Highlander's Stolen Love: A Medieval Scottish Historical Highland Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  “Have you nothing to say to your betrothed?” he asked, slowing slinking closer, revealing more of his detestable visage.

  The floorboards creaked in protest of his weight. He continued to leer at Louise. It was as if he was trying to remove her skimpy clothing with his eyes.

  “You are not my betrothed.” Louise hissed, instinctively covering her chest with her arms.

  “You are wrong, woman,” he spat.

  Jean Philippe had reached the bed where Louise sat. She froze when he sat down next to her. Almost immediately she smelt the reek of wine on his breath. When his hand rubbed over the naked skin on her leg, she had to stifle a scream that almost escaped her mouth.

  “You are so beautiful, Louise. Finally, I have you. I have waited so long for this moment.” The sound of his voice was like poison slowly seeping through her bloodstream.

  “You will never have me. I would rather die than be your woman.” Louise turned to look him in the eye with the most detonating expression she could muster.

  “In time, you will come to appreciate me and all the luxuries I am able to provide you,” he said, confidently.

  She creased her brow. What is he talking about?

  “What do you have to offer? You are but a squire in the service of your liege lord.” She intuitively knew that this was no longer the case.

  He chuckled. “You are mistaken.”

  He stroked her cheek where the small wound was. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if he was lost in another world. “It makes me so angry that you forced me to hurt you. If you had told that brute of a man that I am the man you love, none of this would have been necessary…”

  Louise felt that he was getting angrier the more he spoke. Jean Philippe was such an unpredictable man. His moods changed like the April weather – one moment he was almost kind, and the very next, he could kill with ruthless abandon.

  “Instead, you betrayed me. You lied to me. You lied about your betrothal. I know you would never do that to the man you love. I have seen the passion you harbor for me in your eyes.”

  His voice softened again as the final words passed his lips. So subtle, in fact, as if he was her lover. Yet, Louise never failed to notice the evil undercurrent in his tone. It was menacing like the words he now uttered.

  “You will have to wait for the pleasures of my embrace for a short while longer. I will not have you soiled in the eyes of God,” he continued.

  All manner of thoughts coursed through her brain. What was he talking about? The man was delusional – mad even. He had no connection to the real world. He actually believed that she had feelings for him.

  “I have made all of the arrangements. We are to be married before Christmas. And then, you will be mine. Tell me how much you are looking forward to being my wife, chéri?”

  “I will never be your wife.” Louise hissed again. She moved away, but Jean Philippe grabbed her chin and twisted her neck so that his mouth was only a finger’s width away.

  “You will do as you are told, woman.”

  There it was again, the constantly simmering aggression that was never far away, like an active volcano. It was always the same since the dawn of men; narcissists had no value for human life except that of their own. Such men put their needs above all else. Their most sickening attribute is that they could falsify kind emotions to get what they wanted – they had no empathy, just personal desires and simmering hatred.

  “NEVER! You will never have me. Doogle will come for me. And when he does, he will kill you for having hurt me.” Louise felt cold rage shoot through her bloodstream. Despite her anger, she saw what she recognized as fear flicker in his eyes, no matter how brief the sign.

  “You say that now, Louise. However, in time, you will come to accept me as your man. I will make you very happy indeed.” Jean Philippe pulled her closer and pressed his mouth on hers.

  Louise felt bile rise up her throat when his tongue probed and slithered across her lips. When his left hand started to stroke her breast, she bit down on his lip with all of the force she could muster – the metallic taste of blood soon followed. She swore to herself that he would never kiss her again. She would never betray Doogle.

  “Argh! You bitch!” Jean Philippe pulled back and stumbled a few paces away from the bed.

  When he turned around, Louise saw that blood was streaming down his chin. There was a lot, and it landed on the wooden slats on the floor.

  “If you ever come near me again, I will hurt you more than that. And when my Doogle hears of this, he will make your end a painful and slow one,” she said in a slow and menacing tone.

