And for some unknown reason, Naomhan stopped. There was something about the man’s face that just prompted obedience from him. It was the last time he ever saw Father Damian Odell frown. The next time he awoke, he was in the Father’s house, being tended to by the priest himself.
“You just rest, don’t move. The cut has been stitched together. You are a tough man to kill, I will give you that. The fever is another problem. But by God’s grace and help, I know we will conquer that also,” the man said, with a smile on his face. “Let me get you something to eat.”
Naomhan stopped the man as he was about to get up.
“Why didnae ye fight or run?” he asked the Father.
Father Damian sat back down with a heavy sigh. “Violence is like a chain. It will continue unless someone stops it. Be it the wrongdoer or the one being wronged, one has to save the other. You should rest for the days to come.”
But Naomhan didn’t rest. Many mornings, Father Damian would find Naomhan slumped by the gate or along the path towards the gate, helpless to make his way further because of the fever.
“What do you seek out there?” Father Damian asked him one night while they shared supper.
“I need to outrun my bloodlust, me thirst for vengeance. I cannae touch them now, so I have to run lest I turn back and do something stupid because I am a dobber,” Naomhan answered.
“You cannot run away forever. You need a new purpose and you can find one here. I will make you an offer. If you stay here, you will have so much to do that you would lose your bloodlust,” Father Damian offered and Naomhan burst into laughter.
“That makes no sense.”
Over the next two years, it made sense to Naomhan and he took the last name ‘McDonald’. His bloodlust was gone and was replaced with a sense of duty as a deacon.
During this time, Father Damian offered to help him send letters to his family in Scotland. He was a priest and thus, his letters were considerably safe. No one bothered to cast suspicious looks at a letter submitted by a priest. So his mother wrote to him at times, as did his brother, telling him of the things that went on at home. It kept him sane but it wasn’t easy.
4
1692, Embleton, England
It was a day much like most days in the time of the Jacobite risings. Father Damian, the Protestant priest, in the little peaceful town of Embleton, watched one of his congregation members, a girl by the name of Juliet, as she hid behind a tree and spied on his aide.
The Father, though having chosen a life of celibacy as an oath to his beliefs, understood still the lust that plagued those much younger than he was and their easy hearts. Hoping not to scare the young girl, he walked up quietly next to her. She yelped when she came to see him but quickly composed herself.
“What might you be doing here, Juliet?” he asked her. His older green eyes were filled with amusement. He wanted her to speak freely around him, as he did everyone in the little town.
“Nothing, Father, I was just—” she began but the peaceable look on his face told her that he knew and did not judge her “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, the sin of lies.” She bowed her head in shame but the Father raised her chin up to look at him.
“You are a good soul. I am sure our Lord knows that more than most,” he assured her, before letting go of her and turning back to the man she had been spying on. “He is a handsome man, is he not?”
Juliet hid her flustered face and nodded.
“You should talk to him and not stay so far away. I believe the both of you could make good friends, because Naomhan is going through quite a lot, just as most people his age, and is trying to find himself in his work.”
Juliet nodded, though with a sense of guilt for lusting after the young deacon.
“I should be going now, Father. I have to run some errands for my mother,” she said.
“Wait,” the Father told her before he called to the bare-chested man cutting the fields.
“Someone came to see how you were doing,” the Father shouted so Naomhan could hear.
“Good day to you too, Juliet,” Naomhan waved back.
“He knows your name,” Father Damian nudged her playfully before he told her to be on her way. She hurried off before he moved closer to the fields. Naomhan was trying to clear the bushes behind the chapel to build a playground for the children. It was an idea that was welcomed by the Father and it was days like that, that made him happy he had not turned away the troubled man two years ago when he had come looking for help.
“You should stop catching the eye of the young ladies in this little town,” Father Damian teased, as he came up to Naomhan. The younger man just snickered. He, like many men his age, enjoyed the attention of beautiful women. He was strong, handsome, and never hid away from people. The only thing that scared the young Naomhan was his past, a truth he only shared with the Father.
It amazed the Father some days how Naomhan could walk around carrying that much burden but he was happy for his strength.
“You know, there are a lot of well-mannered and beautiful ladies in the town. If you wish to take one seriously, I could—”
“No, thank you, Faither. I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but I cannot take a woman, not until I have taken back my honor,” Naomhan said. The Father thought to correct Naomhan’s Gaelic accent as he always did but thought against it at that moment. Though Naomhan was peaceful, Father Damian often saw signs of the brute he had been in his old life surface from time-to-time, especially when his home came up.
Naomhan had held the machete up firmly in his hand unconsciously as he spoke and didn’t notice until he followed the older man’s eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said, downcast, before he put down the machete.
