Awakening His Highland Soul (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Maddie MacKenna

  His father, thumping him on the back, said, “Ye heard me, lad. She wants ye tae go wi’ her to the circus out near Aberdale.”

  “When?”

  “Accordin’ to this, the performance is this evenin’.”

  It was not the news of the circus arriving that had thrown Jeames into a coughing fit. It was more the thought that Lady Margery wanted to go at all, and also that she wanted him to accompany her.

  Although they were betrothed to be married, he had only met Margery Brùn a handful of times during their childhood and adolescent years. On every single one of those occasions, Jeames had parted from her feeling that he was about as welcome in her presence as Lucifer might be in a church.

  Things had not improved since they had reached adulthood. Jeames was a rugged outdoorsman, with dirt and blood under his fingernails and calluses on the palms of his hands. He spoke his mind, whether it was prudent or not, and believed that a hard truth was better than a soft lie, come what may of speaking it.

  Lady Margery, on the other hand, believed that a Laird’s heir was beneath picking up anything heavier than a goblet. She was a dry and unsmiling woman, who had never shown the slightest enjoyment of anything that Jeames could recall.

  To cover the incredulous disbelief he felt at trying to imagine Lady Margery spectating a circus, Jeames said, “When did the circus arrive?”

  “I heard tell of it last night after ye’d gone tae yer bed,” the Laird said. “Can’t have been there more than a day, I reckon.”

  “And ye’re sure that Lady Margery has asked me tae attend wi’ her?”

  The apple had not fallen far from the tree when it had come to Jeames and his father. Laird Abernathy was also a man for whom the bending of the truth came hard.

  “I’ve a feelin’ that it’s more of a bequest that stems from Laird Brùn than it does from Lady Margery, lad.”

  Jeames exchanged a knowing look with his father. He snapped a bannock in half and absentmindedly dipped it into his cup of mead.

  “Aye, that sounds more likely a scenario,” he said, trying to keep the gloom out of his voice.

  “Ye’re obliged tae go, son,” his father said to him in a gentle voice.

  “I ken it, Faither. I’d not shirk me duty to our clan.”

  The Laird clapped his son on his shoulder. “I ken that well enough, lad. It says a lot fer yer character.” The older man gave him an understanding half-smile. “Look on the bright side, Jeames,” he said. “Ye might see somethin’ truly special at under that big tent. Ye might see somethin’ that takes yer breath away.”

  3

  The weather that evening was close and heavy. Great clouds had gathered in from the surrounding hill country and sat ominously over Aberdale. Every now and again, a low rumble of thunder would issue from the brooding heavens, a deep bass growl that sounded more like a slumbering bear than anything else.

  Beatrice gazed up at the great striped dome of the tent. It never ceased to fill her with a childish excitement and awe, no matter how many times she saw it packed away and then erected again. It looked particularly striking this evening, set as it was in the lush green paddock with a backdrop of mighty fells behind it.

  “Beatrice, my dear!” came a great booming voice from behind her. Beatrice turned and saw the familiar, larger than life figure of William Ballantine striding towards her.

  “William,” she said, beaming.

  “Are you all set, my dear?” the imposing man asked. He was dressed in a dashingly cut red frock coat, sable trousers, and black leather boots polished to a high sheen. His graying hair was brushed neatly back and his thick moustache was waxed to perfect points. Though fifteen years had passed since he had picked up the orphaned Beatrice, Ballantine had lost none of his commanding swagger. His bright green eyes shone with their old, formidable light.

  “All set, William,” Beatrice said.

  She had come to love the Ringmaster as a surrogate father. The man had basically raised her after all. Like all fathers, he had spent much of his time yelling at her and making her do things that she had not wanted to do at the time. However, there could be no denying that, all in all, he had helped her unlock a future that she had never dreamed she could have.

  Ballantine squeezed her shoulder and then stood next to her, looking up at the magnificent tent.

  “They don’t know it yet,” he said. “But these Highland folk are about to witness magic of a sort this night.”

  It was the same sort of thing that he said on every opening night, whenever Ballantine’s Circus played for a new town or populace.

  “They’re going to see things that they never considered human beings capable of,” Ballantine continued. “Those of ‘em who were too lazy or too cynical or too broke to attend whilst we were here, will rue it. We shall give these Scots something that they’ll be able to talk about for years to come.”

  “That’s right, William,” replied Beatrice said, dutifully. “Even if it’s just for an evening, we’ll take their hands and lead them to a place where dreams meet reality.”

  “For this night, we point their faces up from their work, from the earth in which they dig, the bowls at which they mix, the anvils at which they hammer, and aim them at the stars.”

  Beatrice beamed more widely. It was the same speech he had given her on her very first night as an equestrienne. Still, it sent shivers racing down her spine. A nervous joy that she had never known in any other facet of her life.

