Highlander's Fallen Angel : A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  She had taken only a few steps out into the cold evening air, when the man collapsed right in front of the gate, something clattering loudly on the stones of the manor’s courtyard.

  Terrified for his welfare, she whirled around and ducked back into the house, crying out at the top of her lungs, “Help! I need your help! There is man out here who is in need of assistance!” Knowing the servants would heed her call, she retraced her steps at double the pace and barreled across the courtyard toward the downed soldier.

  Reaching the gate, she slid back the formidable bolt and wrenched open the side that he was not leaning against. Walking around to the back of him, she slid her arms underneath his armpits and tried her very best to heave him into the courtyard by herself, but he was much too heavy.

  Helpless to do anything but wait for the servants to arrive, she crouched down in front of him and gently shook him by the shoulders.

  “Excuse me? Can you hear me?” Frowning, she placed two fingers against the dip beneath his square jaw, where it connected to his neck and checked for the steady throb that would tell her if he was alive or dead.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she whispered, feeling the faint push against her fingertips. It was weak, but it was there, and that meant there was still hope. “You do not look well, sir. No, you do not look well at all, but you have come to the right house. I will fix you if I can, sir, you may be assured of that.”

  A moment later, hurried footsteps approached. Four of her hardiest servants came to a halt in front of the gate, their eyes widening in shock as they saw who they were expected to carry into the house. However, with all of them being Scottish themselves, she hoped it meant they would not balk at the idea of aiding a fellow native.

  “Deliver him upstairs, and have hot water and fresh towels sent up,” Victoria instructed. The visible shock subsided, and the quartet of servants rallied their efforts to pick the wounded man up, two supporting his legs while the other two supported his shoulders and head.

  Victoria made sure to lock the gate behind her as the servants headed for the house, though she did not lock it in order to keep out any wandering rebels. No, she locked it to prevent the English from coming to claim the life of this Jacobite, who had clearly escaped further torment. At her manor, everyone could claim sanctuary.

  Satisfied that no one would be able to gain entry without her permission, she sprinted back to the house and closed the door, before charging up the stairs to see to her neediest patient.

  If my husband were alive to see this, he would die all over again. A Jacobite inside his own house! And his lady wife tending to him!

  She did not mean to be macabre in her humor, but she found it to be a medicine, in and of itself, when dealing with her situation as a widow. Too past her prime to be considered an eligible prospect, yet not too old to be content with solitary spinsterhood.

  Indeed, it was another reason why she abhorred the wars of men all together, for her husband had died in a battle against the Scots, some two years ago now. His deep-seated hatred for the Scots had driven him to uproot his life here to Inverness from England, where he could be in a position to go and fight when called upon. And she had been forced to watch him leave on each occasion, until the last, all the while thinking him foolish for loathing other people, simply because of the country they came from.

  They had not begun with love, and he had been a harsh man with a fickle temper, but after a decade of being married to him, she had eventually come to care for him. Now, he was gone, and she was only sorry that she had never been able to bear them a child, so she would not feel so alone in this manor, in a country that was not hers.

  This is the true cost of marriage… Being abandoned far from home, trying to survive alone for the sake of a legacy that has already been severed.

  Had the situation not been so continuously turbulent between England and Scotland, she would have returned to her family in England a long time ago, but there was nothing so dangerous to a woman as traveling alone through hostile territory. She may not have held any prejudices or hatreds toward the Scots, but she knew they had every right to have those feelings toward the English, after their ceaseless invasions over the centuries.

  Breathless from the unexpected exertion, Victoria returned to her modified study, where the wounded soldier had already been laid out on a chaise-lounge of pale blue jacquard.

  “Has someone gone to fetch the water and towels?” she asked he gathered servants, who were staring rather rudely at the patient. She weaved through them to reach the man, while pushing the sleeves of her casaquin to the middle of her upper arm.

  The footman, a young man called Derrin, gave a shy nod. “Genevieve is bringin’ it up now.”

  “Then, you may go, unless I call for further assistance.” Victoria paused. “And, I know I need not say it, but I would prefer it if you did not breathe a word of this to anyone outside this household.”

  The four of them gave a nod. “Aye, M’Lady,” they chorused. She did not doubt their sincerity, for though she was an Englishwoman herself, her staff were loyal to her. Indeed, there was not one among them who had not been healed or saved in some way by Victoria and her talents.

  Alone with the soldier, Victoria went directly to her private collection of medicines, and selected several vials and pouches, gathering them into the crook of her arm before returning to the man’s side. There, she deposited the collection on the floor and knelt beside the chaise.

  “What happened to you, hmm?” she whispered, tearing away the torn remains of his shirt with both hands. She grazed her teeth against her bottom lip as she beheld his rippling torso, the muscles tensed from the pain, though he was not conscious. Her heart quickened its pace, for she did not think she had ever seen a man so seemingly heaven-crafted in his physique.

