Highland Savior: A Medieval Scottish Highlander Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  No balls or celebrations were ever given at his castle apart from the generous feast he gave to his servants every year at Christmas, and neither did he attend them. It was rumored that he had a mistress, a married woman, but no-one had ever seen her or indeed had a clue to her identity - if she existed at all. There was another even more salacious one that suggested he preferred men to women - well, if that were true it was his own business. After all, there was no law that she knew of that compelled a man to marry at all. Today he was dressed in working clothes although he was coming to see a nobleman. That was disrespectful, to say the least, but typical. His dazzling blue eyes swept over her for a second then passed on as if he had not seen her at all.

  * * *

  Malcolm, whom she knew reasonably well, came over to bid her good day. He was a stocky man of medium height with curly brown hair and hazel eyes. She guessed him to be in his late thirties. He always and a smile and a cheery word for her, and he was as unlike his employer as it was possible to be.

  "Good mornin' Maisie!" he waved to her as he passed her, running slightly to keep up with Logan's long strides, "how are ye keepin'?"

  * * *

  "Fine, Malky!" she replied with a warm smile, "you?"

  Malcolm nodded at Logan and grimaced behind his back.

  "Overworked as usual!" he mouthed quietly. If Logan Fraser had heard him he gave no sign but strode purposefully up to the staircase that led to the apartments of the Laird, where a servant met him and showed him in. Malcolm relaxed thankfully.

  * * *

  "I'm going to eat something," Maisie declared, "do you want to keep me company?"

  Malcolm rubbed his hands together.

  "Aye!" he said with relish, "I'm that hungry I could eat the Laird's left leg!"

  Maisie pretended to be puzzled.

  "Which Laird?" she asked, "not ours - his legs are far too skinny!"

  Malcolm gave her a playful dig in the ribs, laughing.

  "Naw - my Laird!" he told her, with a grim smile, "thon thigh o' his could keep a faimly fed for a fortnight!"

  * * *

  Maisie grimaced at the thought.

  "Ugh!" she protested, "stop it, Malky! You're making me feel quite sick!"

  They went into the kitchen where the cook, Agnes, gave them both milk and a stack of freshly baked oatcakes. They sat down in the servants' hall to eat.

  "I hear yer young lady's gettin' wed," Malky observed.

  "Yes, in a month," Maisie smiled at him, "he seems to be a nice enough fellow. She loves him to distraction, and it looks as if he feels the same about her. I'm always finding them kissing!"

  They laughed.

  "I hear there's bad blood between him and his brother," Malky observed, draining his cup. Maisie shrugged.

  "Yes, well that's none of my business. No doubt she knows what she's doing." Abruptly, she changed the subject, since she never discussed Rosina's private affairs with anyone. Talking about them kissing was one thing, but anything more than that was too intimate to talk about. "Your laird never smiles," she remarked thoughtfully.

  "Aye, he's a bit dour," Malky agreed, "but a better man you could never hope tae meet."

  Maisie was astonished.

  "He always looks so miserable," she remarked, chewing appreciatively on the last oatcake.

  "He isna' one for smilin,'" he said thoughtfully, "thinks a lot, says little, but he has a good heart. He is a fair man."

  "Well, I still don't like him," Maisie replied sourly. Malcolm laughed,

  "Ye're no' the only yin," he sighed, "an' it's a pity. Sometimes things that look good are no' sae nice inside, an' sometimes it's the ither way roon'."

  Just then they heard Logan's deep voice calling Malcolm's name from outside. He scrambled up and wiped his mouth.

  * * *

  "Thank ye, lass," he said appreciatively, "I wis ready for that."

  Logan was already astride his horse when they came out. Maisie

  curtsied and this time he nodded and his glance raked her from head to foot. She felt as though she were naked.

  3

  Logan

  Logan Fraser had very few clothes. He had garments for work, and one dress outfit that his father had left him when he died, but none for calling on people in the afternoon, so Laird Buchanan was going to have to tolerate him the way he was, since Logan labored on the land with his men and would not apologize for it. He had been negotiating the buying of some land from Laird Buchanan, and as usual, he was his no-nonsense, down-to-business self. A maid brought them wine, which he refused politely, and Laird Buchanan asked him why he would not drink it.

  * * *

  "I do not like the taste," he replied frankly, "and I do not like the way it affects me."

  "Surely one glass -"

  Logan looked at him levelly. The icy regard from his sky blue eyes was piercing.

  "Sir, I think I already said I do not like it," he stated firmly.

  "Some ale?" the Laird persisted. Logan sighed inwardly and met him half-way. He did not want to spend more time here than he had to.

  "May I have some milk?" he asked, "I like to keep a clear head when I am doing business."

  The Laird was surprised but grateful that Logan Fraser had accepted some hospitality at least. The man was impossible, and he had begun to wish he had never invited him to Rosina's wedding, but they traded and did business together, so they had to be good neighbors and stay on friendly terms, much as it pained him. He wondered if there was anyone whom Fraser actually liked, or who liked him, but if he enjoyed living without human society it was none of Hugh's business. Some people were just constructed differently, and only God knew why. No matter.

