The Highlander's Fiery Bride: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  It was only when the wrought-iron fences came into view that Hermes started to slow down. The steed knew the path well now, as well as what his master wanted. When Gregor hopped down from his saddle, Hermes simply lowered his head to the grass and began to graze without being staked down.

  Gregor had marked Isabel and Ian’s graves with a hand-carved cross and a smoothed, rounded granite stone he had carved their names into. The wrought-iron fences had been put up next, as well as the small pathway. To complete the place of rest, he’d sown Isabel’s favorite plant, the cuckooflower beside her headstone, so that she was surrounded by comfort. It was perfect place for her and their boy to rest.

  “Good morn, me loves,” he said aloud, his Scottish brogue husky and thick. He kissed the top of the cross, and then knelt down to kiss the stone before he bowed his head and began to pray.

  God was an illusion to him by now, a fallacy for those that hadn’t lost something dear yet. Still, despite his lack of faith, he prayed over their graves every morning, no matter the weather. It was the only time in the day that he truly felt he was talking with them again.

  Gregor didn’t stop praying until the orange sun had turned a glimmering gold and the purple sky had burned into a bright pink. Birds began to sing in the brush, and the world around him was awake once more. Which meant that duty called. The blood right of the village’s Laird waited for no one, and he had people to govern.

  “Until tomorrow, me loves,” he whispered, kissing the cross goodbye.

  At a much slower pace, Gregor began to guide Hermes back to the castle. As he looked throughout the wilder scenery of his land, he was reminded of the death of his father’s dear friend, Waryn. The two men had fought many wars in the Highlands together, but no matter how hard Gregor’s father had tried to convince them, Waryn and his wife Tily had always refused the invitation to live in the castle with their family.

  When Waryn had first passed, shortly after his own father, Gregor had pleaded with Tily once more to move into the castle. She was older now, and with no one to tend their farm or protect her, he had feared she’d be victim to the wild animals or worse, thieves.

  Yet despite the possible danger she had stayed, and done the best she could on her own. With her stubborn attitude, she had chased off anyone or anything that even so much as breathed in her direction. Even without Waryn she still produced plenty of crops in her fields, which he and the entire village were quite grateful for.

  Gregor realized that it had been weeks since he had visited to check up on her. Of course, Tily always pretended to be annoyed when he showed up. She’d curse at him, tell him she was fine and tell him to look after the rest of the village. He never would though, and they always ended up laughing and having a good visit. Perhaps it was time for another. Using his strong, muscular thighs, Gregor steered Hermes toward Tily’s farm and further into the forest.

  The morning chill was burning off earlier by the hour, and by the time he reached the edge of her property, his simple white shirt with leather lacing up his chest was moist with sweat. Between his thighs, he could feel Hermes’ flanks radiating heat and knew the beast needed a drink. In fact, he could use one too.

  Knowing there was a brook that ran just within Tily’s property line, he shifted direction slightly so he could come in from the East. When they were nearly there he slowed Hermes down and hopped off his back, walking him the rest of the way toward the fresh water.

  As soon as they arrived at the brook, beast and man dropped to their knees, and drank greedily. The cool water was a welcome reprieve, and Gregor took his time quenching his thirst. When he had his fill, he lifted his head and scooped a handful of the cool water and slid it through his hair, gliding over his scalp, down his neck, and over the sweating muscles of his back.

  As he lifted his head, he looked toward the old cottage that stood just a few hundred yards away from the brook. No one had lived in it in years, even way before Waryn died. From what he recalled, the old man used it more as a shed and hunting lodge than an actual home.

  But this morning a young woman with fiery curls down to her waist stood on the old thatched porch covered in wisteria vines. They would be full of white and purple blooms in the coming months, but for now they were still the gnarled brown vines of winter. The woman was wearing a maroon dress, providing a brilliant burst of color amid the dreary browns and grays; her hair like a flame of life in the early morning light.

