by Carmen Caine
Castles, kilts, and Caressses
The Bold Heart Carment Caine
Highland Courage by Ceci Giltenan
Knight in Highland Armor by Amy Jarecki
My Highland Lord by Tarah Scott
Some Like It Kilted by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Highland Thunder by Lily Baldwin
Castles, Kilts, and Kisses ©Copyright 2015 Cridhe Works, LLC
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the authors.
Cover Art: Crosswood Designs and Dreams2Media
Cover Images: Hot Damn Designs & Dollar Photo
Table of Contents
The Bold heart
A Knight to Remember 137
My Highland Love 303
Tall, Dark and Kilted 487
Highland Solution 667
To Bewitch a Highlander 804
The Bold heart
Carmen Caine
Copyright © 2014 Carmen Caine
Edited by Louisa Stephens
Bento Box Books at MyBentoBoxBooks.com
All rights reserved.
To my own wee merry lass:
Kailyn
Chapter One – The Hanging at Hairibee
Dunvegan Castle, Scotland
April, 1488
“Merry! ‘Tis a rider, a messenger!”
Shading her eyes, Merry squinted out of the window into the gray afternoon to see a thin, raven-haired lad with red cheeks waving from the top of the grassy hillock. Alarmed, she lurched to her feet, but upon seeing the grin on her nephew’s face, she heaved a sigh of relief.
“Good tidings, then,” she said under her breath.
The old woman seated by the peat fire caught Merry’s wrist. “Ye can’t leave yet, lass,” her voice quavered. “Not till ye’ve told me the day. Did they choose? Ye know I’ve been waiting.”
Merry smiled down at her and then scanned the crumpled parchment she’d been reading aloud.
It was a challenging task.
The words upon the page were blurred and difficult to decipher, clearly penned by someone unaccustomed to the quill. And the messenger had been a careless one. The letter had arrived grubby and wine-stained. More than one word had turned into a blob of black ink. But the last few sentences were legible. The most important ones.
“They’ll wed afore the harvest, Joanna.” She summed the contents in a single sentence. After kissing the top of the old woman’s head, she added, “And I’ll see ye there, ‘tis no cause for ye to fash yourself. She’ll be a proper wedded woman afore the bairn arrives.”
Joanna’s face creased into a wide gap-toothed smile. “Thank ye, lass, thank ye.” And then with a ‘hisst’ she shoved Merry toward the croft door. “Ye can read the rest to me later, aye? Now off with ye to the Lady Bree. Mayhap we’ve word of yer brother now?”
“Judging by the grin on Will’s face, ‘twould seem so,” Merry answered with what she hoped would be a heartening smile.
They’d all been worried for Ruan. Scotland was in turmoil. Civil war was no longer a question of if, but when. Rumors abounded that even the king’s own son had now risen against him. It had been a fortnight since the Earl of Lennox had summoned Ruan to Stirling, and he’d left at once in the company of his finest warriors.
Stepping out into daylight, Merry smiled tenderly at the young lad slipping down the steep grassy incline. Joanna’s croft was tucked away at the base of a hill, near the flat-topped mountains rising out of the moors. Sheep bleated in the distance, heralding the return of the old woman’s son.
A muffled curse diverted Merry’s attention back to her nephew arriving in a mudslide of fern and bits of bracken. Catching his balance, he rushed forward to greet her. William MacLeod. Ruan and Bree’s only surviving child—a mischievous rascal of a lad, and a lad after her own heart.
Catching him by the ear, she raised a warning brow. “Mind that tongue of yours, Will. And what brings ye so far from Dunvegan? Your mother will be fair angry with me to find ye’ve wandered this far.”
He paused a moment to catch his breath and then cocked a roguish brow in return. “And ye’ll not be telling her, Merry,” he said with confidence.
Merry reached over and tweaked his nose. They both knew he was right.
“She mollycoddles me so. Treats me like a bairn she does!” he went on to protest.
Merry’s eyes lit indulgently. “We all do, ye rascal,” she muttered and then looked away.