  “You will never see that man again. But enough about him. It appears that you are not yet ready for my kindness. I am afraid that harshness will be the order of the day until you see reason.”

  Even though it seemed for a moment that Jean Philippe was about to cry, he quickly regained his habitual spiteful composure. Again, Louise felt fear in her veins. She wanted to shout the vilest things at him, but she could not put a voice to the insults that were gushing through her brain.

  “Fortunately for you, I have my trusted friend, Gaston. He will put you in your place again. And he will continue to do so until you understand that it is I who is your liege lord now.” He turned his head in the direction of the door. “Gaston! Bring me some wine.”

  Moments later, Gaston entered the chamber. In many respects, he was more unappealing than his master. The tall, spindly man looked as if the next gust of wind might blow him over. Yet, what the eye failed to see under the clothing was that the man was all sinew and hard muscle. The minion with the narrow face and serpent-like green eyes was a murderer and bodyguard all in one.

  “Voici, Monsieur,” said Gaston, placing a pewter pitcher and a goblet on the wooden table. He bowed obsequiously.

  “Merci, Gaston.” Jean Philippe sat down and poured himself some of the ruby red liquid. Continuously eyeing Louise, he sipped the beverage and smacked his lips contently. “Gaston, you will remind the woman of her place in my home. You have her at your full discretion. Just try not to mark her permanently. I want to enjoy her skin on our wedding night.”

  Gaston snorted uncouthly. “It would be my pleasure, Monsieur.” Like a venomous snake, he slowly stepped over to where Louise sat.

  She moved away until her back touched the headboard on the bed. Her eyes moved to the left and right – there was no escape. She was at this loathsome man’s mercy. In the corner of her eye, she saw that Jean Philippe was enjoying himself. He obviously knew what was going to happen next.

  Before she knew what was happening, Gaston ripped her nightdress from her person – she was stark naked in the blink of an eye. The brute strength and speed of the torturer were astounding. Louise lifted her hands to cover her breasts. She pulled her knees up and did her best to conceal her bare sex from the men’s lustful scrutiny.

  “Pin her on the bed, Gaston. I would like to take a closer look at my prize,” ordered Jean Philippe.

  Louise screamed when Gaston’s callused fingers manhandled her roughly, inviting chuckles of delight on his part. She did all she could to try and squirm out of his vice-like grip. It was impossible. He was too strong. The struggle lasted for what seemed like an eternity with her not gaining anything. When fatigue set in, Louise could do nothing but lie still and wait for the next part of Jean Philippe’s sordid game.

  “Not so haughty now, eh,” said Jean Philippe. He stood by the bed holding the goblet in his left hand. He leered down at her. His gaze roved from head to toe. He grunted his appreciation for what he saw. “I always knew that you were beautiful in the flesh.”

  “You will never have me!” Louise did her best to sound confident, but she could not contain the stammer of fear in her voice.

  “Oh, but I already do.” He made his point by roughly prodding and squeezing her breasts.

  When his hands stroked over the lush hair of her pudenda, moving lower without inhibition, Louise screamed again at the top of her
voice. Was this to be it? Would Jean Philippe break his earlier pledge and claim his carnal prize before the nuptials were completed. Or worse – would he share her with his trusty companion and then the rest of his men?

  Louise closed her eyes and prayed to God for the torture to stop. She tried to picture Doogle in her mind to blot out the invasive examination of her person.

  He will save me, I know it.

  15

  15

  * * *

  A Plan is Hatched

  * * *

  Château Le Blanc, Kingdom of France, December 1356

  * * *

  “That bleedin’ place is nigh impregnable,” said Mungo.

  He, Brice, Murtagh, and Doogle hid in the shrubbery close to Château Le Blanc. They had left Alick and Bruce in charge of the rest of the men back at the Duroc farm.

