Highlander’s Mysterious Lady (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance)

by Fiona Faris

  Crawling on the ground to avoid the possibility of creaking the floorboards and wake the sleeping Scot, Beatrice grabbed her skirt and jacket, quickly slipping into them and doing up the buttons. She left her hair down, since an attempt at combing it with her fingers would no doubt leave her wincing at the tangles. It didn’t matter what she looked like, anyway. Money was all she needed to get herself out of this tavern and onto Castle Eilean.

  And an hour later, after securing the safe passage of Harold and Eddie’s bodies back to London, Beatrice was halfway to her destination. Or at least, that’s what her driver said. She wasn’t entirely sure she could trust the man’s judgment, since she had managed to hire him while he was midway through what she was sincerely hoping was only his first pint of the morning. From the rosy tint of his cheeks and his halting laugh, she feared that it might, in fact, have been his fourth or fifth. However, seeing as he was the only driver in vicinity awake and available at the time of morning when she desired to set off, she was stuck with him regardless of his level of inebriation.

  The carriage was lurching this way and that on the muddied, bumpy roads leading them north, and a lack of breakfast accompanied by the chaotic motion had Beatrice’s stomach doing dangerous flips and gurgles.

  Reasoning that fresh air would help, she stuck her head out the window and let the cold morning air rush over her cheeks. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and let the weak autumnal sunlight shine down on her, making her feel calmer and a little less nauseous, thankfully.

  It was a moment of pure bliss, with the sunshine and the bracing air, but it was over in a flash as they went over a particularly deep puddle of mud that sent great splashes of muck spraying straight up into her face, nostrils—and, sadly, her mouth.

  “Ergh!” she shrieked, reaching up and trying to brush off the mud. However, she seemed only to succeed in spreading it further across her face.

  Up ahead, she could see another puddle, and so she ducked her head back into the carriage, feeling very sorry for the driver, who would no doubt have to answer for the seats she was dirtying as she sat back against the cushions.

  Lord, but I cannot wait to bathe, she thought as she looked down at herself.

  The bottom of her dress was covered in stiff, dried mud, her feet were still bare and covered in grass and dirt, and now her face matched the rest of her. She had never felt so in need of a bath in all her life.

  Getting into a steaming hot tub at Castle Eilean was going to feel like pure bliss. Beatrice could already imagine the pleasure of sloughing off the dirt of scrubbing herself completely clean until her skin was pink and soft like a newborn babe’s.

  But of course, no bath, however diligent, would wash herself of her sins, of the memories of last night.

  No, she would remember Brodie for the rest of her days. His touch, his kiss, the very man himself, was imprinted on her soul forever, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Thankfully, she was saved from further ruminations on the man that had so expertly made her body sing by another bump in the road, followed by the driver’s shout of, “Nearly there, lass!”

  And indeed, mere minutes later, they were crossing a long bridge that took them across a deep loch that glowed emerald green in the sun. Up ahead was the castle, and it was grander than anything Beatrice could have imagined. Helena had described it in her letters, even drawn it a few times, but nothing compared to the view ahead of Beatrice.

  Most visible from the bridge was the fortress, a cylindrical structure with high, thick stone walls Beatrice imagined would have been the perfect place for spying on enemies and catapulting large stones and other projectiles to ward off insurgents.

  To the right of the fortress was the keep, a tall, formidable structure that whose rear faced the loch. Beatrice hoped she was given one of the rear-facing rooms; she loved the idea of waking up each morning to a sight of the sun cresting over the watery horizon.

  As the carriage thundered past the fortress, they came to a small outer courtyard where five guards were stationed. The carriage came to a lurching stop that threw Beatrice onto the opposite seat. She hit her shoulder, that same beleaguered shoulder that had seen so much pain this last day, and barely restrained a very unladylike curse as the soreness made itself known again.

  “We’re ‘ere, lass!” the driver called, and Beatrice had only just righted herself and tried, in vain, to wipe some of the mud off her face when the door swung open, and the stench of ale flooded the small space.

  “Need any help gettin’ down?” the carriage driver asked, holding out his hand. Beatrice accepted because she had no choice. The carriage did not have steps, and since she was bereft of shoes, she did not relish the idea of jumping down on her own and possibly turning an ankle.

  The driver was surprisingly careful with her as he helped her down, but Beatrice still winced as the cold stone me the soles of her feet.

  Looking up, she found the guards staring at her the same way she imagined they might stare at a banshee: somewhat frightened and entirely bemused.

  Thankfully, Beatrice did not have to explain herself or her presence; for a moment later, the door behind the guards was thrown open, and Beatrice was treated to the beautiful sight of her best friend running toward her.

  “Bea! Bea! Oh, I thought that was you!” Helena shouted, running across the stones. Behind her, Beatrice could see Marcus following, shouting, “Helena, stop yer runnin’! Tis nae good fer the bairn!”

