Awakening His Highland Soul (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Maddie MacKenna

  “Aye,” Jeames acquiesced, “I am a wee bit thoughtful, I s’pose.”

  “What is bothering you?” Beatrice asked.

  “Just somethin’ that me faither pointed out,” Jeames said. “There has been a good bit more thievery reported than is wont for this part of the Highlands.”

  Beatrice felt her heart rate pick up a little at these words.

  More thieving than is usual? A suspicious amount?

  “Is that–is that surprising, really? I travel a lot, and one thing that I find that can be relied on is that if you have something nice then there is bound to be someone out there who is more than happy to take it off of you.”

  Jeames gave her a searching look. “Aye, I don’t doubt there are some villains out there. People that would just as soon steal from a blind man as dae a hard day’s work. In the Highlands, though, it’s a dangerous business stealin’–unless yer just passin’ through. Too many folk ken each other out here, and even if ye daenae directly recognize someone, ye are more than likely familiar with someone that they’re acquainted with.”

  “And, I suppose, that would mean that anything stolen that you tried to sell to somebody else would run a good chance of being recognized by someone else?” Beatrice said, draining her cup.

  “Aye, there’s that, tae,” Jeames said.

  He sunk even deeper into his chair and kicked off his shoes. His big feet were stuck out towards the crackling fire.

  How is it that we are so accustomed with each other already?

  Beatrice had no answer to that. It was the same feeling, in a way, that she had had when she heard the music on the previous evening. There was something about Jeames that made her think of home, somehow. Something familiar and safe.

  “Anyway, let’s nae talk o’ that,” Jeames said. With an effort, he pulled himself up in his chair. He ran a hand through his thick black hair and rubbed at his eyes.

  “Agreed!” Beatrice said, holding out her cup. The two of them tapped their vessels together and drank.

  “Besides,” she said. “There is no point dwelling too much on how good or not good people might be. It’s the area in between, in my experience, that most people inhabit. People are people, when all is said and done.”

  Jeames grinned across at her. A lazy, happy grin that sent warmth spreading through Beatrice’s insides.

  “You cannae trust ‘em, ye mean?” he asked, wryly.

  “Not all the time,” Beatrice replied.

  “That reminds me of an old Scottish tale about the Norse prince, Breacan, and the Corryvreckan whirlpool,” Jeame said.

  “Um, who and what?” Beatrice asked.

  “There’s a great whirlpool off the west coast o’ Scotland,” Jeames said. “And, legend has it, that Breacan moored his boat on the edge of this whirlpool tae impress the father of a local princess who he wanted tae marry. This father told Breacan that he could have his daughter’s hand, so long as he anchored by the whirlpool fer three days and nights.”

  Beatrice made a knowing noise from over the rim of her cider cup. She swallowed and said, “My first Scottish legend! Please go on, sir bard!”

  Jeames laughed and crossed his legs comfortably.

  “Well,” he continued. “This Norse prince, Breacan, had three ropes made; one from hemp, one from wool and one from the hair of ten maidens.”

  “The hair of ten maidens? Why the hair of ten maidens?” Beatrice asked. She loved a good tale. She had grown up listening to many different ones every night at Ballantine’s Circus, thanks to the different performers who came and went.

  “The purity of the maidens’ hair,” Jeames explained, “was said tae make any rope crafted from it unbreakable.”

  “And?” Beatrice urged him.

  The sound of the growing torrential rain outside, combined with the darkening of the room as the sky grew gloomier and stormier outside, made for terrific story-telling conditions.

  “On the first night,” Jeames said. “The hemp rope snapped!” He clicked his fingers to emphasize the point and Beatrice grinned.

  He is a good storyteller. Captivating. This cider is good too. And this room. And Jeames is, unquestionably, a handsome bard.

  “And the second night?” Beatrice asked, leaning forward.

  “On the second night, the wool rope snapped!”

  Beatrice gasped theatrically. “And on the third? What happened with the unbreakable rope?”

  “On the third night, much tae everyone’s consternation and surprise, I’m sure, the unbreakable rope broke!”

  “What? But–”

  “And the Norse prince’s ship was sucked into the whirlpool and every man aboard it drowned. When the Corryvrecken whirlpool released the prince’s body from its clutches, it washed up on the shore.”

  “And what,” Beatrice asked, cocking her head to one side. “Does this legend of yours have to do with people being unpredictable?”

  “Ah, well, ye see,” Jeames said. “When Breacan’s body washed up on the beach, one o’ the maidens stepped forward and confessed tae all present that, in actual fact, she might nae have been as pure as she said she was.”

  Beatrice laughed and clapped her hands. “Just goes to show,” she said. “If you can’t trust maidens, who can you trust?”

  Beatrice sat back in her chair and watched as Jeames heaved himself up and put a couple of fresh pine logs on the fire. The dry wood crackled and spat and popped as it caught. A few embers landed on the hearth rug and Jeames casually picked them up and chucked them deftly back into the fire.