  Even from the distance he could see she was a woman of great beauty. Delicate cheekbones emphasized a button nose and almond shaped eyes. Her neck, long and graceful, gave way to an ample bosom that tapered down into a thin waist. Too thin, perhaps, but there was strength in her form.

  In her arms she carried a bundle, and by her side stood what looked like a black pony with fangs. Gregor had never seen a dog that looked quite like that one before. It was as big as an Irish Wolfhound, but sleek and shiny as a hunting hound. It was a beautiful animal, though slightly terrifying at first glance.

  What in God’s name is she doing?

  As he watched the woman move things out of the cottage, he realized he had a vantage point. He had seen them, but he was certain they hadn’t seen him. Deciding to go investigate, he quietly staked down Hermes’ reins and made his way toward the cottage.

  He made it about twenty yards closer before the great black beast let out a deadly growl, and bared his fangs in his direction. Immediately the woman stopped in her tracks, and turned to look at him. The crate in her arms dropped and in its place suddenly was a hand-carved bow tipped in gold, and a rather sharp arrow aimed directly at his chest.

  “Don’t you take another step toward me, man!” she yelled, her accent undeniably English. Instant fury rolled off of her in waves so potent Gregor could feel it even from where he was.

  “If my arrow doesn’t get you Zeus will, so I suggest you do as I say.”

  Her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Yes, she was threatening to shoot him through the heart, but still. He’d never heard anything like it. It was soft, yet commanding. Refined, yet sensual and wild. It stirred something inside of him, something he had forgotten he could feel. However, now wasn’t the time for such realizations. Not with an arrow aimed at his chest.

  “Easy there, lass!” he yelled, holding up his hands. Despite the dangerous situation he had the urge to laugh at her, but judging by how well she was holding her bow, he could tell that her aim would be true to its target if he made her mad. Instead, he rose up to the balls of his feet, ready to dive out of the way if she let the arrow loose.

  “That’s not yer property to be taken there,” he called out, his eyes locked on hers. “I daenae ken what be yer plight, but it doesn’t give ye rights to take things that aren’t yours.”

  “I’m not taking a thing,” she shot back, tightening her stance. “This is my house and I live here.”

  For a second Gregor looked at her, genuinely puzzled. Then the laugh he had been holding back let loose, and he shook his head. Tily wouldn’t let anyone on her property, she liked her privacy too much.

  “Now I ken for a fact that cannae be true, lass, for I ken the woman that owns this cottage and if she were here right now, ye’d be more afraid of her than me right now!”

  A growl from the giant beast at her side drew his gaze away from her. The thing had taken on a predatory stance, with his eyes locked on Gregor. In the back of his mind, he tried to figure his chances on getting to Hermes without getting a bite to the arse. It didn’t look good.

  “I have to say, I’ve nae kent a thief to ken Greek Gods,” he scoffed, referring to Zeus. “I’m impressed.”

  “I told you I’m not a thief!” the woman yelled, her beautiful cheeks flushing red with anger. “Tily has granted me leave to move in and I have every right to be here!”

  Genuinely flustered, Gregor was trying to figure out what was going on when he heard Tily’s familiar voice.

  “Morgana? Morgana what be going on here…oh?”


  From the other side of the porch Tily came into view. The old woman didn’t look afraid at all of the black beast or the fiery-haired armed woman, but rather well at ease with them. In fact, she was looking at Gregor as if he had been the unwelcome one. He began to wonder if perhaps he had made a mistake after all.

  “Laird Henwen!” Tily called, slapping the young lass on the shoulder.

  “Put that thing down lass,” she hissed in a lower tone. “This be the Laird of Henwen yer threatening!”

  “Land’s sake, Laird Henwen!” Tily turned to Gregor, put her fists on her hips, and began to scold him. “What ye be doin’ out here? Ye usually come from the south. Not that ye should be coming at all, mind ye. I told ye over and over again I am just fine!”

  Gregor’s lips twitched in amusement as the woman slowly lowered her bow, her eyes trained on him the entire time. There was a familiarity in her gaze, as if she knew him. Surely, they hadn’t met though. He would never dare to forget such a woman. Strong, beautiful, daring. No, he definitely had not met her yet.

