HIGHLAND SCANDAL
Mageela Troche
Historical Romance
Sweet Cravings Publishing
www.sweetcravingspublishing.com
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A Sweet Cravings Publishing Book
Historical Romance
Highland Scandal
Copyright © 2015 Mageela Troche
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63105-459-4
First E-book Publication: January 2015
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by Lori Paige
Proofread by Courtney Karmiller
All cover art and logo copyright © 2015 by Sweet Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Sweet Cravings Publishing
www.sweetcravingspublishing.com
Dedication
To my nephew, Lucky-Seth, you bring me joy and pride in my life and I wait to see the wonderful things that will happen in your life. I love you.
HIGHLAND SCANDAL
Mageela Troche
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
Men professed women lacked the mental necessity for politics, yet they used ladies as pawns in their machinations for power and riches. Men called these moves marriage arrangements. Yet, the brides were the ones who had to spend the rest of their days living with these political choices.
Rowen MacKenzie was one of those women whose life was not her own, which was fitting since her heart wasn’t, either.
She had been foolish and loved the wrong man. A deep desire gnawed her from the inside out. It came from her very soul. She wanted nothing more than to forget her duty, to live a life of her choosing. When she was a lass and had trailed behind her brothers, she had dreamed of running away to live in forests and glens. She planned to live among the wilds and the fairies. She could hunt, shoot a bow and arrow, and even wield a sword. One day, she had slipped away from her home with nary a word to anyone. With her provisions lashed to her back like the clan women, she slipped into the woods. For most of the day, she either swam or sat soaking her feet at a burn. She had caught a rabbit and built up a fire. She was prepared for the night, not afraid of the calls of wild animals surrounding her and seeming to grow more menacing as the sun dipped from the sky.
Her father had found her as the sky turned the burnished red of autumn leaves and the air cooled. His face had turned ruddy as he bellowed at her. Her hair had blown from the force of his breath. He shook her in between pacing. Once he calmed, he dragged her down beside him on a fallen log. He spoke a great deal, most of which she closed her ears to. When her turn came, she told him that she refused to live her life as others dictated. She wished to have a say in her life, to do as she pleased. Her father laughed at her. She had stomped her feet and screamed that he should not treat her feelings as a jest. The burst of anger covered her hurt. He always understood her. Then he told her one truth that she called upon throughout her life—no man or woman lived as they pleased, even he. He had to be laird, lead the MacKenzies, and care for the families, people who looked to him. Rowen had teared up. He hugged her close and told her another truth—there are times when life can be your own.
For many years, she had a life free of burdens. No husband or children to care for. No matter, though, for she knew the day would come when that duty would fall to her. Her father avoided arranging a marriage contract. It had lulled her into a place where marriage never seemed a possibility for her. Then the day came, an ordinary one where she had come in from riding. She had been summoned by her brother—the Chief of Clan MacKenzie and the Earl of Wester Ross.
Instead of finding him in the Great Hall, she entered his chamber to find him fussing over his wife, Brenna, and her swollen feet that matched her belly.
“All is well?” she questioned. A sliver of fear picked up the pace of her heart as she spotted Brenna lying in bed.
Brenna hauled herself up on her elbows. “Aye, except Caelen tells me that my feet are twice their normal size. I must take his word for it since I cannot see anything but this.” She ran her hand over her expanding middle.
“You rest and I shall oversee everything.” At least that task gave her something to fill the hours.
“That isn’t the reason I called you here.” Caelen set her foot on the folded blankets. Brenna gave him a nod of encouragement. He rose and planted his hands on his hips.
“A marriage has been arranged for you.”
His words sounded in such a tone as if she had been sentenced to death. She waited for the burning of her chest to die before she spoke. She lifted her chin, prepared for the strike his words would deliver.
“Who is to be my husband?”
“Eacharn, son of Laird Murray.”
“I have never met him!” she screeched.
“Nay. It is a sound arrangement and he is a good man.” Caelen looked over his shoulder to his wife. She grinned up at Rowen.
“You will be happy,” Brenna said, with more hope than with surety.
“What if I do not like him? My choice does not matter.”
“I would not give you to a man not worthy of you.” Caelen rested a hand on her shoulder. “Rowen, it is time you wed.”
The time loomed closer with each step of her horse.
Her mount shied, running from the same fears as she. Caelen looked at her. His blond brow cocked.
“I wish life could be different, Rowen, but please cease with the sour face.”
“That is not the reason for what you call my sour face. I am tired of being on this beast.” She sniffed her sleeve. “Its unique scent has soaked into my skin.”
“Rowen, do not fear. The Murrays will love you.”
“Then I shall be their banshee. I will attach myself to the Murrays and protect them from disasters.”