“It is no problem, you should get some rest. Some of the folks in the town will come to help with the field,” Father Damian assured him as he watched him leave obediently.
His honor; at one time, it had been all Naomhan cared about. The Father thought he had helped him get over it but it was still there, like a scar that won’t go away.
Naomhan sat outside in the evenings while the Father was asleep. Once a long while ago, he had been free in the Highlands, free to ride as far as his steed could take him. There was so much land in Scotland and he missed it every night. He missed the trees, the air, and the mountains. Most of all, he missed his family. In the last letter he had received from home, his younger brother Logan had grown and was being groomed to be the Laird with the help of his mother. He wasn’t jealous of his brother. He would have gladly ruled alongside his brother if it had been decreed but what he wanted the most was to be home.
Though the Father helped him write letters back home, it wasn’t the same. Embleton was a small town and everyone there loved him. They admired him but he could never appreciate it fully because they were not his people. They were the free English and even if they thought him a Jacobite, they would have still accepted him.
Dear Brother,
Our father passed away yesterday at noon. I wish you were here. Everyone is mourning him but Mother is the worst. Her wails tear me to pieces. She sleeps no more and barely ever touches the meals she is served. She believes Father died of no natural cause. She believes it has something to do with your exile also.
I need you here, Brother. I know it is selfish to ask such of you and have you risk your life but the days are dark here. Mother loves you and her heavy heart would be less burdened if she could but see your face. The walls are silent and the sounds of my footsteps scare me even. I wish you were here. When you get this letter, know that we all mourn for Father as you do.
Logan
Naomhan stared up at the skies above him with warm eyes. He tried to cry but he could not. For years, he had lain out in the fields and watched the stars at night, admiring their beauty. Though they were far away, their beauty was never hidden or forgotten. To him, the stars were like Scotland. For the second time since he had begun to watch the stars, he had wondered if
people ever saw the same stars. He wondered if his widowed mother would stare out the window and would see the stars just as he did, the same stars he saw.
Broken and sad, Naomhan sat there just looking at the stars hoping that they looked back at him and saw his misery. He wanted to get angry, use his fists on people who deserved it, just to let go of his pain but he could not find his anger. He lay there, staring at the stars and begging for tears until sleep overwhelmed him.
5
Morning was always the best part of the day even though it always started harshly.
“Wake up, Theodora, a lady from a well-to-do family should never be caught sleeping this late in the morning,” her mother would say to her as she pulled over the curtains and bared her eyes to the morning sun. It was only a beautiful sight after her lazy eyes had adjusted to the sudden burst of light. Afterwards would follow the continuous tapping on her arms until she yelled and sat up.
“Up, up, dear child, it is morning,” her mother would say as Theodora would roll on her bed grumbling, and hoping that her mother would just disappear from the room and let her be, but that was not to be her fate.
“Why, Mother? Let me be a little longer. I promise I will be up before Father heads out,” Theodora begged but her mother’s shadow didn’t cease to loom over her. Frustrated, Theodora shot up into a sitting position and glared at her mother but it never worked.
“You keep that face for someone else, young lady, not your mother,” Mrs. Kent said as she got off her daughter’s bed. Even though her daughter was assigned her own maids, she took it upon herself to raise her daughter just as her mother had done her. So, every morning, she came into Theodora’s room to wake her.
“Are you awake?” Mrs. Kent asked her daughter, who straightened up at the strict turn of her mother’s tone. “Today, you are going to a little party with me.”
Theodora’s face brightened at the talk of going out with her mother. She had been eight-and-ten long enough and was quickly approaching nine –and-ten. That meant a lot of things to a young English maiden. The prospects of courtship and love lurked not too far away. Soon, the men who always fancied her and charmed her from a distance would be allowed to come closer to her. She would listen to the flattery of handsome men, and poetry from those gifted as such, under the supervision of her mother. It was the best time of a woman’s life.
“Do I really have to attend?” Theodora asked, trying to temper her excitement.
“Yes, and I have the perfect gown for you,” her mother said, as she pulled open the wardrobe. She had an enviable collection of gowns, most from her father. Bruce Kent, Theodora’s father, wasn’t a titled man but one of the wealthiest men in all of England. He was a trader who had a hand in everything purchasable. When he wasn’t making money, he was giving advice to the nobles.
Mrs. Kent held up the red gown she wanted her daughter to wear and looked back juxtaposing with her somewhat boyish daughter. Theodora was more beautiful than most ladies her age. Her father often teased her that her beauty rivaled even that of the Queen, which was true, but those words of flattery never left the confines of their home.