The dragging winter of the year before had seen the fever sweep through the clan. They’d lost many, including both of Will’s siblings, Rory and Katherine. The memory of their loss still tore Merry’s heart. Again, she heard Ruan’s roar of grief echoing through Dunvegan’s halls, and in her mind’s eye, she saw Bree weeping softly against his shoulder, seeking solace.
Shaking her head, Merry brought herself to the present.
“Your mother has cause to fret, Will,” she told him, cupping his chin in her hand and forcing his dark eyes to meet hers. “Give the poor woman some peace, aye?”
Will’s face clouded. “I miss Rory and Katherine, too,” he admitted quietly, but then the rebellious spark in his eye returned. “But I canna stay in Dunvegan the rest of my days! I’m no longer a wean. Tell her that, will ye now?”
Merry grinned. “Enough of this lackwit babbling,” she said, giving him an affectionate cuff on the side of the head. “Did your Da send tidings from Stirling, then?”
“Aye, and he’s done naught but feast at Cameron’s side for the past fortnight.” Will snorted in disgust. “Nae fighting. There’s no war yet.” He looked disappointed.
“Dinna be so anxious for bloodshed, ye wee fool,” Merry scolded lightly even as she exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
But her relief was short-lived.
“Nae, but he has tidings of some earl’s son,” Will added offhand. “Some fool got himself caught by the English. The MacLean of Duart’s son ‘twas. Ewan. Ewan MacLean.”
Merry’s heart stopped.
“Ewan!” she gasped, choking on his name.
Ewan MacLean. A name that swept her into the past when she was a wee lass. Back to the time when she’d been wed to Fearghus, the MacDonald of Duntelm. The man had been evil incarnate. On their wedding night he’d beaten her nearly senseless. Seeking revenge against her clan, he’d clearly had the intention of taking her life in the cruelest possible way. The night had been brutal, but the memory of it no longer caused her pain. She’d set those memories free years ago.
All but one.
One memory from that night she cherished: the recollection of Ewan MacLean’s flaxen head popping up in the tower window. He’d been a lad then, younger than she was now, and he’d scaled the precarious castle walls to rescue her. He’d taken one look at her distressed state and of Fearghus’ hand raised for the deathblow. With his handsome face suffused with rage, Ewan had roared and leapt through the window, staying her husband's hand as Ruan burst through the door with drawn sword. Leaving Ruan to take vengeance, Ewan had carried her to safety, crooning soft words of comfort.
“Ye’ll be right in no time, I promise ye,” he had whispered into her hair. “A MacLeod is who y
e are. Hold fast.”
“Merry?” Will’s curious voice broke into her thoughts.
Merry blinked. She had to get back to Dunvegan and right quickly.
“We have to go home, Will,” she said, glancing about.
He’d let his shaggy mountain pony loose to graze on the moor grasses at the top of the hill. Merry frowned. They’d have to send for the beastie later; it was no match for her stallion anyhow.
Turning to her nephew, she ordered crisply, “Ride with me, Will, and with haste.”
Will’s face split into a grin. “On Diabhul?” He nodded at her black stallion tied to the hawthorn hedge. “Ma will—”
“Your ma will understand,” Merry interrupted, pulling him after her.
Bree wouldn’t be pleased. After all these years, she still didn’t care much for horses, particularly devious, high-spirited ones like Diabhul. To Merry, he was as docile as a kitten and as loyal as a hound dog, but to everyone else, he was a fiend from hell. No, Bree would be far from pleased to see her son riding Diabhul. But she would understand.
Diabhul nudged her hand, searching for a carrot as she untied him, and then fitting a foot into the stirrup, Merry swung herself into the saddle. With a spry hop, Will settled behind her, and they sprang away, guiding the horse onto the path twisting up the hill as the aged Joanna hobbled to the croft door to bid them a cheerful farewell.
The day was a chilly one. Already, the mists were thickening, billowing in from the sea as they crossed the moors. Spring had arrived unusually late this year, and folk had begun to mutter. Some claimed it foretold of hard times to come in the months ahead. But that ‘twas nothing new. With the impending war, hard times were guaranteed.