  The four men watched in silence, the air from their hot breaths mingled with the cold winter air, creating spiraling white plumes above their heads. No one answered Mungo immediately. Each Highlander was lost in his thoughts. Nothing could be heard apart from the occasional rustle of greenery when a Scotsman moved or Murtagh’s heavy breathing until…

  “We would need a small army to get into that place,” said Brice at last.

  “Aye, that bastard has sure gotten himself a safe bastion,” concurred Murtagh. He shifted his weight, inviting a slight crunching sound from the frozen foliage beneath him.

  He and the others eyed the rectangular castle with four towers that were surrounded by a wide moat. Judging by the activity in and about the structure, it was evident that it was well garrisoned. From a first estimate, Murtagh decided that at least one hundred men formed a part of Jean Philippe’s small army.

  They had passed a little village that belonged to the liege lord of these domains during the ride over from Iteuil. It was picturesque, but it was clear that the travails of war and the resulting tax burden had hit the inhabitants hard. Poverty and hardship were everywhere the eye could see. Brice had done his utmost to provide alms to the poor they encountered en route. However, even the son of a laird had limits to the amount of coin he could part with.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Doogle. Worry laced his voice.

  He could feel Louise’s presence close by; it was painful to know that she was inside the château that was only a short ride away. The helplessness of his predicament burned inside of him like a virus. The mere notion of having her so close to him and yet so far away tore at his insides.

  It was the fourth day since the incursion at the Duroc farmstead, and he had not gotten a single night’s sleep since. His mind was plagued by images of Louise and Jean Philippe. He prayed that Murtagh was right and that Jean Philippe, as a coward, would not attempt to have his way with Louise just yet.

  But it was such flimsy faith upon which to pin all of his hopes. What if Jean Philippe married Louise the very moment he returned to his château? For all Doogle knew, she was already his wife and the marriage consummated with the union of the flesh.

  Would Louise come back to him after that? Would she be able to look Doogle in the eye and still claim that she loved him? He knew that Louise was honorable and God-fearing. He feared that she might accept her destiny and put up with being Jean Philippe’s wife just because it was what God had ordained. He had to know.

  “Don’t ye worry, laddie. We will find a way. We always do,” said Mungo, who noticed the worry playing on Doogle’s face.

  “The more I think about it, the more I think that Louise is gone for good,” said Doogle.

  “Don’t haver, laddie,” added Mungo, meaning that he should not talk nonsense. “We will find a way. Won’t we, Brice?”

  Brice looked serious. He did not hold much hope. However, he was not a man to give up easily. “We need to find out as much as we can with regard to Louise. We need to ken whether she is well. Also, we must find out exactly how many soldiers guard that place.”

  “Aye. But from what I can see, we will have to deal with more than a hundred men,” said Murtagh.

  “We have had worse odds than that before,” said Mungo, shrugging nonchalantly.

  His remark prompted the first smile onto Doogle’s face since Louise was forcefully taken from him. Mungo always had a penchant for seeing things with a positive eye.

  “All right then. We have seen enough here. I suggest we go back to the village. We might find one of the soldiers from the castle in the tavern. If we ply him with drink, we are sure to find out what we need to ken,” said Brice.

  Murtagh and Mungo nodded their approval and started to slither backward through the undergrowth. Doogle remained frozen on the spot. Something told him to wait for a moment longer. He willed his vision to make out anything about the castle that might tell him that the woman he loved was well.

  “Doogle, we must go. They might have patrols combing the environ,” said Brice, softly. He placed his hand on his brother’s arm and squeezed it.

  “Just a little longer.” Not once did Doogle look away from the château. “Crivens!” he blurted.

  “What?” asked Brice.

  “It’s Louise – up there, on the battlements,” said Doogle, pointing ahead.

  “By God, ye are right.”

  Doogle almost cried out in pain. She looked like a lone figure captured in a dark portrait. She did not move a muscle. She just stood there with her hand resting on the crenellation that marked the top of the castle’s walls. Her gaze was for the surrounding land.