  Helena ignored her husband, only slowing down as she approached Beatrice. The broad smile on her friend’s face dropped the minute she spied the mud splattered all over Beatrice’s person.

  “Heavens! What’s happened to you?!” she exclaimed, walking forward and taking Beatrice’s hand. “You look like you got into a fight with a mud puddle and lost.”

  “It is a long story,” Beatrice said as she smiled at her friend. She hadn’t seen Helena in so long, and yet her friend looked the exact same. White blonde hair plaited into high on her head; kind brown eyes framed by the longest sable lashes Beatrice had ever seen. And of course, those assessing dark-brown brows turned up slightly, letting Beatrice know her friend was a little worried. Beatrice would have liked to think Helena was only concerned about the mud, but she knew it went beyond that.

  “Well, you can tell me after you have a good, long bath to get all that muck off,” Helena took Beatrice by the hand. “I’ll have one of the guards bring in your trunk.”

  “I actually…well, I don’t have one anymore…”

  “You didn’t pack anything?”

  “No, I did. But it was stolen. Along with my shoes and all my jewelry.” Beatrice tried to sound cheerful, like this was all some silly story they could laugh about. But she still felt the loss of James’ ring around her neck keenly, and knowing that she could not reach for one of her treasured books that evening before bed nearly had her eyes filling up with tears. She hadn’t thought much about the highwaymen since she arrived at the tavern, but now, she was suddenly filled with a fierce hatred for the man who had stripped her of everything she had held most dear.

  “Well, no matter. I will get you everything you need. I will set it all to rights, don’t you worry. Now, does your driver need to be paid?”

  “No, I’ve already given him some coin.” Beatrice looked over her shoulder at the driver, who had fallen asleep leaning against the carriage door.

  “Ah. Well, mayhaps I’ll have the guards bring him some water. He…looks like he could use it,” Helena whispered.

  Beatrice burst out laughing, only partially because of Helena’s jesting tone. Mostly, the laughter came from fatigue and overwhelm—both by tragedy and by the relief of being once again in the arms of her best friend.

  As Helena led them back toward the castle, meeting Marcus in the doorway to the inner courtyard, Beatrice’s laughter turned to sobs, and then she was lifted into Marcus’ arms and carried into the keep and up a winding staircase to her room.


  A bath was drawn, and Helena sat by and talked of nothing as the maids helped Beatrice remove all trace of the last twenty-four hours from her body.

  When she was laid down to bed later that afternoon, it was to find her view out the window exactly as she had hoped it would be: deep green water dappled with sunlight. A scene so calm, so unlike all the mess that was her life.

  Chapter Ten

  “Bea?” a soft voice whispered in Beatrice’s ear.

  “Mmph,” she replied, burying her face in her pillow.

  “Come on, Bea, wake up. It’s nearly time for dinner, and I’ve had cook prepare your favorite.”

  Begrudgingly, Beatrice picked her head up off her pillow to find Helena’s smiling face gazing down at her.

  Looking past her friend toward the window, she saw that that the sun had set, and the sky was now a deep indigo that nearly blended in with the loch.

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked. Or at least, she meant to ask. What came out was more of a mumble—but Helena, being the good friend that she was, understood her anyway.

  “Nearly four hours. I checked in on you earlier in the afternoon, but you were dead to the world, and I thought it best to let you be. You looked so exhausted when you arrived,” she tutted, smoothing Beatrice’s hair back from her forehead.

  “I was. Oh, Helena, yesterday was so awful,” she said, shaking her head as she sat up in bed. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing a cream-colored nightgown. Her feet were clean, as was the rest of her. But inside, she still felt dirty, soiled, rotten.

  “What happened? Tell me,” Helena pleaded, taking Beatrice’s hand and sitting down on the side of the bed.

  Beatrice took a deep breath before she began to rehash the tale. She told her friend about the highwaymen and their evil leader who seemed not to have a fig of human feeling of sympathy, about Harold and Eddie’s cold and lifeless bodies looking back at her. She relayed her journey to the inn through the cold, dark night, grateful to finally be able to tell someone just how scared she had been.

  “I am so sorry, Bea,” Helena soothed, stroking Beatrice’s hair, which was hanging loose down her back. “Sorry for Harold and Eddie, and for you as well. You have already been through so much. This was the very opposite of what you deserved.”

  Beatrice shrugged noncommittally, her mind still on Harold and Eddie lying there with bullet holes in their bellies and vacant gazes. She would never forgive herself for losing them, for taking all of life’s opportunities and the hopes for the future from them. They deserved so much more than they had been given.

  “I hope you are not blaming yourself for those poor men’s deaths,” Helena chided, and Bea looked up at her friend in surprise.

  “How did you—” she began, but Helena waved her off.

  “I am your best friend. I’ve known you for over a decade. Of course I would recognize the signs of you chastising yourself for something that isn’t your fault. I’ve seen you do it enough over the years,” she said.

