A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After

by Adams, Aileen

  A Highlander’s Love

  Highlands Ever After

  Aileen Adams

  Contents

  A Highlander’s Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Afterword

  A Highlander’s Love

  Book Three of the Highlands Ever After Series!

  * * *

  A new land, a new love...

  Dougal Craig might have been amused regarding his reputation as ruffian, when actually, he's nothing of the sort. He just likes his privacy and it doesn't take much for rumors to start. He doesn't bother to deny them. More the better so people leave him alone. He's anti-social but not unfriendly, so he typically shrugs off the opinions of others.

  Tyra Fletcher’s running from a secret. But she didn’t plan on running into a musket wielded by Dougal Craig. Now she’s injured and at his mercy.

  Dougal’s got secrets of his own. His are far more deadly. Who’s protecting who now as this English refugee runs into the wrong end of Dougal’s weapon?

  1

  “Och! Who goes there?”

  Dougal Craig held up a hand to bring his companion to a halt. Normally, had there been an intruder upon his ancestral lands he might have allowed the beast to attack, to frighten the man foolish enough to trespass.

  If a fool wished to trespass, let them get what was coming to them. That had always been his way of thinking on the matter. Considering the darkness into which his thoughts and outlook had plunged in the days since that disastrous meeting with Colin Ramsey on the village road, he thought he might quite enjoy the sight and sound of his trusted mastiff, Prince, tearing off a bit of a man’s arm or leg as payment.

  Yet such action, satisfying though it might be in the moment, would merely worsen the attitude so many bore him. Never had he given a moment’s consideration to what others believed to be true of him, aside from laughing at their foolishness. Perhaps he’d done little to sway their attitudes, to give them cause to like or trust him.

  Perhaps he’d welcomed that distrust, for it kept them away from him. He’d never been one to enjoy lengthy conversation with those he did not care for.

  And he cared for very few people. Hardly any.

  Yet he held the dog back rather than allowing the beast to have its way, allowed the pair of riders to approach in dying daylight. Shadows stretched over the rocky land thanks to the foothills which bordered the western edge of his property, a natural wall behind which the sun sank. Even with the presence of those shadows, Dougal could not help but recognize one of the two intruders as the man with whom he’d fought in the village.

  He braced himself for what was undoubtedly to come. The man had been half-crazed, a wild look in his eye when he’d attacked Dougal. While Sheriff Colin Ramsey had been far from a sympathetic figure in the village as of late—Dougal took pains to avoid spending a great deal of time there, though he listened intently when people shared gossip—Dougal had ever known him by reputation as a fair, just, even-tempered man.

  Which was why the attack had caught him unawares. Even now, with a handful of weeks having passed, he looked upon the sheriff with distrust. Perhaps he’d come with that hideously scarred friend of his to finish what had been started.

  Now, Dougal was better suited for the fight. He was prepared, a flintlock at his waist. The gun seemed to grow warm there, reminding him of its presence. But he was no fool, no matter what others believed of him. He would not take such drastic measures—yet.

  Alasdair Macintyre, he of the scarred countenance, held up a single hand in greeting. “We mean ye no harm!” he called out, his voice carrying on the night breeze.

  “Aye?” Dougal called back, always aware of Colin’s movements. They rode slowly, these men, their mounts taking pains to find footing in this particularly treacherous stretch of land. There was a reason why Dougal always took this area on his own, without the aid of a horse. Yet not knowing the land as he did, these two had ridden. “Do ye speak for the sheriff, then?” he asked.

  “He does,” Colin shouted as they closed the distance. Dougal’s dog sniffed his hand, nudging, perhaps asking if he might give chase. It would be nothing to frighten a pair of horses, after all, and they’d done little hunting of late.

  Little hunting for game, rather.

  Dougal held the dog in place in spite of the beast’s soft whines. “What is it ye wish?” He would not be the one to start a fight. While he’d never backed down when a fight presented itself, he knew better than to fan the flames of combat.

  Especially when outnumbered.

  Colin set his jaw in a firm line, his eyes like flint as they searched the area. “Worry not,” Dougal assured him. “I am alone, or was until I made your acquaintance. Why have ye set foot upon these lands? Ye must know how I greet intruders.” He patted the dog’s head for good measure.

  “We dinna come to threaten ye,” Alasdair assured him with a glance toward his friend, who had yet to speak. “Rather to make an inquiry.”

  “Regarding…?”

  Colin cleared his throat, the muscles of his jaw twitching. It was clear even in the late-day light that the man behaved as one under a great deal of strain. Dougal had heard tell of the woman Colin sought to protect. Iona Douglas, she whose property abutted his own. She’d been attacked by a cutthroat.

  Though Colin had imagined Dougal as the one responsible for the attack, hence the brawl in the road. Perhaps he’d come to offer apology? The thought was laughable, though Dougal held back his mirth.