Caelen groaned. “Cease with that silliness. Aye, you are pale and your hair is long and light blonde so in some light, it seems to shroud you in white, but your flesh is not wasting away.”
“And my shoulders do not look like wings.” She looked down at each one.
“Aye, and I haven’t heard you wail since you were a child.”
“Oh Caelen, you do not tease very well.” A small smile graced her face at his bad attempt to ease her.
If he
felt any worries, then she had fears. When most people glanced her way, she noticed their moment of cold fear. Some crossed themselves. She always passed them without revealing the turmoil in her. Then the whispers started and chased after her, sounding like a hive with all the bees buzzing away.
Worse were the tales of witchcraft that highlanders spread through the land. Here, where the old tales and beliefs still held root, Rowen learned to ignore it, letting her annoyance be the only emotion she displayed. However, she lived among her clan. Within the lands, she was safe. She left the protection behind and being among the Murrays who didn’t know her…life could be a hardship. They could blame her for some twist of weather or stealing of cattle—or they could hold her responsible for the souring of wine.
Rowen had a small reprieve to be foolish for a while longer. Naturally, the wedding party should have sailed from her home. But with the king fighting with Hakon the Old and sending his crippled boats away to the safety of Orkney Isles, Caelen refused to risk any chance of a clash. Instead, the unrest between the Norse king and Alexander prevented that swift way of travel. Thankfully, her horse, Maiden, trailed behind the horses ahead of her. She was sure-footed, strong, and sweet-natured, leaving Rowen lost in her thoughts. She could still let herself love Lachlan for a little while longer. Yet with every step they traveled through the glens and mountains, the heavy lump in her stomach grew and weighed her down. How did one say goodbye to the one person who brought you to life and made the world around you crackle? She shook her head.
“This is the better choice for you. The time has come for you to wed. You deserve a home and family of your own.”
“I suppose I do.” She let out a rattling sigh. Male voices flittered through the broadleaf woodland. A deep tone laced with humor spoke. The words were barely audible. Lachlan. It took all her strength not to react to it.
The men halted at the forest’s edge. She moved Maiden forward. Lachlan sat upon his mount. He was straight-bodied with a honed warrior’s form. His hunting plaid blended with the brown, earthy surroundings. Surrounding him, few leaves clung to the tree branches. Their bright oranges and coppers highlighted the burnished reds and deep golden-blond strands of his hair. Every detail of his face had carved its likeness upon her mind. Nevertheless, her hungry gaze ran over him. His rounded brows rose and lined his high forehead. He flicked his thumb against the tip of his straight, small nose. On another man, that nose would be called feminine, but that was one word that could never be used when describing him. Her brother and Lachlan possessed different personalities. Most people would rather deal with Lachlan with his open, amicable expression. Most never realized the lethal glint in his brown eyes—beautiful, brown eyes, colored with more yellow and amber than brown.
“Welcome to MacLean lands, my lord.” The right corner of his shapely, thin-lipped mouth lifted before he flashed a smile. “The Laird sends his warm greetings, whereas I’m glad you have finally arrived.”
“Been on the horse long?” Caelen asked.
“I’ve grown hooves.”
He glanced at her, then away. She bowed her head, straightening the reins in her hold. This was the moment when she could wail. She felt as if she had betrayed him.
Lachlan turned his horse and headed toward MacLean Castle. She trailed behind them. She stared at his broad back. He rode stiffly in his saddle. He spared not one glance at her, making a point not to look in her direction so that he never looked upon her. He continued his steady discussion with Caelen.
She did the same. Not that she needed to look upon him. She was aware of him. The air crackled from his presence and his voice seemed to be the only sound she heard. She could pretend to ignore him if he was willing to do the same. Aye, her ears cocked every time she heard his voice. Aye, she snuck glances at him. She wanted to talk to him, to explain. This was not the time. She would catch him in the castle.
MacLean Castle loomed ahead. The weathered stone blended with the gray sky. A wind whipped up from the firth. She tucked her fur tighter about her. Above the curtain wall, the tower rose. The rain started then, slashing against her. With her chin tucked against her chest, she rode into the courtyard.
Lachlan swung off his horse. He took a great interest in his horse’s mane, and even gave him a pat. Usually, he sent her glances, winks, or smiles. Caelen came over and helped her down. She turned away from him. Lachlan was doing her a favor.
“Caelen,” MacLean said in way of greeting. Ailsa elbowed him in his ribs. He rolled his nearly black eyes.
“It is Lord Wester Ross,” Ailsa said.
“Not to me. Rowen, please come and warm yourself.”
A groom took her mount. She gathered her cloak about her and headed into the great hall. The deer antlers hung in the center of the hall, surrounded by tapestries and homey touches Ailsa had added to the once stark space. Once in front of the roaring fire, she stretched out her hands. The heat slowly chipped away at the chill.