  “Have you any more?” Beatrice asked.

  Do I really want to hear any more of these fanciful tales? Or do I just want to hear this man in front of me speak?

  “Any more?”

  “Stories.”

  “Oh, aye. I’ve a few. Scotland is a land built on tales. As is England, I’m sure.”

  Beatrice curled her legs under her and looked across at the Scotsman.

  “Are they all as jolly as the one that you just told me?” she asked sweetly.

  Jeames laughed.

  “One of me favorites is, I think, quite nice.”

  “Nobody is killed in it, you mean?” Beatrice said.

  “Surprisingly…nay. There are nay deaths in it.”

  “Well, tell away then good, sir,” Beatrice said.

  “It’s a simple yarn, one that is many hundreds o’ years old now, but it still stands as true today as ever it did. Will still be just as true hundreds of years hence.”

  Jeames took a long drink to wet his throat and then began, alternating between looking at Beatrice and the fire.

  “Over four-hundred and fifty years ago, around about the year of our lord thirteen-hundred and ten, Robert the Bruce was defeated at Methven by the Earl of Pembroke–ye ken who Robert the Bruce is, surely?”

  “He’s the man who played such a role in Scotland’s independence wasn’t he?”

  “Aye, that’s right,” Jeames said. “An outlaw and a hero of men.”

  “This story is about him?”

  Jeames gave her a small smile and nodded. “So, after the Bruce was defeated, he went into hidin’. None ken fer sure where he went. Some say the Highland hills, others the Western Isles. Wherever it was, he ended up in a wee cave. He stayed in this cave fer three months.”

  Beatrice grimaced. “Does not sound like much of a life,” she said.

  “Nay,” Jeames agreed. “The Bruce was at his lowest ebb. He was without friends, without money, without hope. He had nay plan as tae how he was goin’ tae dae next. It’s said that he was even contemplatin’ leavin’ Scotland and never returnin’.”

  Jeames paused then, staring into the fire. The soft crackle of the flames, the ceaseless beating of rain on stone, and her own slow heartbeat was all that Beatrice could hear for a few moments.

  “Aye,” Jeames said. “He was unsure what tae dae. But, as the days past and he sat wonderin’ where his next steps should lead him, he noticed a wee spid
er building its web in the entrance tae the cave. O’ course, this bein’ Scotland, the weather was temperamental. Droplet after droplet o’ water kept coming through the cave entrance–rain or sea spray, it doesnae matter–and destroyin’ the spider’s hard work.”

  Beatrice looked at Jeames’s profile across from her. The young man seemed to be in some sort of trance, not blinking, talking in a dreamy, faraway voice.

  “But the little creature persevered,” the Highlander said, and Beatrice saw a smile flash across his face.

  Somehow, I sense that Jeames is almost talking to himself.

  “Aye, the wee creature persevered in the face of adversity and, after much toil and struggle, it succeeded in its task.”

  Jeames blinked and turned to gaze searchingly at Beatrice.

  “And so,” he said, “Robert the Bruce took heart from the spider’s determination and decided tae get up and walk out tae face another fight. Tis said that he coined a phrase that we still use tae this day, when he stood proudly afore his men again. Dae ye ken what it was, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice shook her head. The firelight gleamed in her eyes and flushed her skin as she leaned forward.

  “No,” she said, with a soft intensity.

  “He said, ‘If at first ye daenae succeed, try and try and try again’.”

  10

  Over the next few days, Beatrice saw much of Jeames. He made a habit of coming to visit her in the morning, somehow managing to time his visits to coincide with her having woken and dressed. He brought her breakfast, making sure that it included at least one food that she might not have tried before.

  On the third morning of her stay at Castle MacKenzie, Beatrice awoke and found that her ankle had already markedly improved as to how it had been only a couple of days before. It was still an impressive motley of purple and yellow and black bruises, but the swelling had subsided, and she could now limp about without assistance.

  She had just dressed and was tentatively making another circuit of the room when Jeames knocked.

  “Come in,” Beatrice said.

  Jeames entered. His charming, mischievous smile was already in evidence, though at what Beatrice had no idea, and he carried a covered platter. However, before she could ask him why he was so happy, he stopped in mid stride.

  “Look at ye!” he said, delight coloring every syllable. “Up and about on yer own, at last.”

  “I’m hardly going to be winning any races, though,” Beatrice said.

  “Maybe nae, but it means that I can finally take ye ridin’ today.”

  “What if I don’t feel up to the rigors of a day in the saddle?”

  Beatrice wasn’t quite sure why she said it. She had said a number of things over the preceding days that she knew had puzzled the Highlander.

  Don’t be a fool and expect anything to come of this friendship. The man is bad luck. The way that you fell from the horse shows that if nothing else.

  “Ye daenae fancy goin’ fer a ride?” Jeames asked.

  Beatrice noticed with a pang of regret that he looked slightly downcast. The contrast of the muscular, rugged figure looking crestfallen like he did was almost enough to make Beatrice reach out a hand to comfort him.