  “Regarding a killing which took place a night ago,” Colin grunted. “A farmer living between your estate and the village. His throat was cut before his sons were able to come to his aid. They managed to fight him back before he murdered the rest of the house.”

  “Brave lads,” he observed quietly, offering nothing. To attack a man in his home in the dead of night. It took a great deal of desperation to manage such an attack. Not courage. Desperation.

  Though Dougal could hardly bring himself to feel sympathy for the man, nor for any who would resort to such means.

  “Aye, and they managed to describe the murderer,” Alasdair continued. “Black of hair, long. A scar at his throat, as though it had once been cut. Missing the small finger of his right hand.”

  A man who’d seen quite a bit of bloodshed, then. “I shall be on the watch for him,” he assured them. “As a matter of fact, I have been watching for men lo these many nights. Which is why ye find me walking.”

  “Have ye seen anything of concern?” Colin asked. He held himself stiffly and spoke with the same stiffness. A proud man, to be certain, and it must have struck his pride to know he’d begun a public fight with one innocent of his accusations.

  If he was looking for forgiveness, he’d come to the wrong place. Not only had he made a fool of them both, but he’d exposed Dougal to yet more gossip and whispering and had made traveling through the village a trial to be avoided.

  No, Dougal was not in a forgiving mood.

  “There is always something of concern to be observed,” he shrugged, patting the dog’s head once again. “W
hich is why I have taken to traveling with one of my dogs. Hardly a day passes in which I do not observe what remains of a fire from the previous night, or the signs of a camp having been laid. It is not possible to watch all corners of my land at once.”

  “Nor would one expect ye to,” Colin murmured, casting his eyes about once again. “Is it possible to have yer men patrol?”

  This was asked in jest, Dougal knew, yet he held his temper. Barely. “Ye are well aware I live alone,” he replied as evenly as he was able. “There are no men about the place to patrol.”

  “Why is that?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Are the villagers and neighboring farmers aware of ye being half-English?”

  Dougal’s hand found the flintlock, now warmer than ever before. How simple it would be to end this smirking man’s life—though why he should fly to such extremes simply because the man knew of his English blood was beyond his understanding.

  He’d never been ashamed of his mother’s English blood, which she’d shared with him. Why should he be?

  “I would expect they are,” he grunted. “What difference that ought to make to me is a mystery, to be sure. I care nothing for their—”

  “Ye might spare us this,” Colin interjected, cutting off anything else which Dougal wished to say. “I dinna care. I merely wished to know, that I might know what to expect should they decide ye are not to be trusted.”

  “I have never been trusted,” Dougal reminded him. “It matters nothing now whether I am or not.”

  “With outlaws becoming bolder all the time, any who are viewed as outsiders will become threats,” Colin argued. “I thought it best to warn ye.”

  “Ye did, then?” Dougal snickered. “I shall take your warning to heart, Sheriff Ramsey. If ye do not mind, I would like to attend to my supper.”

  “Take care,” Alasdair warned. “Keep close watch.”

  He always did. With a tip of his fingers to his brow, he took his leave of the men, snickering to himself once they were to his back. Worse than a pair of twittering women, the two of them. Advising him to keep close watch as if he needed to be advised.

  As if he had not been keeping watch over himself for nearly as long as the pair of them had been alive.

  He went straight for the house, as the excuse of his waiting supper was not made simply to be finished with them. His stomach growled nearly as loudly as the dog by his side, who would also wish to be fed before finding his place by the fire and settling in to sleep.

  Would that sleep might come so easily to them both.

  The days were growing shorter. Soon, the fire he set in his bedchamber would be a necessity. The rambling stone manor in which he’d been raised and which he now inhabited nearly entirely on his own tended to hold the cold as a jealous lover would cling to the object of their affection.

  He welcomed this, as well, for it gave a man reason to remain indoors. To keep his own counsel.

  And it made a rider, a cutthroat, a thief all the more likely to light a fire that they might keep warm while camping. Which made them that much easier to find.

  The empty, dark windows of his ancestral home stared down at him. Why did it seem as though they accused him of something? Certainly, the life he’d led was far from innocent, but never had the memory of his misdeeds caused him regret.

  Now, he bore the sense of his father and grandfather watching, judging him based upon the indiscretions of an undisciplined young man. Had he developed a conscience? He’d always imagined such a thing happening once a man was in his dotage, looking back upon his life.

  The inside of the house was cold, as he’d imagined. Several broken windows on the north-facing side contributed to this, and he reminded himself again that there was a great deal to be done to make the manor inhabitable as it had once been.

  He’d been away too long. Perhaps that was what weighed upon him. He’d allowed the house to fall into ruin. He’d allowed all beneath its roof to run away.