As Diabhul raced across the gorse and heather, Merry smiled at Will’s shrieks of pleasure at the black stallion’s speed.
Closing her eyes, she let the cold wind caress her face and ruffle her dark hair. She always thought better on the back of a horse, more at peace and more centered.
Doubtless, Ewan’s rescue was underway, providing the man hadn’t already rescued himself. His fearsome reputation throughout Scotland hailed him as a formidable warrior, a man unparalleled in the art of the combat. Few dared to cross swords with him. In all likelihood, there was no cause to worry.
Letting her mind clear, she simply enjoyed the ride, and as they approached the shaggy heath-edged cliffs, the wind turned moist and carried with it the scent of the sea. Slowing Diabhul, she guided him down a narrow trail. The waves, crashing against the rocks below, grew louder with each step. Overhead, seagulls shrieked and swooped, and soon they arrived at the bottom and Merry let Diabhul once more gallop free down the shell-covered beach toward Dunvegan.
It wasn’t long before the MacLeods’ ancestral castle of Dunvegan rose high above them. Its massive mound of gold-hued stones perched high on its own island of yellow lichen and green moss-covered rocks. There was only one entrance to the castle and that was the sea-gate, a stone’s throw away from the village on the mainland.
Having reached the stables at the village’s north entrance, Merry slid off the stallion’s back and helped her nephew dismount.
“Get the boat ready, Will,” she ordered, patting her horse on the withers. “I’ll see Diabhul taken care of and then I’ll join ye.”
With an impish nod, the boy bounded away.
Stable lads then ran out to greet her, but as she led her stallion forward, they abruptly fell back in fear.
Merry raised an amused brow. “Not one of ye have a whit of courage,” she grumbled good-naturedly.
“Diabhul. ’Tis a beast rightly named,” one of the lads groused. “He is the Devil himself. Aye, and there’s no meaner-tempered beast roaming in all of Skye!”
“Ach, now,” Merry disagreed with a chuckle. “He’s as easy as a bairn.”
The lad snorted. “Then why did ye name him ‘Diabhul’?” he asked pertly.
Merry reached over and tousled his head. “Don’t ye start thinking now, lad. ‘Twill do ye no good as ye’ll still have to tend him.”
The lad shot her a grin but darted back as Diabhul flattened his ears. Lifting his lip, the horse lunged as if to nip the boy.
“See!” the lad cried, pointing. “He’s after my blood, he is!”
“Easy, lads,” Merry crooned to both boy and horse and led Diabhul into his stall herself.
Removing his saddle, she brushed him down with a handful of hay and had exited the stall just in time to see the stable lad lunge forward to toss the horse a pitchfork of hay. He hadn’t gotten near enough to do a proper job and most of the hay landed on Diabhul’s rump.
“Ye can do better than that,” Merry scolded, but she didn’t press the matter further. The lads were right; Diabhul hated everyone but her. She’d come back after she’d heard the tidings herself.
Will sat in a small boat, poking with a stick at the fish in the water as he waited for her, and taking up the oars, Merry rowed the short distance to the sea-gate. A watchman helped them to disembark, and they hurried up the narrow flight of steps cut deep into the rock and entered the castle grounds.
“Hie ye off now, Will,” Merry hissed in a conspiratorial tone. “Mayhap your mother doesna yet know ye rode Diabhul.”
Flashing a wide smile, he bounded away.
Dusting her hands, Merry took a step forward but then pulled up short.
Bree stood by the well, her arms crossed.
The years had changed Bree. Gone was the shy, unassuming English maiden that had stolen her brother’s heart. In that girl’s place stood a gentle yet commanding lady. Her brown curls were braided and pinned neatly to her head, and fine lines appeared under her green, sharp eyes—eyes that hadn’t missed a thing.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t see him riding Diabhul?” Bree asked, smoothing her skirts. “And if I hadn’t, Merry, there are at least ten others who also saw and were telling me long afore you even reached the stables.”