  Beatrice smarted at this, though she knew her friend was right. If she had one talent, it was to be harder on herself than anyone else ever could be. She was her own worse critic, her own worst enemy at times. And this was one of those times.

  Were she at home back in Yorkshire, she would have spent days hating herself for causing Harold and Eddie’s deaths. She would have done all she could to punish herself, depriving her of the few things that still gave her pleasure: books, correspondence, and…actually, those were the only two things that always made her smile.

  My life has grown very small indeed, she realized.

  “Stop!” Helena cried suddenly, and Beatrice looked up to see her friend standing over her, still gripping Beatrice’s palm tightly, but using her other hand to wag a very stern-looking index finger at her. “None of this is your fault. The highwaymen killed Harold and Eddie, not you. And, though I shouldn’t have to say this two years later, I will: James’ death wasn’t your fault either. He would have died whether or not you were there. The doctor said he was already too far gone at that point to recover. You must stop this, Bea, this torturing of yourself.”

  Beatrice’s eyes began to fill with tears at the memory of James, of his oddly still body as she approached his bed. After days of sitting at his bedside and refusing to sleep, she’d gone for a short nap. She had only lain down for an hour, but she woke, he was gone. Her husband was dead. Dead of a dull headache that had put him to sleep five days before.

  Not saying goodbye, not getting one last chance to kiss his cheek and stroke his hair had haunted Beatrice these previous two years. Though she knew she couldn’t have cured him—indeed, the doctors had assured her that no one could have saved him—some part of her still believed that her very presence could have kept him alive. It did not help that things had been so strained between them before his death. Their trouble conceiving had driven a wedge between them. There had been a distance between them the day that James fell ill, and Beatrice had never been able to mend it. And she never would.

  “You couldn’t have done anything, Bea,” Helena emphasized her words with a shake of Bea’s hand. “Listen to me. You couldn’t have saved him. You couldn’t have saved James, and you couldn’t have saved those poor men in your carriage. There was nothing you could have done. Do you hear me?”

  Beatrice nodded, letting her tears fall down her nose and onto her nightgown.

  “Oh, my dear friend,” Helena whispered, the force gone from her voice. She sat back down on the bed and gathered Beatrice into her arms. “I am so sorry.”

  Beatrice turned her face into Helena’s bodice and let loose her sobs. She sobbed because she was away from home, because she had no home without James, no purpose. She cried for Harold and Eddie, for herself, for the lost ring and books, and she even cried for Brodie, a nice man who she had abandoned because she, a grown woman of seven-and-twenty, could not face up to her feelings and admit that she had enjoyed her night with him more than any other in all her life.

  Helena did what only good friends can do, rubbing Beatrice’s back and letting her friend pour forth the feelings she needed to excise to feel human again.

  When her tears had slowed, and her sobs had transformed from harsh, wracking things that jerked her body about to mere hiccups, Helena leaned back and looked down at her.

  “Better?”

  “Much,” Beatrice answered with a relieved laugh.

  “Good. I do believe the full-body sob can be very restorative if done under the right circumstances.”

  “And in the arms of a friend is surely the most perfect of circumstances,” Beatrice let a small smile play at the edges of her mouth.

  “Precisely! Now, are you feeling able to take some dinner? The table will be laden with good, hearty food to soothe the soul. Afterward, we can look in on Padraig, who is a very naughty child and never falls asleep before nine o’clock, no matter what we do.”

  “That sounds absolutely perfect,” Beatrice smiled, and she truly meant it. Her insides, which had felt so polluted before, felt cleaner than angels’ wings now.

  “Good. Then let me call my maid, and we will get you dressed. I have a fair few gowns that are too tight for my growing stomach, but that would fit you perfectly.”

  Helena dropped Beatrice’s hand and made to move away from the bed, but Beatrice stopped her.

  “Helena?”

  “Yes, dear Bea?”

  “Thank you.”

  Those two words were far too inadequate to convey her gratitude, but they would have to do for now.

  And they did, perfectly, for Helena beamed at Beatrice before waving her hand again—a gesture that was so wholly herself that Beatrice could not help but laugh as her friend sauntered out of the room, calling, “Anything for you, dear Bea!”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was after dinner, and Helena, Beatrice, and Marcus were sitting in one of the castle’s many drawing rooms, enjoying a glass of port by the fire.

 
Beatrice was basking in the warmth of the hearth, her stomach pleasantly full after the delicious meal. She was feeling good, better than she had in some time after the bath and the cathartic cry, and was immensely enjoying the conversation with Helena and Marcus. At least until Marcus asked the dreaded question.

  “An’ how is Frances, dare I ask?” Marcus chuckled as he took a sip from his glass.

  Frances. Beatrice had managed to completely forget his existence these last few days, what with the commotion of traveling and the events of the previous day. Now, however, his boyish face reared up in her mind, complete with his perpetual smug grin and the little curl of golden hair that always hung down over his forehead just so.