Highland Savior: A Medieval Scottish Highlander Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  But now his luck had turned, and he was going to bed a beautiful young virgin. He could hardly wait.

  5

  The Wedding

  Rosina's dress was almost ready. Maisie had been working on it ceaselessly every free minute she had, and she loved every stitch she sewed. The material was a pale pink silk which she was trimming with fine cream linen lace which her father had imported from Italy especially for the occasion. Rosina was beginning to irritate her by hovering at her shoulder every time she picked up her needles, but she told herself to be patient. After all, Maisie's mother had warned her that patience would be one of the qualities a ladies' maid needed in abundance. So every time Rosina asked another question or picked up the dress in-the-making to have another look, she visualized her mother's face and remembered her words.

  As the dress materialized Rosina herself became more and more excited. She was counting days, and Maisie felt like slapping her sometimes, but she couldn't help but feel equally happy for her. Alasdair made frequent appearances but he still made Maisie uneasy. Was there such a thing as a man being TOO charming?

  One day she went to find Rosina for a fitting and found the two of them in Rosina's parlor wrapped in a passionate embrace. She was about to back out quietly but Alasdair heard her and looked up. He laughed.

  * * *

  "Come in Maisie," he straightened his clothing as Rosina looked around, eyes alight with mischief.

  "I'm sorry, Mistress, Sir," Rosina looked at the floor wishing it would open up and swallow her, "I can come back another time."

  "No," Alasdair smiled at her, "I should be going anyway," he sighed regretfully, then abruptly changed his mood, "only one more week, Sweetheart."

  Rosina walked him out, smiling from ear to ear. Suddenly, Maisie shivered.

  Three days before the wedding, Hugh Buchanan forbade all contact between the bride and groom. Alasdair was not permitted even to set foot inside the castle walls.

  "Just in case," he warned, shaking a finger at her.

  "In case of what?" Rosina asked, puzzled.

  Maisie stared at her. Nobody had told her about the mysteries of love. She groaned inwardly, realizing that she would have to do it herself.

  "Nobody ever told you about what happens when you get married?"

  Rosina frowned and shook her head.

  "No, but by the look on your face it looks as though it will be dreadful."

  "No," she laughed, "they tell me it is wonderful."

  Then she poured a glass of wine for each of them and told her everything she needed to know. Rosina's eyes became rounder and rounder, and she put a hand over her mouth.

  "My goodness, Maisie!" she said, shocked. "I am so glad you told me!"

  Maisie smiled a sad smile.

  "So many maids go into marriage unprepared." She sighed, then brightened up. "But now you are not one of them!"

  "Thank you, Maisie," Rosina said fondly, "where would I be without you? But why did my father not tell me this?"

  "He might have if you were a boy, Mistress!" She replied mischievously.

  She filled their glasses with wine again and they clinked glasses.

  "To your future happiness, Mistress," Maisie said.

  "Call me Rosie -please?" Rosina pleaded, "we have been together for so long and you are no longer a servant to me, but a friend."

  Maisie shook her head firmly.

  "Thank you Mistress, and I am truly honored," she replied, "but it would not be at all fitting. You pay me. I cannot be a friend and be paid at the same time."

  Rosina looked sad, then smiled.

  "I will persuade you someday," she promised, "someday soon."

  It was two days before the wedding, and at last, the dress was finished, and they both stood in front of Rosina's long mirror looking at her wearing it.

  * * *

  "Oh! Maisie!" Rosina squealed. Maisie's ears hurt and she put her hands over them, "you are an artist! It is so beautiful!"

  And indeed the pale shell pink of the dress with its lace trimmings, fashionable ruffles, and stiff bodice made Rosina look like a queen. They took it off and packed it away carefully in a trunk, then Maisie made Rosina ready for bed before retiring to her own small room next door. The night was brightly moonlit, and she was looking up at the full disk, mesmerized. She was in a half-dream, half-awake state, and it was comforting to just let herself drift away on a sleepy cloud. For a moment, she debated on whether or not to stay in her own room on Rosina's wedding night or to ask for somewhere further away so that she could not hear any noises they might make. She smiled. Rosina was so happy, and Maisie was happy for her. But Alasdair…she shook her head irritably. He had just pushed her off her cloud.

  * * *

  The wedding was to be held at half-past five in the afternoon, but Alasdair was ready much earlier, which just gave him time to ride the few miles to the Castle and have a glass of wine before the ceremony. His mind was full of what was going to happen in the bedchamber that night, and it was an effort for him to keep his mind on anything else.

  * * *

  "Soon," he told himself, "soon."

  The castle church was full when the bride and her father came in. Every local dignitary in greater Glasgow seemed to have been invited and Rosina knew hardly any of them, except the stern-faced Logan Fraser and a few others. There was an audible gasp as the crowd saw Rosina in her pink dress clutching a bouquet of tiny pink roses. Her father smiled at her tearfully, kissed her cheek and put her hand in Alasdair's.