“This one will look good on you,” Mrs. Kent pulled out the gown and laid it out on the bed. Theodora was dreamy. When she had turned five-and-ten, her mother had allowed her to go through the letters her father had sent her during the days of their courtship and that had made butterflies grow in her belly. She wanted someone who could spin her head around like her father had done her mother.
Her bath was long, before she got into her red gown. Both mother and daughter stood before the mirror dressed in their gowns. Mrs. Kent was always proud whenever she looked at her daughter, who reminded her of her youth. Her light brown hair was tied in a bun, allowing a full view of her fair face and her blue eyes.
The Kent women went down the stairs to meet up with Mr. Kent for breakfast.
“You look absolutely wonderful,” Mr. Kent told his daughter.
“You always say that Father—” Theodora started.
“I know, I know, soon other people will say it to you. You don’t want compliments from your father. I am not offended,” he cut in and Theodora had to go over to her father’s seat to kiss him on the cheek to soothe his hurt feelings.
“Don’t leave your seat like that, young lady,” Mrs. Kent said, even though she knew neither of them ever really listened to her. She just wanted to make Theodora into a proper lady. Her beauty wasn’t all she needed, she needed to know proper etiquette also.
When breakfast was over, both women accompanied Mr. Kent to his carriage. He hugged them both before he got into the carriage and the coachman headed for the gate.
“Did he forget?” Theodora asked her mother, who had her arms folded across her chest. Her father never forgot, Theodora thought to herself, as she watched the carriage round the bend before it turned and headed back towards them. The coachman pulled his hat lower so that the women would not see the smile on his face. The carriage stopped in front of them and Bruce got out to kiss his wife.
“You didn’t think I would forget, did you?” Mr. Kent asked his wife but she looked away trying to suppress her blush long enough to sport a frown.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear and that broke her frown. They kissed once more before he left finally.
That was Theodora’s life, a fairytale of love, and she could not wait to begin hers. Love was all she had known.
Theodora’s first time at a ball came with anticipation and excitement. Accompanied by her mother, Theodora had thought her mother would have been by her side all along but Mrs. Kent had allowed her to roam free and she had been approached by different men. At first, she had been overwhelmed. Her mother’s presence, though unseen, had eased her.
Theodora found no problem making small talk with those men and she was almost never alone throughout the ball. However, one particular man caught her attention. While others walked up to meet her, he sat talking with the other gentlemen at the ball.
There was a way about him that intrigued her. Perhaps it was the fact that he never once approached her like the other men did, only stealing glances at her once in a while. Or perhaps it was the charm with which he engaged the attention of those men. They listened to him, only speaking whenever he stopped, and their eyes held admiration for him.
Colt—she heard his name on the lips of a few ladies who greeted him. He never paid them much attention but he was polite enough that the ladies were delighted he had not snubbed them. Theodora found herself drawn to him as was everyone else.
Suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the crowd and chatter, Theodora excused herself and made her way outside. She took her fan and walked the grounds. There wasn’t much of note to see outside. Most of nature’s beauties had been torn away from the grounds, all except the grass. She walked further away from the ball, trying to get some quiet and fresh air.
It didn’t take long before boredom caught up to her and she craved to be inside again, in the midst of the crowd and the chatter. Theodora turned around and screamed so loud that she would have fallen had her hand not been caught by another.
“My apologies for startling you. It was never my intention, My Lady,” Colt said, with a hand to his chest to prove his sincerity. Theodora had not heard him coming up behind her and had been greatly frightened when she had turned around only to find him less than a shadow length away from her.
“Are you feeling faint?” he asked her. Theodora shook her head. It took a while before she realized her hand was still in his. She pulled it away immediately, as it was inappropriate.
“I apologize again,” he said with his hands raised in surrender.
“You apologize quite a lot, Colt Ayers,” she said, after righting herself. There was a smirk on his face that she quickly realized was because she had said his name even though he had not introduced himself yet.
“I just do not know how to comport myself in the presence of one as beautiful as yourself. It is my weakness
, I am afraid.” He bowed and Theodora found herself taken by his theatrics. Her face warmed up in an embarrassing heat. She turned her face away hoping he didn’t catch it.
“What might your name be? I have not seen you around these circles before. If I had, I am sure I would not forget such a face.” The handsome smirk was on his face again.
“This is my first time,” she said, raising her face which he had called beautiful and yet she had not told him her name.
“I know it is wrong to ask a woman her age but might I guess?” There was no way Theodora could refuse him. He was different from the other men. He seemed timid and yet bold. There was much more to the man standing before her—she knew he was being modest.
Under a Highlander's Spell: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 3