Ailsa stared at her. Her green eyes shined and Rowen knew she wanted to speak. She must have gathered her resolve because she said, “Marriage can be quite frightening. The life…nay, the person, you were will no longer exist.”
Rowen wished she would cease.
“I was terrified of wedding Duncan.” She looked at her husband with a besotted visage. “But with patience, kindness, and openness, I fell in love and now live a blessed life.”
Her spine straightened. “I shall do my duty like women have before and will continue to do.”
“It doesn’t need to be a hair shirt you must wear for your lifetime.”
A roar rent through the great hall followed by the sweetest sound—a bairn’s laugh. Connor ran over, wielding his sword while the nurse brought Sioda—the sweetest lass in the highlands, with fiery red hair, a temper hotter than the red of her locks, and a scowl that matched it. Or at least that was how her father, Duncan, described her.
Connor halted and bow. He threw himself against her legs. “Ye smell like horse.” He ran out of the hall and toward the kitchen, most likely to steal a treat.
“I think you should clean up.” Ailsa rocked Sioda.
“Aye, it would not be good to meet my husband for the first time smelling of horse.” She smiled. It even felt as if she meant it.
“Thankfully Lachlan sent word when he spotted you, so the water should be here very soon.” Ailsa and Sioda shared a look. Rowen might have laughed if not for the tug she felt at the mention of his name. She shook it off.
Sioda stretched out her chubby arms. Rowen took her. She followed the lairdess to a chamber at the top of the castle tower. The room was small, but sufficient. She would not be here long.
Rowen wandered to the small window. The faint Scottish sunlight strained to shine. She didn’t even feel its warmth. She stared out to MacLean lands. From behind, she heard her bath being prepared.
“All is ready,” Ailsa said. “This is Anna. She’ll assist you.”
Rowen handed over Sioda. Anna stared at Rowen. Ailsa departed from the chamber. This fresh-faced lass must be new to the castle. She blinked, and then took Rowen’s mantle from her shoulders. Once undressed, Rowen sank low in the tub. This wasn’t an everyday washing. She was preparing for her husband.
* * * *
Lachlan lingered in the courtyard. He refused to step inside. No doubt, he could find a widow to warm the night with. He just had to stay away from the Great Hall and Rowen. Damn, she was so beautiful sitting upon her horse. She was so near to him. He could have snatched her up and run away. He couldn’t go near her. He kicked at a rock. Why did MacLean have to permit the marriage here? MacKenzie Castle was fitting enough. But the lairdess had to be pregnant. Murray’s lands were just as fitting, but lacked a female touch. Och, weren’t there women in the clan? Such ruminations failed to matter. She was here.
He peered up at the tower. She was in there and tonight he would be also…unless there was an attack or a raid. He prayed for a raid.
Lachlan leaned aga
inst the wall. He straightened as Caelen took his spot beside him, as he had countless times before. They watched the castle people stroll by them.
“All is good?” Caelen asked.
“Aye. Your wife?”
“Fat with child again. She wishes for a daughter.” He crossed his bare arms.
“You wish for a son.”
“I know what men do with women.” Castle folk hurried on at Caelen’s scowl.
“This marriage should happen soon.”
“Aye, Father Murray is here. I heard about Father Sullivan.”
Lachlan chuckled. “A skeleton of a man. Why they sent that man—I do not know. He had been here for two days. He stuttered whenever Duncan laid his gaze on him. When he saw me, he looked like he smelled something most foul.”
“Women?”
“Sin, so I guess the daughters of Eve left a certain smell only priest can catch whiff of. He fled in the morning.”
“Did you really chase after him?”
“Aye, he said, ‘you are the devil’. Me and Duncan were standing like this, so I had to find out which one of us he spoke of.” Lachlan chuckled. “I ran beside his animal. He kicked his heels harder, but I stayed alongside him. When I asked him, that poor holy man paled and then reddened. He proclaimed we were both devils. I thanked him and told him I wouldn’t want to lose my reputation.”
Caelen laughed. Lachlan felt a lightness that had been missing since the wedding negotiations began. It was the damn hardest thing to make Caelen laugh.
His laughter cut off at the approaching riders. The Murrays arrived. Lachlan stared at Eacharn riding among his father’s men. Bile rose in his throat and its foul taste filled his mouth. He gulped back the burning spew.
He should hate that man. He was getting to spend the rest of his days with the woman Lachlan loved. But Eacharn, the plump bastard, was a good man. He was always in the center of a fight. He was sharp-minded and loved Lachlan’s humor. Hell, Lachlan admitted it—he liked him. Not that he’d say it to him.
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