  * * *

  They agreed on a price and shook hands on it, then Logan finished his milk and nodded to Laird Hugh.

  "Good day to you, Sir," he said politely, "and thank you for the drink." Then he turned and walked out without a backward glance.

  * * *

  Hugh stood looking after him, amazed. There had not been a single word wasted in the entire exchange - no pleasantries at all, just business. Hugh concluded that the man had no feelings.

  In fact, Logan had plenty of feelings, but he kept them hidden behind an impenetrable wall of stone so that no-one could take them out and trample on them as they had once before. He had carefully locked away his tenderness, kindness, and love, and only allowed sternness, anger and bitterness to show. People shied away from him, he knew, but that was the way that he liked it. That way no-one could hurt him again.

  He put to the back of his mind the fact that he was unutterably lonely, and sometimes at night when he could not contain his thoughts and memories, he cried himself to sleep. He hated weddings - in fact, he hated all gatherings of people with a passion - he was scared of them in case he was forced to make idle conversation with people from whom he sought to stay away. He was determined to make sure that he was the last one in and the first one out, doing no more than courtesy demanded. He would do that and no more, then no-one could fault him.

  He had had a clockmaker from Glasgow make a silver clock for the happy couple as a wedding present, but if they had had a hundred more it was no his problem. He had done his duty. He would eat moderately, drink water then make a discreet exit after congratulating the bride and groom. He had been invited with a partner, of course, but even if he had wanted to bring one, he could not think of a single maid who would want to go with him.

  In fact, he was wrong. There were many young ladies who would have been very happy for Logan Fraser to walk escort him to the wedding, and even walk down the aisle with her, because he was without a doubt the most handsome man any of them had ever seen, with his striking coal-black hair and ice-blue eyes. However, his dour demeanor was absolutely terrifying to most young ladies. And at thirty years old, he was practically in his dotage, he thought, laughing inwardly. No, marriage was not on the cards for him, and he didn't care. If he told himself often enough he would believe it,
he thought.

  When he got back he stabled his horse, a chestnut mare called Maggie. He always stabled her himself, because he loved her so much he would trust no-one else to do it. He brushed her till she shone, and hugged her neck, laughing at the little whickering noises she made as he fed her slices of apple. Anyone who knew him would have been amazed to see him so animated and loving towards a fellow creature. But Logan much preferred animals to people. They could not hurt him.

  * * *

  He kissed Maggie's nose and went upstairs to his office, intending to start on his accounts, and as he expected, he opened the door and a river of dogs came bounding out to greet him. In fact, there were eight of them in all shapes and sizes from the tiniest terrier to the tallest mastiff. They jumped on him and licked his hands, every one of them trying to get his attention at once. He shouted, clapped his hands and they all fell silent at once, sitting on their haunches and watching him, then, one by one they lay down and went to sleep.

  Logan finished his work, lay back in his chair and stretched. The thought of the wedding came back again. It was a week away and the closer it came the more he dreaded it. He consoled himself by thinking that eight days from now it would all be over.

  A maidservant came with his washing water and he quickly made his ablutions and got into bed. The sound of the dogs' quiet breathing soothed him as it always did and he peacefully went to sleep, hoping that the darkness would bring no night terrors, as it sometimes did. He did not pray, for his faith had been shattered.

  * * *

  Fortunately, that night was quiet, and he slept well, waking refreshed and ready for the day. He was going to see some of his tenant farmers today. It was strange, he thought, that the only people to whom he could show a little bit of his tender side was to his servants and farmers, and they cheered him up.

  * * *

  In the first croft he went to, the MacPhersons, he found Mrs. MacPherson with a tiny newborn in her arms. He smiled when he saw it and dismounted from Maggie to hold the baby. She smiled at him and handed the baby over.

  * * *

  "Haud his heid, My Laird," she admonished, "he is no' yet old enough tae hold it up himself."

  "A boy?" Logan was enchanted by the deep blue eyes that stared back at him, and he felt a longing so deep that it almost ached. "What is his name, Ellie?"

  Ellie blushed.

  "If ye dinnae' mind, my Laird, we wid like tae ca' him Logan." She was wringing her hands nervously.

  "Mind?" he said incredulously, "mind? Of course, I do not mind, Ellie! I am honored, and he is a very handsome little boy. I will send a present for him."

  * * *

  He smiled again before he left to find Colin MacPherson. Ellie felt warm inside, knowing that a smile from Logan was a rarely-bestowed gift.

  4

  Alasdair

  Alasdair was looking forward to the wedding of course. He was a man's man, and he partook of all the pleasures that a fit man in his prime enjoyed. He was not in the first flush of youth - but his bride was, still with years and years ahead of her to carry healthy children. He played cards, went to see bare-knuckled boxing and dog fights, and occasionally availed himself of the services of a certain kind of woman in the bustling streets of Glasgow. These were things that a man-about-town was expected to do.