  * * *

  When Jeames arrived on his horse, along with his four-guard retinue, the paddock in which the circus tent was set up was already swarming with people. Half-heartedly, he hoped that in all the confusion, he would be unable to locate Lady Margery and the two of them would be able to spend far more agreeable evening sitting on opposite sides of the ring.

  However, it seemed that Fate had other plans in store for him.

  “Master Jeames,” one of his guardsmen said. “I believe I caen see Lady Margery’s carriage drawn up yonder.”

  Jeames followed where his clansman was pointing. There, sure enough, parked on the side of the paddock nearest the town of Aberdale, was a smart-looking four-horse carriage.

  “Aye,” Jeames said, his face a mask of optimism. “Aye, that looks like her alright.”

  It was not much later – though already it felt to Jeames as if Margery and he had been in each other’s company at least half a day longer than was necessary – when he and the daughter of the Laird of the Ross clan sat down together in a couple of the prime seats within the enormous circus tent.

  Lady Margery could well have been pretty, had it not been for the way she constantly had her nose turned up in disdain of everything going on around her. Her eyes were the deep blue of a Highland mere, but hard and cynical. Her features were angular and sharp, her eyebrows pointed in a constant frown of disappointment and her raven hair was pulled back tight.

  Margery was just as prickly and aloof as Jeames remembered her being. He had greeted her with as much enthusiasm and with all the propriety that he could muster. He felt though, that, very much like a wolf or a horse, Lady Margery could smell his fear and his reticence at being there. She gave him the coldest of nods when they met and then allowed him to usher her through the throng to their seats.

  The show was, as far as Jeames’s opinion went, as good a circus extravaganza as he had ever seen. There were all the usual performers: jesters tumbling over one another, jugglers tossing flaming brands about the place, knife-throwers landing their blades within a hair’s breadth of their human targets, and strongmen lifting women from the audience over their heads to raucous applause.

  Jeames could not help but grin when he imagined the look on Lady Margery’s face, if she was seized and lifted above an enormously muscly man’s head like a cut log.

  Might do her a bit o’ good. Open her eyes a little.

  There was a rather excellent performance of a man fighting a bear, followed by some tightrope walking that had
many of the audience members covering their faces with their hands.

  After the applause had died away at the conclusion of this act, the Ringmaster reappeared.

  What a splendid looking fellow.

  It was not the first time that Jeames had made the observation to himself.

  “What d’ye think of this chap’s uniform, Lady Margery?” Jeames tried, leaning over to speak quietly to his companion.

  Margery gave him the sort of withering stare that was more at home on the countenance of the sourest of old spinster aunts.

  “Gaudy,” she said, in a chilly voice.

  The smile slid off Jeames’s face like cold gruel.

  “Aye, quite,” he said.

  “Ladies and gentlefolk!” the Ringmaster bellowed. “You have borne witness to some truly astounding feats this evening, but our next act is something truly special!”

  The man paused, ratcheting up the tension under the great stretched dome of canvas.

  “Yes!” continued in his great booming voice. “Yes, this next performer will stun you three times over. For, up until now, we have seen men and women demonstrating prodigious skill in a host of human endeavors. What you are about to see next, though, is an example of what happens when the world of man meets the world of the beasts!”

  A murmur ran around the crowd at that. A hushed muttering, as ominous as the thunder that continued to rumble over their heads.

  The Ringleader threw up his arms to quiet the muttering.

  “I know what you’re thinking, my good people! Perhaps, he alludes to some sort of vile offspring born of man and beast? This is not so. Simply put, this is what happens when a young woman is raised on horseback. This is what happens when the grace of humanity mingles with that of our most trusted and valued animal companion! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Equestrienne Goddess!”

  There was a loud roar of applause as the canvas curtain on one side of the tent opened and a woman on a horse galloped into the circle of grass that had been flattened with boards before the show.

  The horse was a stunning white gelding, so pure a color that it almost seemed to glow in the dimness of the circus tent. It was sixteen hands high and looked to be in the bloom of health. In short, it was one of the most magnificent horses that most of the members of the audience had ever laid eyes on.

  As beautiful as the horse was, however, it was nothing compared to the woman riding it.

  Jeames’s mouth dropped open, his jaw hanging slack in his amazement. The Equestrienne Goddess was none other than the woman from the woods.

  She was dressed in the same figure-hugging clothing as she had been when Jeames had seen her the day before. Only now, in the softly lit interior of the huge circus tent, it seemed far less outlandish than it had out on the fells above Castle MacKenzie. Rather than look strange, the woman now looked even more captivating than Jeames could ever have imagined.

  Truly, a goddess.

  He watched as she rode the gelding around the circle. It was strange, he was watching this woman perform some astounding feats on the back of her horse, and yet her mere appearance eclipsed every trick and act she pulled off.