  Rosina said her vows strongly and clearly, smiling into Alasdair's eyes, and he did likewise. The minister's homily was mercifully short and they all adjourned to the Great Hall for the wedding feast. Maisie wished there had been some way of recording a picture of Rosina's face for posterity. She had never seen her look so joyful or so beautiful.

  They were not to have a bedding ceremony since Rosina's father was uncomfortable with the idea, so when Rosina was ready she looked up into Alasdair's eyes and gave a slight nod. He smiled at her. They went upstairs and the assembled company cheered them. There were a few ribald comments from the men, but they laughed them off.

  * * *

  Logan, standing at the bottom of the stairs and dressed to the hilt in full Highland dress complete with bonnet, was ready to go home. He had a headache, but he decided to wait a few minutes for propriety's sake. He pretended to be looking at the portraits of Buchanan forebears, but in reality, he wanted not to have to look at anyone. He ascended the stairs, actually beginning to find some of the likenesses quite interesting as he compared their features to the current generation. He proceeded along the corridor a little way. Now he was being intrusive, he knew, but excessive curiosity had always been one of his weaknesses and had got him into trouble more than a few times. He had wandered along for quite a way when he heard the noise. It had been a scream followed by a thud. He went to the door and listened for a moment. He could hear the sound of a woman softly whimpering, but the man was silent.

  "My Lady," he hissed, "is anything amiss? It's Logan Fraser." Something had told him to keep his voice down. A moment later he heard a key turn and the door was opened. Rosina stood there, her face white as a sheet, and she was no longer a beautiful bride.

  6

  After the Wedding

  Rosina was standing in the doorway, as immobile as a statue. There were streams of tears running unchecked down her cheeks and her ginger-red hair, which had been so beautifully coiffed by Maisie, was in complete disarray. Her fine cotton lawn nightdress had been ripped from the neckline almost to the navel. Logan pulled the torn edges together and made her nerveless hands hold them. She was covered in blood, but it was not her own. To his horror, Logan saw that she had a heavy silver candlestick in her right hand which was also bloodied and was dripping on to the carpet. Gently, he sat her down on the bed then turned his attention to the man's body which was sprawled in a twisted position on the floor, the eyes open and gazing sightlessly at nothin
g. There was a deep gaping wound in his forehead which had penetrated his skull, and Logan could see the jagged shards of bone that had been driven inside. In death, Alasdair McPhail, the handsome gigolo who had wed, not his sweetheart but his gold mine, was extremely ugly.

  "He is dead," Logan said heavily. He took the coverlet from the bed and covered the body with it, then he gave her a glass of wine. She took it from him, her hands shaking. He went to get her a shawl to cover the gaping front of her nightdress, then draped it over her and waited for her to speak.

  7

  A Few Moments Earlier…

  When they went into the bedroom and Rosina went into the dressing room to change into her nightgown, Alasdair laughed.

  "Why put it on when I am going to take it off again?"

  "When you get a present, do you not like to unwrap it?" she asked coyly. Alasdair smiled. Every minute she made him wait was a minute too long. Eventually, she came out of the dressing room in a modest cream-colored high-necked gown. Alasdair had had a few glasses of whiskey, but far from it cooling his ardor it had fueled it.

  * * *

  "At last!" Alasdair smiled at her and opened his arms. He was still wearing his plaid but had taken off his shirt, shoes, and jacket. Now he wrapped his arms around her. She was trembling.

  * * *

  "Shhh, lass," he whispered, "I am not going to hurt you - well, maybe a little, but you will like it, I promise," then he kissed her. At first, it was soft and tender, then it began to be harsher as he held the back of her head and kept his mouth clamped against hers. She had no idea what to do. Was this normal? She endured it for as long as she could till her lips almost began to bleed from the pressure. She wrenched her head away. "Alasdair, you're hurting me," she complained, pressing her fingertips to her lips. He smiled at her, but it was a strange smile. His brows were drawn down and there was a strange look of barely-concealed anger and lust in his eyes.

  * * *

  "I haven't yet begun, Sweetheart," he whispered. He kissed her again, this time biting her lip hard. There was blood in her mouth now. Alasdair was losing control. She tasted so good that he was becoming even more inflamed. She tried to scream but he clamped a hand over her mouth.

  "You know what your wedding vows say?" he reminded her silkily, "love, honor and obey?"

  Rosina nodded, her eyes wide and terrified. He liked that look - it made him feel rampant and powerful. He stepped back from her for a moment to look at her and she tried to bolt for the door, but he caught her, then holding her by the neck of her nightdress, he ripped it straight down the front, then slapped her face on both cheeks with the front and back of his hand. She gasped and moaned with pain while trying instinctively to cover up, but he caught her wrists and looked his fill. She looked even better than he had expected.

  "Lovely," he said with lascivious satisfaction. He pushed her down onto the bed where she curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. He gave a sneering laugh, knowing it would do her no good. It never did, because no woman had ever been stronger than he, and there had been dozens. Rosina looked desperately around her for a weapon, and it was then that she saw the candle in its heavy silver holder.