  She remained still for a little while longer. Then she turned her head and looked right in the direction where Brice and Doogle were hidden. It was as if she sensed their presence. The silk scarf around her neck fluttered in the breeze. Louise was like a beacon of hope for Doogle. Her burgundy red dress that befitted a lady of high rank shone like a jewel in the sunlight that occasionally broke past the steely embrace of the scudding clouds.

  “She kens that I am here, Brother;” said Doogle through clenched teeth. “She’s all right – I can feel it. Jean Philippe has not had his way with her. Murtagh was right. But we dinnae have much time. We need to act now.”

  “And we will, Doogle. I promise ye. Let’s go back to the village and see what we can find out. After that, we will determine what to do,” said Brice.

  Fresh hope and strength washed through Doogle’s person. The mere glimpse of his ladylove infused him with renewed resolve and faith. Even at a distance and parted, Louise gave him what he needed to continue to believe in the good of God. She was what any woman should be to her man, and now it was time for Doogle to step up and be the man she deserved.

  Doogle took a final glimpse in the direction of the castle before joining Brice in the scrub. While he crawled, he swore that he would never let despair overtake him again. It was his duty to Louise to fight for as long as possible, to the death even.

  A short while later, the four men were mounted on their horses and galloping in the direction of the small village of Le Blanc. As was the case in Iteuil, the inhabitants looked at the newcomers with trepidation and suspicion.

  “There it is, laddies,” said Murtagh, indicating to the tavern.

  They tethered their horses to the stabling that belonged to the inn and entered the establishment. It was dark inside, and the air was thick with the odor of cooking and wine. A hearth provided warmth against the cold of winter. Brice could not help but notice that the place was far nicer than ‘Le Petit Cochon’ where they had lodged in Paris.

  “Quite pleasant this,” said Mungo, looking around.

  In the corner of his eye, he saw exactly the man they were looking for. A lone man-at-arms sat at a table. He looked as if he was well into his cups. Mungo furtively flicked his index finger in his direction.

  Brice immediately picked up the signal and nodded at his companion. He walked over to the bar and ordered some pitchers of wine and some food. To his surprise, they were serving fresh boar stew. The poverty of the village dwellers did not implicate that they
could afford such luxury. Finally, he assumed that it was the coin coming from Jean Philippe’s men that oiled the tavern’s finances.

  “Bonjour, ami. Do ye mind if me and my friends sit with ye and offer ye some cups of wine and some food?” asked Brice. “We are new to these parts and far from home.”

  The sole patron in the inn grunted something through his beard. He did not seem to care what they did. But the promise of more wine and some food was more than enough incentive to convince him that the company would be appreciated. He slapped his hand on the stool next to him and snorted his acceptance.

  Brice and the others sat down. Murtagh poured the wine into the individual cups. The five men sat in silence for a while, nursing their beverages. The drunken man-at-arms was quick to replenish his goblet and continued his drinking without uttering a single word.

  It was a complicated situation because Brice did not want to give away their Scottish identity because most probably the news had spread that men from the Highlands were looking for Louise. They had donned French peasant’s clothing for this occasion. Also, Murtagh and Mungo had to remain silent because they did not speak French. Only Doogle and Brice were proficient enough to appear French, and even with their accents – if that raised suspicion, they could always claim to be from another part of the country – very few people traveled far from home in this period.

  When the food arrived a short while later, the stranger attacked the bowl with relish, dipping his spoon and the bread into it with the gusto of a man who had not eaten a meal in days. The Highlanders were equally as enthusiastic – the food was excellent.

  “C’est bon, eh?” asked Brice of their new companion.

  “Oui, c’est bon.” The stranger grunted and did not offer any opening for the conversation to continue. Instead, he redirected his full attention to his meal, alternating his eating with large swigs of the wine.

  Brice watched the man-at-arms. He was a bulky person with broad shoulders. He was a short, stout man who almost appeared as tall as he was wide. His hair was dark and graying in places. Brice estimated that he was in his late thirties.