  Truly, she was anxious for Genevieve to arrive with the water and cloths, so she could sweep the dampened fabric gentled over every defined contour of his warm skin and conflict-hardened body, as though she were washing clean a magnificent statue, to make it fit for admiring once more.

  “You poor thing.” She resisted the urge to press her ear to his broad chest, to listen for his heart beating. She had already felt beneath his jaw for that, and regretted not choosing the more direct method. As her eyes observed every inch of him, she wondered what it would be like to nestle into him.

  Goodness, what is the matter with you?

  She scolded herself, for he was in no position to be admired so shamelessly.

  Gathering her faculties, she reached up and pushed aside some of the blood and mud-matted strands of his hair so she could better see his face. He did not look peaceful, as most did when they were slumbering. His forehead was creased, his mouth set in a tight line, as though he were having a nightmare.

  “Goodness, you are handsome, aren’t you? Even with all of this detritus and that angry look on your face.” She lay her hand gently against his forehead, feeling for his temperature.

  A quiet gasp escaped her throat. He was burning up.

  Chapter 3

  Throughout the long night, Victoria and Genevieve toiled without pause, relying on a carousel of fresh water and towels to help in their work. And when the towels ran out, the household used whatever they could find—clean cloths from the kitchen, old linens, and even Victoria’s collection of fine napkins that had been a wedding gift.

  “He’s not going to make it,” Genevieve fretted, replacing the cold compress that lay across the man’s forehead.

  “Yes, he is,” Victoria replied, without even looking up from her last meticulous stitch. It had been a long time since she had sewn up a wound of this size, but if she had allowed the large gash across the soldier’s stomach to remain open, she knew it would never heal. He had bled through the poultices and bandages she had tried to use, giving her no option but to take a needle and thread to him.

  Taking a damp cloth, she wiped the injury to remove the latest trickles of stubborn blood, and observed he
r handiwork. Discreetly, her gaze moved upward to look over the clean contours of his diligently washed torso. Broad shoulders lent themselves to firm muscles, as carved as a statue, that showed the strength he must have possessed when he was healthy, and she hoped that strength would help him to pull through this, too.

  She marveled at the toned indents of his ribs, beneath his impressive pectoral muscles, and noticed the silvery shine of old scars that cut through the light dusting of curly hair on his chest as it rose and fell.

  “It won’t be enough,” Genevieve said, nodding to the stitched wound. “If he’s got a fever, then the cut has already turned. It’s poisoned his blood; you mark my words.”

  Victoria flashed Genevieve a determined look. “The tonic I gave him will prevent the wound from festering further, and this poultice will leech the bad humors out of him.” She picked up the mortar and pestle at her feet, where she had been mixing a fresh batch of her secret concoction, known to reduce fever, stave off infection, and to purify tainted blood. It had never let her down before, and she would be damned if it let her down this time.

  Without further argument, she set to applying the poultice to the now stitched wound. She had already dealt with the smaller gash at the top of his chest, though it looked far worse than it was. Had the bayonet struck him lower, it would have punctured a lung, or even his heart, but whoever had driven it into him had missed anything vital.

  “And what if he doesn’t survive this?” Genevieve went on, smoothing the damp strands of hair out of his face. For someone who did not approve of the Jacobites, the older woman was showing a great deal of care and concern.

  Victoria clenched her jaw. “We shall cross that bridge if we need to. Until he is dead, and there is nothing more I can do, let us keep trying our best to ensure that he stays alive.”

  “He looks more comfortable, at least.” Genevieve sank down into a chair that she had pulled close to the chaise-lounge, her own poultices still working their magic on her stiff knees.

  Victoria looked at the man’s face. “He does. Perhaps, he knows that he is being well taken care of.”

  Now that the angry edges of his features had softened into a relaxed, almost peaceful expression, all of the blood and dirt cleansed away, she could see just how extraordinarily handsome he was. A strong brow gave way to a wide nose that suited the masculine proportions of his face, while sharp cheekbones added dimension, and plump, rosy lips with a deep bow added a touch of femininity and softness. Russet-colored hair, more brown than reddish-toned, framed his face and stopped at his shoulders in gentle, natural curls.

  She would have liked to run her hands through those wavy locks, though it was his lips that held her attention the longest. Even asleep, they had a swollen pout to them, that made them look ripe for kissing. It was a foolish notion, and one she would not have dared to act upon, but, just for a moment, it left her wondering what it would feel like to have those lips against her skin.

  Her gaze lifted to his closed lids, to chase away such improper thoughts.

  I just wish I could see your eyes. I can only guess what color they must be.

  Although, part of her feared how they might look at her, knowing that she must be an enemy in his eyes.