  “I’ll get to ye in a moment, old woman,” he responded playfully. Then he turned his gaze to the young woman.

  “Let’s start this conversation over, aye?” he suggested, lowering his arms. He waited until he saw her mass of fiery curls nod in consent. Only when he was sure the two women were comfortable with his approach did he finish crossing the distance between them and the porch.

  As he got closer, he was able to make out more of the woman’s stunning features. Her eyes were the clearest blue he’d even seen; the color of sky on a hot summer day. She stood tall and proud, her chin raised rather haughtily so that her adorable button nose was almost upturned. Her full lips, bowed like her weapon, were a startling dusky rose that contrasted stunningly with her milky-white skin.

  To his surprise, he felt his fingers twitch. He wanted to caress that cheek, he realized, just so he could discover if that hard exterior was actually silken to the touch. His eyes wandered back up to hers again, and this time her gaze caught him like a stag in goddess Diana’s sights.

  Something deep inside his soul stirred awake as he stared into her eyes. Something he’d never quite felt before. Whatever it was though, he was both drawn to and afraid of it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull the woman into his arms, or turn on his heel and run fast away from her.

  “I believe I owe ye an apology, lass,” he said calmly, choosing to do neither. He held his hand out to her and waited patiently.

  The woman studied him coolly before finally deciding to accept his hand.

  “Do you always accuse newcomers of thievery before you welcome them?” she asked sardonically. “Or am I just lucky today?”

  Her fingers slid into his palm softly, tracing sparks along his flesh and sending heat to his groin. A deep chuckle rose from his chest at her wit, and he swept a chaste kiss over her knuckles.

  “A Scottish tradition,” he quipped back, smiling at her. “Welcome. Me name is Gregor Reid. I’m the Laird of Henwen and protector of its lands. I offer ye me apologies and the warmest of welcomes to Scotland. I assure ye, we’re nae as bad as ye English make us out to be.”

  With a wink, he bowed at the waist, and watched in amusement as a blush bloomed in her cheeks. The woman looked at him rather peculiarly again, as if she wasn’t sure if she knew him or not. When she didn’t respond, Tily elbowed her in the ribs, making her flinch and grant him a smile.

  “My name is Morgana, Laird Henwen,” she offered at last, curtsying in full English fashion. There was more warmth in her voice this time, and Gregor noticed that something akin to playfulness in her gaze when looked back up at him.

  “I appreciate your apologies and extend mine,” she continued. I… men make me a little nervous, you see. Thank you for the welcome. I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

  Gregor raised an intrigued eyebrow.

  I wouldn’t mind a little trouble from ye.

  Tily, who seemed to like the way the two were talking, stepped in to be part of the conversation.

  “She’ll be movin’ in here and taking over the bare fields,” Tily explained proudly. “Blessed lass. She’ll be helping look after the place too, so ye won’t have to worry about me so much.”

  Gregor had to force himself to turn from Morgana to look down at the dear old woman and smiled. She was looking frailer than ever, now that Waryn was gone. But there was a light back in her eyes, and her wildling attitude was saltier than ever. Gregor had a feeling it had to do with Morgana.

  “I only want me best lass safe,” he replied, bending down to give Tily a warm hug. She gave him a quick squeeze, then muttered about proprieties before pushing his arms away from her. He chuckled as pulled away, and looked back at Morgana.

  “I suppose I owe ye a thank ye now too,” he told her. “I’m glad she’ll have some company out here now. She shouldnae be out here by herself.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m a bairn,” Tily scolded, giving him a dirty look.

  Gregor opened his mouth to speak, but closed it after letting out a sigh. There was no convincing the woman that she was too old or too frail for anything. But that’s what he loved about her. Tough as nails, Tily was. Which was probably why the two women got along well. From his perspective, Morgana seemed more than capable of handling herself.

