The Highlander’s Lost Bride (The Highlands Warring Scottish Romance) (A Medieval Historical Romance Book)

by Anne Morrison

  “All right now, you come out of there and give us what we asked for. We ain't going to hurt you if you do that, word of honor.”

  To Reade's surprise, a large stick came out of the doorway and swung at the two men. One dodged, but it caught the other on the shoulder, giving him a hefty blow and making him bellow.

  “Come out here right now before I take that damned stick from you and shove it in that mouth of yours!”

  “I won't!”

  “You will, and you won't like what happens if we have to make you, you little trollop!”

  Reade might still have kept going, because if he had learned one thing on his travels, it was to mind his own damn business, but the voice that defied the two men so boldly belonged to a little girl, high and piercing, and he was a lot of things, but he wasn't going to let a child get koshed about by a pair of grown men.

  This wasn't a matter for the sword at his side. Instead, he simply reached for the man closest to him, grasping him by the shoulder and swinging him into the wall so hard he dropped to his knees. The second man turned just in time to catch Reade's fist in his face, and despite himself, Reade grinned. It wasn't civilized to like the call to battle as much as he did, and he had heard far too much about warmongering Scots since coming south, but there was a grain of truth to it, at least as far as he was concerned. He never felt as alive as when he was in a fight, and when the second man roared and lunged for him, Reade laughed out loud even as he stepped out of the way and kicked hard at the man's legs.

  Might as well get all of this out while I'm away from home, I suppose...

  The man who lunged for him was bigger than he was, but far slower, and Reade had always been known for his quickness on his feet. Another few passes, and the man simply fled, his face black and blue from his encounters with Reade's fists.

  He was just turning back to the doorway that had started all of this when there was a blur of motion in the corner of his eye. The man he had stunned had not stayed stunned, and he rose up with a cobblestone in his hand, ready to crack Reade's head open.

  Reade was probably fast enough to evade his attacker, but it would have been a near thing. He was braced for the man's wild blow to connect at least glancingly with his head, to reel back and then fling himself at the man, but with a wild cry, a skinny little thing came out of the doorway, a length of wood held high.

  That's a vicious one and no mistake about it. Reade blinked in surprise, and then she was swinging her makeshift club down on the man's head with a strength that seemed to belie her slender frame.

  The man was so large that for a moment, Reade thought the blow was going to bounce right off of his skull, but then, after a moment when all three of them were frozen in place, he groaned and sank first to his knees and then thumped hard to the ground.

  "Didn't expect that," Reade muttered, and then he flashed a grin at the little girl with the club.

  Not really a little girl at all, he realized belatedly, for all that she was so slender. Despite her childish squeak earlier, she had to be at least nineteen or twenty, with blue eyes that flashed like a dangerous storm.

  "Well, we should leave while the leaving's good, lass."

  To his shock, she stared into his eyes, and he felt something close around his chest, around his heart. Somehow, she had reached out an invisible hand and squeezed him tight enough that he could barely get his breath, barely breathe at all. A chill shook his body, and Reade almost took a step back in fright. There was something uncanny happening in this moment, something that would change everything.

  Then the girl toppled forward, and with a curse, Reade lunged forward to catch her before she hit the ground. She felt as light as a feather in his arms, and he found himself wondering when in the world she had last eaten.

  Reade's head jerked up when he heard shouting coming from one of the houses nearby. They mostly likely weren't friends of the gentlemen he and the girl had dispatched so very efficiently, and they may not have cared even if they were, but he hadn't lived this long and done everything that he had by taking needless chances.

  "All right, lass, I suppose we're friends for a little longer."

  It did cross his mind to stack her in some out of the way corner and take his leave, but everything in his body roared against it. He decided to call it simple human decency, because he had been in Glasgow for a while now, and he had an idea that the local street toughs would have all sorts of unsavory ideas for a girl they found unconscious.

  It was more than that, however, and he fought down the strange and eldritch sensation that had occurred when they first laid eyes on each other. Something in him, something that spoke the same language as the Northern winds and defended what it owned with teeth rather than with the sword, refused. Somehow, this girl had become his, and there was nothing in the world that was going to persuade him to let her go.

  She doesn't weigh much more than wet cat. He lifted her in his arms, making his steady way down the alley and away from their attackers. As he moved, several drops of cold rain struck him. The storm that had been brewing for the last few hours had arrived. The rain went from a few bare drops to a torrent in a few moments, and Reade walked faster.

  ><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

  CHAPTER 02

  Elizabeth wondered at first when her bed had become so uncomfortable. In London, she had shared a bed with little Benji, and the two of them nestled deep into the goose-down mattress, cuddling up tight so that neither of them would get cold at night.

  Even her bed in her uncle's castle was luxurious, if always a little cold and oddly clammy in the perpetual Scottish drizzle.

  The bed she slept in now felt like little more than a blanket thrown over a pile of straw. She could feel the ends of the stalks poking her through her shift, and when she turned, she could feel how hard the wood beneath the padding was, bruising her shoulder and her hip.