  And it had not been duty which brought him back. He thought that might be what bothered him worst of all as he walked the empty halls, his feet slapping against smooth stone. He’d not returned to set things to right, to claim what was his by name and by blood.

  He’d fled here. His refuge.

  And he was alone there, which was like as not the most he deserved. Though why loneliness should affect him now was a mystery, for he’d never bothered much to think on it before.

  2

  If only Iona would not be furious with her, all would be well.

  It was a prayer by now, one which Tyra Fletcher had recited to herself all throughout the long journey north. No, longer than that. Since she’d left Lindisfarne nearly three weeks later than she’d planned. Than her mistress had planned.

  Now, she was more than a month late and asking herself all through the treacherous journey through the highlands whether she’d made the journey in vain. Would Iona Douglas wish to have her on? Perhaps she’d found another likely lass to take her companion’s place. Surely, by now she would have been in need of a cook, a housekeeper.

  At the very least, someone to keep her company, as Iona had not lived alone in years. This was a foreign land to them both, and while Iona had ever been set upon caring for herself and needing no other, a body needed a friend.

  Iona was not skilled at making friends, having never turned her mind toward learning to do so.

  Even if she’d not found a replacement, Tyra reasoned upon entering a village unlike any she’d ever seen, Iona’s anger at having been abandoned these many weeks might be enough for her to shut the door even in the face of a once-trusted friend.

  The sights and sounds of the village were soon enough to push her worries to the background of her thoughts. Even now, fatigued and worn down thanks to a fortnight of travel, Tyra could not help but gaze in frank wonder. She’d been too fretful and too anxious to be on her way during the journey to pay much mind to the villages and towns she’d ridden through with her guides.

  Now, she could take in her surroundings, and they left her breathless and with the sense of being out of place. Life on Lindisfarne had been simple, secluded, peaceful. Even market days were nothing compared to what she saw upon riding over a narrow bridge and into Beauly.

  “This will be where I take my leave of ye,” the man who’d accompanied her from Inverness announced with a tip of his head. “I continue west from here. Ye ought to be safe and sound now that ye have arrived.”

  Yes, she had arrived, but where to go from here? Distraction left her tongue nearly tied, and as such she grunted at the guide upon offering him the second half of what she’d promised in return for his assistance. Let him think her rude or dismissive. She would never see him again, and he’d gotten what she’d promised.

  Where to begin? There were so many people, all of them on their way somewhere else. Few of them paused to so much as glance her way. She supposed strange riders were no great event—men and women passed through every day, like as not.

  “Look where ye stand, lass!” a man shouted, and Tyra pulled her mare aside to allow a team of workhorses past. Yet this placed her directly in the path of a woman pushing a cart filled with vegetables and earned her a tongue lashing as well.

  It was enough to make her head spin. She did so need to rest, to bathe away the filth of the road and sleep until morning. It was barely a few hours past midday now, yet she would have wagered on sleeping through the day if given the opportunity.

  Yet her main concern was still for Iona, and finding her way to the Douglas manor quickly. Surely, Iona would wish to know what had taken her so long. Perhaps she’d by now given up hope of them being reunited—certainly, there had been moments in which Tyra had feared never seeing her old friend again in this lifetime.

  “I beg your pardon,” she called out to a woman who’d stepped out of a cottage to empty a bucket of slop into a pig pen beside. “I wish to call upon Iona Douglas, yet I know not where she lives
.”

  The woman straightened up, blowing loose hair back from her face and fixing a cold eye upon Tyra and her mount. Tyra’s insides went icy. She did not speak as the highlanders did, having lived all her life on that small island just south of the Scottish border.

  She was English, or partly so, and this was bound to earn distrust.

  Yet she was also a woman, and certainly not one of means. She could not pose a threat to these people. Surely, they had to see it.

  “Iona Douglas? What would ye be wantin’ with her?” the woman asked with a scowl. “She’s not the one to welcome callers, I would warn ye.”

  No, she was not. So her name was known among the villagers. Tyra suppressed a smile. “She has been awaiting my arrival. I was held back much longer than I’d expected—”

  The woman had no time for this, waving a hand before turning away. “Ye might speak to the sheriff. Tis himself riding past at this very moment, with that scarred Alasdair Macintyre.” The tone in the woman’s voice changed, as though she blamed the man for his scars.

  Tyra turned her head, searching the many men walking and riding in both directions, finally catching sight of a man with a hideous scar running along one side of his face. A pity, for he might have been handsome were it not for that knotty, twisted scar.

  The man riding at his side was fine-looking, indeed, and he bore himself as Tyra would imagine a sheriff doing. There was pride in his posture, in the tilt of his head.

  Though even at a short distance, she noted the movement of his eyes. Always sweeping from one side to the other, always watching. Watching what? Or whom?