  Jeames’s eyes were glued to her. He felt transfixed, as if he would never be able to look away–even if he had wanted to.

  The woman hopped up from a sitting position, into a crouch. Then she sprung backwards, somehow performing a backwards somersault and she landed on her hands. She held her handstand for two full circuits of the arena, whilst the crowd roared their approval and amazement.

  Jeames’s own hands stayed folded in his lap, his expression one of utmost concentration.

  Good grief, but I’ve ne’er seen a bonnier thing than her. How bloody well she rides. He glanced sideways at the stern figure of Margery Brùn sitting next to him, as if carved from marble, to compare the two women. And what joy she shows in what she does!

  He had never wanted to talk to, to spend time with a woman as much as he did the nameless stranger riding the white gelding. Something about her called to his soul, set his skin afire.

  “Who are ye?” he muttered to himself, as his eyes followed the rider around the circle. She was now pirouetting around in tight circles on the animal’s back. “Who are ye?”

  “Are ye quite alright, Master Abernathy?” Margery said, her voice dripping with reserved scorn.

  “Thank ye, yes, Lady Margery, I’m fine. I was just wonderin’ aloud how such a thing is possible.”

  Margery sniffed. “A pointless exercise, if ye ask me. How much time must it take tae learn tae perform such feats? Surely, the time would have been spent better in serious study, or religious contemplation?”

  I wasnae even thinkin’ about the horse riding. I was thinkin’ solely about how a girl like that can arouse such passions in a man.

  * * *

  Beatrice beamed out at the crowd as she rode. Her smile was one aspect of the act that she never had to fake or add any sort of shine to. The thrill and enjoyment that she felt when riding around the arena in front of all those enraptured faces was no less than it had been the very first time that she had done it.

  She balanced on one foot, lifting her other leg up, up, up, until she was performing a standing split, whilst the horse cantered along below her. The big, white horse was the star of the show really, although most people did not see it. She ran around the circus circle with a wonderful even gait, never letting the screaming audience put her off her stride. All the while allowing Beatrice to jump around on her back.

  Beatrice had only worked with a handful of horses since she had started as an equestrienne with Ballantine’s Circus. Ballantine was a man who cared for his performers and animals as if they were his family. He took pride in the fact that his circus did not mistreat animals like other, less caring circus outfits did, and kept them only for as long as they could work.

  Respect. It is all about respect. Mutual respect between rider and horse. It’s why I’ve never been thrown.

  In fact, she had never fallen off at all whilst performing to a paying crowd. In practice, whilst trying out some new trick or maneuver, yes. But never ever during a live performance.

  The crowd applauded as Beatrice switched legs. Then, she stood on the horse’s rump and performed a graceful, slow handstand.

  It was whilst she was upside down that Beatrice caught sight of a face in the crowd, a face that looked familiar.

  Familiar? You don’t know anyone here. Everyone who is familiar to you is backstage. The only person you’ve seen is…

  These thoughts popped into her mind as her legs arched over her back and she dropped into a sort of human bridge position on the horse’s back.

  It can only be…

  She flowed up to her feet in one sinuous motion that had the audience applauding delightedly.

  The handsome man from under the tree!

  The realization hit her just as she pulled herself to her feet, her iron-hard stomach muscles tensing under the leather of her outfit. And, for the first time in her circus career, Beatrice lost her focus. Her eyes flicked over to where she thought that had seen the man–Jeames, his name was Jeames–and her head turned ever so slightly.

  Her keen hazel eyes picked out his face in the crowd within a second or two. He was sat next to an austere looking woman who looked as if she would rather be anywhere else than where she was currently.

  The man was watching her with an utterly rapt expression; his mouth was slightly open and his eyes were gleaming. There was no doubt that he recognized her. Whilst the crowd around him clapped and laughed and jostled one another, pointing out what Beatrice was doing as if their friends could not see it for themselves, this Jeames sat stock-still and his gaze never left Beatrice’s own face.

  Beatrice felt a squirming in the pit of her stomach, a pulling sensation, as if her life’s course had just taken an unexpected turn.

  Her foot shifted.

  And, for the first time ever, she felt herself slip on the back of the perfec
tly behaved horse.

  Time slowed, as if the seconds were fighting their way through molasses. She experienced the bizarre feeling that she was floating slightly above herself, watching the events unfold. She saw random faces in the crowd start to contort into expressions of shock and surprise and delight.

  The man, Jeames, looked to be surging slowly to his feet, as if he had already anticipated what was about to happen.

  I can’t fall. I do not fall.

  Thunder boomed overhead. The sort of thunder that sounded as if God was moving furniture around in Heaven. A sound that heralded the sky breaking and the rains pouring down.

  Beatrice fell.