  Well, this won't do. Benji will wake up bruised all over if he has to sleep in this.

  She sat up, aware of a chill in the air and the low glow of the embers on the hearth. Something tugged at her, told her sleepy brain that all was not well, but her mouth ran ahead of her.

  "This bed is absolutely unacceptable. I would like it changed, please."

  Two things happened at once. The first thing was that the sound of her own voice awakened her the rest of the way. She wasn't in London; she wasn't at Blaken Keep. In fact, she had no idea where she was.

  The second was that there was a movement from the chair by the fire, and as she watched with fear growing larger in her mind, a tall form rose up from the chair, reaching for the bottle of spills that were kept by the fire. The dark figure reached for one of the stalks in the bottle, lighting one end in the fire and then using it to light a candle. As the candle flame flared up, he came close to the bed.

  "Well, now, you're up and already complaining about the bed? That's a Lowlander for you."

  The voice sent a strange thrill up her spine and made her skin break out in goose flesh. It was a male voice, and she should have been terrified. Instead, though a certain amount of fear still leaked into her, more of her was somehow curious about the speaker.

  "I... that is… I'm sorry. I am not complaining, I just don't know... where... I..."

  Elizabeth's voice trailed off as her memories returned, the ones that had occurred right before she had passed out.

  "You're the one who saved me!"

  "One and the same, I suppose. Now, perhaps you could stop looking as if I were some ogre who had come in the night for your pretty little eyes?"

  "I might if you gave me enough light to see you with!"

  Elizabeth's hands flew to cover her mouth in shock. She was a gently-raised girl whose mother had taught her that a quiet answer would always be preferable to shouting in the streets like a fishwife, but here she was.

  Instead of scolding her or shouting back in turn, the man only chuckled.

  "Quite a little tyrant, you are. Let's see if we ca
n please you, then."

  The man used the spill to light a few more candles, and in a moment, the place had enough light for her to see.

  The man who had been speaking, the one who rescued her, was tall and lean, dressed in the plain clothes of so many of the soldiers she had seen at Blaken Keep. In the new light, he looked younger than she had thought he would be, clean shaven in the way of the men of the North and long and graceful of limb in a way that made her feel a little odd for noticing.

  Why, he has such green eyes. Like a cat.

  Then she realized that she had been staring and looked down, only to notice that while she was studying him, he had been studying her just as avidly.

  "So, the candles are lit now. What do you think now that you can see better?"

  Elizabeth's mother had spent so much time drilling her on what to say, when to say it, and when she should be still. She could greet lords and ladies from France and Germany as well as the ones from England, and she reckoned herself better than fair when it came to holding her own in company.

  At the moment, however, she was oddly tongue-tied in front of this man, and she might have stayed mute if she hadn't recognized the dash of blue over by the hearth as being...

  "That's my dress! What is my dress doing over there?"

  "Well, it looks like it's drying, my lady. Is it meant to be tidying the room or something while you sleep?"

  "Of course not! But... why is it drying? Did you take it off of me?"

  To her shock, she realized that she was only wearing a white shift. It covered her from her neck to her knees, but she still felt a flame of embarrassment come up to scorch her cheeks. She had never been so uncovered with anyone who wasn't a family member before, and she pulled the blanket up to her chin.

  "Well, it wasn't the fairies, was it?"

  "Er... was it?"

  "No. It was me. And if it soothes your mind at all, I thought nothing but pure thoughts while I was doing it, and I kept my eyes trained on the ceiling."

  "You did?"

  "No. But I'm a man of honor, and I didn't let my hands wander anywhere they weren't wanted, nor even my eyes. Does that serve?"

  "You could have just let me be."

  "In the cold and the rain where you fainted? Aye, I'll remember that for the next time."

  He sat back in the chair with a highly amused look in his cat-like green eyes.

  Despite her situation, Elizabeth felt herself growing testy.

  "You're making fun of me."

  "Perhaps a little."

  "I remember the... the men who attacked me. And you saved me. And then... everything went black after that."

  A clap of thunder made her jump.

  The man nodded as if the thunder was chiming in on his behalf.

  "And then the sky opened up as if it was intent on drowning the world, and instead of leaving you as salvage for the rats of Glasgow-town, I decided to bring you inside. That's my bed you're sleeping on, darling, and I stripped you because a bed of musty straw's not my idea of a good night."

  "Oh! I... that is, thank you. You had no reason to fight for me or to—"

  She felt another blush come over her cheeks when her stomach growled.

  Instead of laughing at her, however, the man nodded almost congenially.

  "If you wait just another moment, I think that you'll have more cause to thank me."

  "What does that mean?"

  Before the words were out of her mouth, however, there was a sharp rap at the door, and the man rose to answer it.

  In horror of getting caught in such a compromising position, Elizabeth froze for a moment, and then without any ability to get out of the way or to hide, she simply threw the blanket over her head, lying down as flat as a board on the poor straw mattress.

  Oh, what would Mama and Papa think now, if they saw me like this? But even the thought of her dead parents didn't have the sting it usually did, not when she was so hungry and so very afraid.