  That one seemingly never-ending night of tireless work gave way to several days, and several days turned into a week. And though the soldier’s heart continued to beat, and his chest continued to rise and fall, Victoria could detect no change in the heat of his brow. More often than not, she found herself daubing away a sheen of perspiration that came back as quickly as it could be washed from his tanned skin.

  He had been moved into one of the guest bedchambers, where Victoria watched over him with hope, praying that he would awaken soon. And where hope was not enough, she used everything in her medicinal arsenal to tend to him: concocting tonics, replacing his poultices, always ensuring he had a fresh compress, and dribbling small quantities of milk and melted butter into his mouth, to try and urge some sustenance into his weakened body.

  “You will ruin my reputation as a healer if you do not wake up,” she said, on the morning of his eighth day of unconsciousness. “I do not think I have ever had a patient so stubborn, but I trust that means you are too stubborn to die, also.”

  She had never really intended to learn the ways of healing, but she had happened across a diary of her mother’s when she was younger and had found a whole world of ingredients and instructions within its pages. When she had asked her mother what it was, her mother had explained that it was an heirloom, passed down through the female line. A compendium of medicinal knowledge, to be added to by every generation.

  After that, Victoria had become obsessed with learning everything there was to know about combatting illnesses, diseases, and how to repair wounds, and even how to help a woman suffering through all different kinds of childbirth, from the straightforward to the complicated. Over the years, she had added her own input to the book, having absorbed all she could from local healers, and books she had discovered in her husband’s libraries.

  “It seems your fever has finally eased,” she remarked, checking his forehead with her palm. “And about time, too. I was beginning to think you were naturally that warm, which would be quite impossible.” She chuckled to herself, once more seeking comfort in dark humor.

  Leaving his bedside, she went to the window and peered out at the cold, clear morning, a fine layer of frost glittering on the lawns. She had given him a bedchamber at the back of the manor, with a view over the extensive gardens. In truth, she did not know why, for it was not as though he could enjoy the scenery.

  “I hope you will find my home beautiful, when you do open your eyes,” she said, more to herself than to him. “How funny… I have never really thought of it as my home before. I always speak of my family home as my actual home, but I have been here for several years now. I suppose I must come to terms with the fact that I am to remain here, until it is safe to do otherwise.”

  A soft, masculine groan drifted toward her.

  Startled, she whipped around and raced back over to the soldier’s bedside, perching right up on the comfortable mattress so she could better reach his position in the center of the bed. He still wore no shirt, and the sight still thrilled her, but she had not been bold enough to remove his kilt for the sake of his comfort. Still, the fact that he wore such a garment meant she had been able to treat the swelling on his ankle without too much personal embarrassment.

  He has such defined calves. They are like unripe pears hiding beneath his flesh.

  She chased away the mortifying thought, for it was not appropriate at such a time as this, when he might be about to awaken.

  “Sir?” she said, staring down at his closed eyes, willing them to open. “Can you hear me?”

  An odd, hissing sound slipped between his lips.

  “Sir?” she repeated. “My name is Victoria. I found you outside my gate, half-dead. Can you hear me? Do you feel any discomfort?” She rambled out of nerves, worried as to how he might react.

  His eyelids fluttered, and that hissing sound took greater shape. “Sassenach.”

  “Pardon? I do not understand. Do you speak English, or do you only speak… um… Gaelic, is it?” She had heard of faraway clans in the misty, mysterious Highlands who spoke only that ancestral tongue, yet she felt sure that she had heard him shout out in the English tongue, when she had first spotted him on the road outside her house.

  “Sassenach,” he hissed again, his eyes slowly creaking open.

  A smile of pure elation spread across her lips. She had waited for this day for a week, determined to believe that he could survive his injuries. Nothing could have ruined this for her. And though she did not understand the word that he spoke, she hoped it was some form of thanks, or introduction.

  “You are awake! Oh, thank heavens! I was so worried you would not.” She clasped her hands together in excitement, eager to learn more of this handsome stranger who had toppled at her do
or. He might not have been awake for it, but she felt surprisingly close to him, after all of the care she had put into his recovery. Indeed, she was certain she knew every contour of his torso, down to the slicing scars that cut across his supple skin, and she had certainly memorized every feature of his face.

  “Your eyes!” She realized she had not even looked at their color. “They are… such a rich shade of brown. I did not know if they would be. I had a feeling they might be hazel or even green, but… no, brown suits you perfectly.”

  The man stared at her. First with curiosity, which shifted into confusion, and then with a furtive darkness that she did not like one bit. It hardened every edge of his formerly peaceful features, returning that angry expression that she had seen on that first night.

  “How do you… um… feel?” She was determined not to show any sense of intimidation or fear in front of him. After all, she had done nothing wrong.