  Not for him was the management of lands and estates. Although his wife's property was about to become his after the current Laird died (which, he prayed would not be too long, although he was still only middle-aged) Alasdair intended to appoint managers and stewards to attend to the dirty work of farming and accounting, then enjoy the fruits of their labor. He was sure Rosina would obey him. After all, was she not absolutely head over heels in love with him already? Yes, she was, and she would do whatever he wanted, or he would make her do it.

  The loss of his inheritance had hit him hard, and his allowance, although a fortune to some people, was not enough to keep him in the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed. He had always been rich, but when his gambling became a fever his father had simply turned the taps off. There was to be no more gambling money or money to spend on whores. He was allowed to go out one night a week with a pittance in his pocket, and his friends laughed at him.

  He started stealing from his late mother's jewelry collection, and when he had stolen and sold all of it, a valuable painting was about to disappear. As Alasdair carefully and noiselessly took it down from the wall of the great dining room at three in the morning, a light suddenly came out of nowhere as his father, brother and an armed guard materialized out of the darkness, holding lanterns.

  * * *

  "Good morning, Alasdair," Alan McPhail said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I found the empty jewelry box yesterday, but I thought that it was one of the servants. I took them all into my office one by one and questioned them. Many of the ladies cried and one of the men did too. To my eternal shame, I thought he was weak. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think my own son could sell his mother's jewelry to play cards with a crowd of scoundrels!"

  * * *

  "Father - it's not what you think -"

  "Oh? it's not, is it? Then please tell me what it is, exactly." He sat down at the table, and Alasdair's brother Connor did likewise, both looking up at him expectantly. Alasdair put the painting down on the floor and then looked up at them again.

  * * *

  His mind was working overtime wondering how he was going to get out of the situation. He decided to be penitent. He did not feel penitent. He felt furious, but he put his hand over his eyes, shook his head and assumed an expression of shame.

  "I am sorry, Father," he said huskily, "what I did was unforgivable but I beg your pardon anyway. Please say you forgive me."

  His father stood up and looked down at him.

  "I am disgusted with you," he said scornfully, "do you know that our cook, Alison, who has been with us for thirty years, wept and threatened to leave us today? She is a good loyal servant worth ten of you! And there were others!"

  Connor had said nothing up till then, but now he took his father's arm and tried to turn him around to lead him away. Alan shook his hand off.

  "You will go to your room and you will stay there," he said, his voice thick with loathing, "till I see fit to let you out. There will be a guard at the door all the time and IF I feel merciful that day I will allow you ten minutes outside." He paused, breathing heavily, then swept away with Connor following closely on his heels. He was led up to his bedroom where the guard locked the door from outside and stood guard all night. Alasdair was so full of rage that he could not sleep, but the very next morning Connor came to his door, fully dressed.

  "Father is going into Glasgow today," he said calmly, "he wishes to know the name of the person to whom you sold the jewels."

  Alasdair's rage boiled over. He thrust his face up to Connor's and said in tones of deep loathing: "then he must come and ask me himself."

  Connor's dark brown eyes, so like his father's, looked at him, still unmoving, still calm. His serenity was one of the traits that annoyed Alasdair most about his brother. He was able to remain unruffled under just about any situation while Alastair had a wildfire temper and blew up into a fury at the slightest excuse. Now, Connor stood up.

  "I will tell him," he said evenly and left.

  * * *

  Alasdair gave a great roar of rage and threw a brass candlestick at the wall, where it made a great dent in the woodwork. A moment later his father came in, took him by the collar of his jacket and hauled him out of the room. He did not say a word but thrust him into the carriage with Connor sitting beside him.

  * * *

  "Now," Alan McPhail said between gritted teeth, "you will tell me where to go. And you had better hope he still has it or I will make you suffer!"

  Such was the menace in his father's brown eyes that Alasdair backed down at once. When they got to the Jewelry shop Alasdair was amazed to see his father take out his pistol.

&nbs
p; "I've sold it a'," the panicked owner said, putting his hands in the air. Connor stepped up and held his hands behind his back while his father made a thorough search. He came back a moment later with a small velvet pouch.

  "Hmmm…" he said thoughtfully, "there must be someone you are even more scared of than me. But don't worry, I will keep you safe."

  True to his word, he took him to the town jail for trial the next month.

  Alan called his son into his office next morning.

  "You are no longer welcome in this house," he said firmly, "you may go and stay in our house in town, and I will give you an adequate allowance to live on for the rest of your life. The gambling will cease. If it does not, the allowance will stop," he paused. "I want no shame brought on this family so I will attempt to staunch in whatever way I can any rumors that might arise about you. My estate will go to Connor when I die, which I suspect will not be long from now. Pack whatever you need and go. Goodbye, Alasdair."

  He looked down at his ledger book and began to write again. Alasdair was shocked.

  "But you can't -" his father held up a hand.

  "I have nothing more to say."

  True to his word, his father managed to coerce, bribe and blackmail people into silence. Perhaps father and son were not so different after all. A month later, Alan died of a heart attack. Alasdair bet on which of the four ministers available for the funeral would officiate. He lost.