  She heard the man speak softly to whoever was at the door, and then he laughed softly. There was a soft rustle, the sound of the door closing, and then a thump. A moment later, there was a gentle touch to her shoulder.

  "Will you come up and eat, or shall I serve you dinner as well, my lady?"

  "Don't call me that," she said, aware even as she said it of a certain imperiousness in her tone.

  "Tell me then, what shall I call you if I want you to rise up and to have some of the dinner I ordered for us?"

  “El... that is. Lizzie.”

  He looked at her curiously. “No. I don't think so.”

  She stared.

  “Just... no?”

  “You don't look much like a Lizzie to me.”

  “Well, then, what about a Beth?”

  Why was she doing this? Why was she arguing with this man? She could only blame the hunger for this, the fact that it had been nearly two days since she had eaten, for the long walk from Blaken Keep that had tired her almost past the point of endurance.

  “No, I don't think you're a Beth either.”

  She glared at him.

  “Then if you are so very wise, oh nameless sir, why don't you tell me what my name is?”

  “I think it's Elizabeth. You're too serious to be a Lizzie, not dreamy enough to be a Beth, and if I call you Eliza... ah, yes, there it is. I can see you wrinkle your nose as if you have smelled something nasty.”

  She had, all unknowing. Eliza felt like a scratch collar of nettles set around her throat, and she didn't think she could stand it even if she needed to use it for a pseudonym.

  “So, it has to be Elizabeth?”

  “I could think of other things to call you, if you like...”

  “Like... like what?”

  “Sweetheart, darling, pretty cat...”

  “That's quite enough of that!” she exclaimed. She didn't think she could blush any more without her face actually catching on fire.

  “Ah, then I suppose it must be Elizabeth, then. Elizabeth, will you come to dinner?”

  Somehow, it had escaped her until that moment that there was a bowl on the small table between the two chairs. It was a single large bowl made of nothing more than earthenware, but the smell that came from it made her mouth water. Elizabeth had to quell her first instinct to lunge for the bowl.

  Instead, she nodded regally at her host. Chin held high enough to satisfy her mother's comportment lessons, she wrapped the thin blanket around her shoulders and walked to the table. Somewhat to her surprise, the man pulled the chair out for her as neatly as a London lord, and she looked up at him inquiringly.

  “I cannot eat with a man whose name I do not know.”

  “Then maybe you'll have to watch me eat all this stew on my own. A pity, it smells delicious, doesn't it?”

  He was teasing her again, and this time, she smiled at him.

  “What are you smiling at, pretty Elizabeth?”

  “Don't call me that... and I don't think you would.”

  “Would…?”

  “Would eat while I was looking at you sadly. I don't think you have it in you to be that kind of man.”

  It should have been errant nonsense. She hadn't passed more than a day with him. She had no idea what kind of man he truly was, whether he was cruel or kind or brave or cowardly. Well... she had seen him charge into a fight that wasn't his own to save a woman whose name he didn't even know. So, he was brave. She knew that.

  He frowned at her, and she could tell that there was something lurking at the edge of the conversation they were having, something that was not speaking and would not make itself known.

  Secrets. I can feel secrets around the edges of all of this, and they're not all mine, though mine are certainly bad enough...

  “All right, then. You win. I stand Reade Fitzpatrick, at your service. Now, will that please you well, or will you let your belly growl at me like an angry bear again?”

  She laughed at that, but still waited until he was seated across from her to start
to devour the food before them both. The bowl was large, and it was full of a dark stew that had likely been sitting in the large pot on the hearth all day. The mutton was bolstered with potatoes and carrots, the last the winter's stock and a little mealy, but it was so delicious and hot that she could have cried.

  They did not speak while they ate, and when the first edge had been taken off her hunger, Elizabeth slowed down enough to cast a curious eye over her companion.

  In the light and when her stomach wasn't driving her half mad, Elizabeth was surprised to find that he could not be that much older than she was, with a face that was a little too blunt for conventional good looks, and a mouth that was wide and inclined to smile.

  He's handsome. She wondered why it mattered at all.

  She still found herself watching in a kind of daze as he tore off a bit of bread from the loaf they were given and used it to sop up some of the stew. His fingers were long and lean, moving with a dexterity she might not have guessed at in a man so tall.

  “You're staring.”

  She jumped.

  “I am not!”

  “Lying's not a good look on you, Elizabeth. You're not really very good at it.”

  “Oh, are you going to tell me what I am good at next? Since you seem to love telling me so many things.”

  The stew mostly finished, he leaned back in his chair, watching her with a rather speculative look in his green eyes. When Reade wanted to, he could look almost distressingly predatory. Elizabeth felt as if she were a rabbit on the field, aware that danger was coming but not sure where it came from.

  “I think you're on the run,” he said at last. “I think you're a noble girl, fleeing some marriage or other nonsense, and you are hoping to get as far away from the scene of the disaster as you can. You don't know where you are going, and chances are good that you are going to get yourself killed before you get there, if tonight's events are any kind of indication.”

  Elizabeth froze, and Reade turned those calm green eyes to her.