  For a few moments the tension on the porch eased, and the three fell into pleasant conversation. Morgana told him about her gift with herbs and her plans for the fields. At hearing her plans Gregor felt a sense of relief. His village had gone without a healer for too long.

  As she relaxed, so did the giant beast. At one time, the thing even came close enough to sniff his hand. Slowly he reached out, letting the animal inspect him, and knew it was safe to pet him when he pressed the top of his head into Gregor’s palm. He was able to give the boy a good stroke behind the ears before the beast decided he’d had enough, and turned away from him to go to his mistress’ side.

  Morgana seemed grateful when he told her how to get to the village market and where the main river was, and he had laughed heartily when she told him of her first meeting with Tily. All was going well until he asked where she came from.

  The moment he did that Morgana closed herself off from him completely, even her body language changed. The dog, Zeus, sensed it and the hackles went up on his neck. The young woman’s lips drew into a thin line, and she refused to answer. This time Tily didn’t elbow her for her silence.

  Instead, she appeared suddenly very interested in something inside the cottage, and turned away to go back in. Gregor didn’t know why, but suddenly he felt rather intimidated being there with Morgana alone.

  Whatever her secret was, she and Tily were obviously going to keep it together. Gregor looked back at Morgana and tried to think of ways to save the conversation. However, it was clear from Morgana’s expression that she wasn’t interested in continuing it any further.

  In the distance Toby, the sheep farmer’s son, suddenly sounded his horn as he did every morning. The sound bugled over the terrain, breaking the tension that had mounted on the tiny cottage’s porch. Gregor found it the perfect time to leave the exciting, if not confusing conversation, and took a step back.

  “Well, my dear lady,” he announced, clearing his throat. “I’ve taken up enough of yer time. Ye’ve got a long day ahead of ye getting this place cleaned out, and I’ve got matters to deal with at the castle.” He turned to leave, then a thought struck him.

  “Before I go,” he added, turning back to her once more. “If ye need any help, come into the village, aye? I can have a guard or two out here immediately to help ye.”

  To his surprise the young woman laughed, and crossed her arms over her chest haughtily.

  “That’s very generous of you, Laird Henwen,” she replied, smiling. “But I think you underestimate how strong Tily and I are.”

  “I’ve nay doubt about that,” he murmured.

  Gregor went down the steps and started
to head toward Hermes. He made it halfway before he turned around and took a few steps back. Although he had already offered his protection, something told him to repeat it.

  “In all seriousness,” he called out, his tone dropping deeper. “If ye have any problems, ye come to me, understand? This land and all those that live on it are under me protection. That includes ye, lassie.”

  Morgana’s eyebrow shot up and she opened her mouth to speak. He waited for her sarcastic reply, but instead was given a curtsy.

  Morgana of England, Gregor mused, pulling himself back into his saddle. Who are ye?

  Chapter 3

  Cliff’s Point, England

  Nigel Fordun glared angrily down at the three young women on their knees. Each had been pulled from their beds in the middle of the night by his trusted guard and brought to him to pay for the crimes against God and his children.

  The young women, all fair, and of good stock, claimed their innocence through tear-stained cheeks and white-knuckled prayers. But Nigel Fordun, the Witch-Hunter, knew better. They all looked so pure, so innocent. But he knew better. In their souls they were dirty, just like their leader. She may have escaped, but he had at least found her accomplices.

  At least the village would have someone to pay for their crimes.

  “My dear ladies,” he said sweetly, taking the chin of the blonde furthest to the left into his gloved palm. Immediately they all hushed their whimpers and stared up at him in fear. Their mouths had been gagged and their hands had been tied behind their back.

  Just the way they should be.

  “This can all stop,” he told them, stroking the blonde’s cheek with his gloved finger.

  “All you have to do is just tell me where she went. Then I’ll let you go. You can return to your families, ask forgiveness, and live better, more Christian lives.”

  The calm in his tone would have a stranger thinking that this was not a man of violence. In fact on the outside, Fordun appeared to be shaped from the very hands of God himself. His dark brown eyes radiated warmth, and his sculpted jaw even made him handsome.