and kissed her cheek. “Come and taste the roast pheasant. I should not really say this, but the best food is always served at funerals!”

  “No, Jock," she replied. “You should not say that. It is a most insensitive remark, and I hope the Laird does not hear you say such things.”

  Jock arched his eyebrows in curiosity. “And why do you care what the Laird thinks?”

  “I care about his feelings, as I would care about anyone in the same situation," she replied calmly. “He has just buried his mother, Jock. Show some compassion.”

  Jock looked contrite. “You are right as usual, my sweetheart," he sighed, then gave her the sweetest smile he could muster. “I am a heartless brute and it is good of you to remind me of it!”

  He’s doing that thing he always does, she thought, exasperated. Telling me how bad he is so that I can tell him he is good.

  They stood for a while drinking wine and watching the other guests; Ailith loved to watch people. She loved to observe the way their bodies spoke, hear their unguarded remarks, and watch their faces as they scowled, smiled, and laughed.

  Presently a very large man came striding towards them. He had curly black hair, dark blue eyes, and would have been handsome except there was something of a simpleton about him. His name was Findlay, and he was well-built, but moved in an awkward, gangling way, with his shoulders slumped and his arms hanging down by his sides. He had a constant foolish grin on his face—indeed, he was smiling now—and he was absolutely devoted to Jock, even though Jock treated him like a pet dog.

  Findlay handed him a plate heaped with pheasant meat and looked eagerly at Jock for approval, like a dog bringing a ball back to his master.

  Jock tasted the meat then patted Findlay on the back. “Excellent, Finn," he smiled. Then, referring to Ailith, he asked, “And could you fetch some for my lovely betrothed, please?”

  Findlay nodded and was just about to turn away when Ailith stopped him.

  “Thank you, Finn," she said gently, smiling at the big man. “I am not hungry yet, but perhaps later.”

  “I will have some ale, though,” Jock said.

  Findlay smiled at them beatifically and shuffled off into the crowd to do Jock’s bidding.

  “You treat him like a hound,” Ailith said angrily. “Just because he is a little dense does not mean that he has no dignity.”

  “I hope you will not be like this when we get married,” Jock replied, sounding hurt. “I look after Finn out of the goodness of my heart. I took him into my home when his family died of smallpox and he had nowhere else to go. He appreciates everything I do for him and never complains. I feed him, give him a home, and if I ask for small services in return he is happy to do them for me. I know I am not perfect, Ailie, but I pity Findlay, and I do what I can for him.”

  Ailith immediately felt remorseful. What Jock had said seemed true, but his manner of saying things often irritated her. Findlay was a tragic case indeed. When a family contracted smallpox and died the custom was that their home and everything in it should be razed to the ground to stop the infection from spreading. Findlay’s home was far south of Kinlochan, and he had wandered for miles as a starving beggar. When he got to the village, something about him had made Jock take pity on him, and since then Findlay had adored him.

  Jock would not have been her choice of a husband, but he was a good man and she knew that he would never treat her badly.

  “You are right, Jock," she sighed, “and I am sorry. I do not know what has come over me today. I think it’s that I feel sorry that such a good woman has died. She was an inspiration to us all.”

  Jock put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. “It comes to us all, my love," he said gently, “good or bad, rich or poor.”

  Just then, the Laird himself came downstairs, and Ailith’s heart leapt; she felt as if she wanted to rush over and comfort him because he looked so bereft. No doubt it was because of the occasion, she told herself. The combination of his handsomeness and the tragedy of his loss was a heady mixture and rendered him doubly attractive to the soft hearts of many women, herself included. However, unlike many other women, she was sensible enough to know that this was not love at first sight, but only a transient physical attraction that would disappear as soon as he was out of her sight. She turned away, chiding herself for being ridiculous, but Jock had seen the direction of her gaze.

  “Handsome devil, isn’t he?" he asked, laughing to hide his envy. No woman had ever looked at him like that, and no matter how good his heart was, he could not help but feel a little cheated that he was not a tall strapping man like Lyall Stevenson.

  Ailith shrugged. “There is more to life than looks," she remarked. “Beauty fades, but a good heart goes on and on." She paused, then said thoughtfully, “I wonder if I could help young Fenella to carry on what her mother started?”

  “Why do you want to do that?” Jock asked, puzzled. “You have never shown any interest in charity work before.”

  Ailith turned and smiled at him, then kissed him lightly on the cheek. “For the same reason that you befriended Findlay," she replied. “Because it
is the right thing to do.”

  2

  Ailith

  There was no doubt about it—Ailith Galloway was a catch, the kind of woman many men wanted to marry. Not only because of her stunning good looks, but because she was fearsomely intelligent, shrewd, and an expert negotiator. Also, she was an extremely wealthy woman whose fortune did not come only from hereditary wealth, but from her own skill and expertise which had been passed down to her by her father, a merchant who traded in many different kinds of goods to include wool, silk, spices, wine, and horses.

  Her parents had lost three sons as babies, and her father—in a complete departure from custom and practice—was slowly training his daughter to take over the running of the family concern.

  This caused consternation amongst many traditionalists who thought that a woman’s place was in the home or in the fields, but Ailith was not the kind of young woman who let such things stand in her way. Under Matthew Galloway’s expert tutelage she was on her way to building it into an extremely profitable enterprise. Her parents had both retired and gone to live in the milder climate of the Lowlands, which at the moment was safe from the depredations of the English.

  It was a mark of Matthew Galloway’s regard for her that he had given her so much responsibility, but she was aided and advised by one of her father’s most trusted friends, an Irishman called Seamus McDonagh, who was like an older brother to her. She knew with her unerring intuition that he had once hoped to be something more, but although she was fond of him, she could not love him the way he deserved to be loved.