Merry heaved an apologetic sigh. “’Twas the tidings of Ewan,” she said in her defense.
Bree’s green eyes narrowed and her lips thinned.
The silence between them grew.
And then Bree sighed too. “And how much did Will tell you?” she finally asked.
Merry exhaled, knowing that she’d been forgiven—at least for the moment. “Only that he was caught by the English,” she answered.
“Yes, he was betrayed,” Bree answered in her quiet way. “He’d ridden to free Alec Montgomery from the Cunninghams, but ‘twas a trap. Ewan and his men, along with Alec, were ambushed in the Borderlands and then taken as prisoners.” She paused a moment before adding, “He’s in the keeping of the Lord Warden of the West March—in Carlisle.”
Merry swallowed. Carlisle was a lawless place. Treachery and deceit abounded there. Mayhap, Ewan wouldn't be able to rescue himself after all.
“And what is being done about it, sister?” Merry asked with a frown. “Surely, the Earl of Douglas can free him? As Lord Warden of the East March, can he not now wrest Ewan from the hands of the English?”
“Ruan says ‘tis not so simple a matter,” Bree continued, motioning for Merry to follow her into the castle. “Not with Alec Montgomery tangled in the affair. The Lord Wardens will not agree anytime soon upon the Cunningham-Montgomery dispute. Instead, Ruan has asked that we send Gentle John to Carlisle straightway to free Ewan and the others before harm finds them.”
Merry’s brown eyes lit with concern. While Gentle John was undoubtedly one of the fiercest warriors in the clan and a man wholly capable of overseeing Ewan’s rescue, he’d recently taken a fall from a horse whilst jousting. His injuries had him still abed, hardly ready at that moment to command a daring rescue.
Bree waved a hand as she mounted the spiral stairs leading into the hall. “I shall find another to go sooner in his stead, Merry,” she assured. “’Tis not time to fret. We’ll see Ewan saved.”
“But when?” Merry asked with a worried scowl. Aye, she was
only growing more worried by the minute. “We must not delay, Bree. If we wait too long, they’ll have him hung at Hairibee!”
“Ewan is the Earl of Mull’s son,” Bree disagreed firmly. “His life will not be taken so lightly.”
Merry’s scowl deepened. She didn’t share Bree’s certainty.
They entered the hall then, and the Lady of Dunvegan was surrounded at once by a bevy of women, all eager for her attention.
“Did ye see what Merry did, my lady?” one gasped, fanning her cheeks.
“Riding that horse, he was,” a small, spare woman of middle age inserted.
“Ach, Merry must be touched in the head,” began another with a disapproving face, but then as Merry stepped up behind Bree, her hand flew to cover her mouth.
Merry rolled her eyes. “Yes, I let wee Will ride Diabhul,” she snapped, and then shouldering past them, made her way to an aged white-haired figure slumped before the massive fireplace.
It was Isobel, her nursemaid, and a woman both she and Ruan looked upon as a mother even more than their own.
“Ruan?” the old woman queried feebly as she approached. A smile crossed her withered face as her hand fluttered in greeting.
“Nay, ‘tis Merry,” Merry answered with a smile. “Are ye not a wee bit disappointed now?”
Isobel gave a small laugh. “Ye look so much like him, my sweet lass.”
Merry feigned a frown, but she knew Isobel spoke the truth. She not only shared her brother’s raven hair, unusual height, and dark brown eyes, but she mirrored his skill with a bow and was not bad with dirk in hand as well.
“Aye, I should have been born a lad,” she said with a laugh.
Isobel’s old eyes gleamed as she took in Merry’s appearance. “Crooked hems and loose threads,” she clucked. “I’ve done ye wrong, ye can’t even sew a straight seam. ‘Tis time ye wed ere the lads notice my failure.”
Arranging the shawl around Isobel’s shoulders, Merry leaned down and kissed the top of the old woman’s head. “But I can ride and hunt better than any man and hold my own with a sword. What need have I of a husband?”