  Don’t be silly.

  “No–I’m sorry, I just meant that, I don’t want to be more of a hindrance than I have been already. I’d enjoy riding with you very much, it’s just that I’m not sure of my stamina.”

  Jeames seemed to recover himself in an instance. He waved a weathered hand at her. “Daenae worry about stamina, lass. We’ll ride as far as ye can. As I said afore, we’ve some excellent nags fer ye choose from.” He winked at her and teased, “Besides they’ll make light work o’ carryin’ ye, as waifish as ye are.”

  Beatrice did her best impression of a pouting lady. “Well, what have you brought me then, so that I might become less waifish, hm?”

  Jeames set the platter down on the table.

  “I’ve somethin’ right special fer ye this mornin’,” he said. He whipped off the cover on the platter.

  “What,” Beatrice said, “in the world are those?”

  “Ye’ve never laid eyes on a langoustine?” Jeames asked.

  Beatrice looked at the little, black-eyed, spiky-looking creatures with mild distaste. “I can’t say that I have,” she said. “And, I must say, that I have rarely cherished my ignorance so much.”

  Jeames grinned. “Ah, ye wait until ye taste ‘em.”

  The two of them sat down. Without the slightest warning, Jeames leaned forward, plucked one of the skinny, orange, crab-like creatures from the platter and tore its head off.

  “Oh, my lord!” Beatrice exclaimed. “How barbaric!”

  “Aye, it’s a wee bit brutal, I grant ye,” Jeames said. With deft fingers he peeled off the thing’s shell and passed the segment of white flesh over to Beatrice. “The leg meat is sweeter, but it’s a wee bit fiddlier tae get out. The tail meat is still fantastic though.”

  “Is it cooked?” Beatrice asked, looking at the the morsel of white meat with a rather dubious eye.

  “Oh, aye. Boiled in seawater.”

  And I think I don’t like the man. Look what I’m eating, just because he handed it to me!

  She took an exploratory little bite.

  The langoustine tasted like the ocean somehow. Of the ocean and the sun and seaweed. Beatrice’s face lit up and she popped the rest of the morsel into her mouth. She made a guttural noise of satisfaction and delight. Jeames burst out laughing.

  “Aye,” he said. “They’re a bit like that, are they nae?”

  Beatrice swallowed and said, “How can something that looks so vile taste so delicious?”

  “There’s plenty in this world that is nae pretty and yet is right helpful nonetheless,” Jeames said. “Look at peat, fer instance. Might just look like a load o’ mud tae some, but ye can roof a house with it, then put it in yer grate and burn it tae heat yer home.”

  Beatrice held the handsome Highlander’s eye for a moment longer than was probably called for. Then she nodded at the platter and said, “You’re neglecting your duties as a host, Jeames Abernathy. Shouldn’t you be offering to get me some of that leg meat that you talk so highly of?”

  After breakfast, Beatrice followed Jeames (admittedly slowly, but at least without anyone helping her) down to the stables. Once there, Jeames picked out a fine piebald gelding for her.

  “I’ve seen this horse before,” Beatrice said, stroking the velvet nose.

  “Have ye?” Jeames said.

  “Yes. When we first arrived Aberdale, he was tied up in the center of town.”

  “That makes sense,” Jeames said. “He’s used often by the errand riders. He’s a lovely, smooth gait, this lad. He’ll nae let ye fall and he can ride all day at a fair clip if needs be.”

  Jeames helped Beatrice to mount. Whilst her ankle was not as painful as it had been initially, it was still plenty sore enough to make mounting a tall horse a tricky business. Everything was harder, especially attempting to climb and pull herself into the saddle.

  “Will ye be alright ridin’ with one hand?” Jeames asked her.

  Beatrice couldn’t help but smile at his concern.

  “I ride with no hands most days,” she said to him.

  Jeames closed his eyes and made a pained face. “O’ course,” he said, ruefully.

  They rode out into the glorious countryside and headed northwest. Jeames had told Beatrice that he was going to take her on easy paths, to save her as much jolting as he could. Even so, the countryside was astoundingly beautiful.

  It really is a whole different country compared to England. Even though the divide is really just a line on a map, the land itself seems to know its own identity.

  It was true. There were hints and echoes of the rolling countryside of England, but mostly the land was more rugged and wilder than anything Beatrice had ever seen.

  She followed behind, as Jeames led her diagonally back and forward across the f
ace of a steep tor. Once they reached the top, she followed his chestnut mare along the ridgeline, through a copse of sweet chestnut trees and out onto what turned out to be the top of a bluff.

  “What d’ye think o’ that view?” Jeames asked, his voice full of pride.

  Beatrice walked her horse up besides his own mount and looked out at the breathtaking vista spread out before her.

  “It’s…” she began, but her words failed her, her lips stopping in mid-speech as her eyes drank in the beauty in front of her.