  Swiftly, Alasdair removed the rest of his clothing, and she could see that he was already aroused. He was still smiling, his evil grin even more ugly now as he climbed onto the bed. He was halfway onto it when she swept the candlestick off the night stand and brought it down with all her strength on his head. It was made of solid silver and weighed at least five pounds, and with the momentum of the swing, it hit his head with sickening force.

  * * *

  Alasdair watched her cowering and was filled with an overwhelming sense of absolute, exquisite power. He saw the weapon a split second before it hit him and did not even have time to put his hand up to shield his face before the candlestick made shattering contact with his forehead. There was a flash, a moment of unbearable pain, and then all was dark. Alasdair McPhail was no more.

  When she saw Logan Fraser, Rosina has never been so glad to see anyone in her whole life. She passed a trembling hand across her forehead.

  "Can - can you get Maisie for me, please?" she was sobbing, and he gave her his linen handkerchief. He sat looking at her for a moment, frowning.

  "Look at me, Lady Rosina," he said quietly, "I do not know what happened here, but I can guess. Some men like to see pain. I will fetch Maisie for you and we will decide what to do. May I come back? I will understand if you would flinch from another man but Maisie will be here. You will be safe."

  Rosina nodded.

  "They will think I did this on purpose," she said, breaking down into tears again, "I will be hanged, or beheaded."

  "You will not," he said firmly. "Now, my Lady, change into a fresh nightgown and lock the door. I will be back shortly."

  * * *

  Rosina took of the ruined garment and let it drop to the floor. She went to the washstand and scrubbed herself as hard as she could with her sponge, and after she had put on a clean nightdress she felt a little better. She could still see Alasdair's face, that smile with his dark gray eyes black with lust and greed, his mouth twisted with the need for power over her. She had loved him, and she still loved the man he had been before this night. But of course, that man had never really existed - it was all a sham to get his hands on her fortune. And the violence? Had that been a means to an end too or was he really the kind of perverted man who enjoyed hurting women? Both, she thought sadly.

  8

  Covering Up

  Maisie was in her own bedroom resting. The labors of the day had taken it out of her and she was glad the service was over. She had eaten with the other servants at their own banquet and now all she wanted to do was sleep. When she heard the soft knocking at her door she groaned. Surely Rosina did not want anything now?

  "Who is it?" she asked wearily, yawning.

  "Maisie? It is Logan Fraser. I must speak to you. Rosina is hurt."

  Normally Maisie would never have opened her door to a man under any circumstances, but now she flung it open without thinking.

  "Hurt?" she asked wildly, "how badly?"

  "Not hurt in her body exactly," Logan stumbled over the words, "please come and see. She is asking for you - but be quiet. It is quite a shocking scene."

  Maisie nodded, swallowed and followed him. Then she knocked softly on Rosina's door.

  "Mistress, it's Maisie and Laird Fraser. May we come in, please?"

  The door was opened a few inches then Rosina stepped aside to open it properly. As soon as she saw Maisie she threw herself into her arms and began to weep bitterly. Logan locked the door then sat down. He looked very big in the room, and although Maisie knew that Alasdair had been smaller, he had been big enough to overpower a small woman like Rosina.

  Presently, Rosina calmed down a little and Maisie poured her some wine. Logan refused but thanked her.

  * * *

  "What happened, Mistress?" Maisie asked gently. She put her arm around Rosina, who laid her head on Maisie's supportive shoulder.

  "He - he attacked me," she said tonelessly, "he kissed me then bit my lips so hard they bled, then he slapped my face and tore my nightdress. I thought he was going to kill me. He threw me onto the bed and he was about to - to -"

  She shook her head and tailed off.

  "We know what he wanted to do, my Lady," Logan said softly. Then he became practical. "I am sorry, Lady Buchanan, but the law, in this case, is on your husband's side. It is very unfair, but a woman must obey her husband according to her wedding vows, and a man cannot be found guilty of raping his wife. He is also allowed to beat her."

  * * *

  A leaden weight dropped into Rosina's stomach. None of this was her fault, yet she was the one who was being punished.

  "I am going to hang," She said heavily.

  "Indeed you are not," Logan said determinedly. "We are going to make this look as if someone else did it."

  Maisie looked at him, puzzled.
<
br />   "What are you going to do?" she asked curiously.

  "It's best you don't know, for your own sake," he said firmly, then stood up.

  * * *

  "Maisie, is there a back staircase?"

  "Aye," she replied, mystified, "the servants use it, but it will be unused at the moment. They are all still eating."

  "Good," he smiled grimly, "we are about to stage a little tableau."

  Maisie lifted a corner of the sheet to look at the corpse's face. She felt like spitting on him but restrained herself. She was about to close his eyes, but Logan stopped her.

  * * *

  "When they find him it must look as though he was surprised," he put the coverlet back over Alastair's face, "do you have a velvet purse for a necklace or a bracelet?" he asked Rosina.

  "Yes, but why?" she went to her jewelry box and tipped a gold necklace out of a purple velvet purse, then put the necklace back in the box. Logan put it in the pocket of his jacket.

  * * *

  "Now you must tidy and clean up this room," he said, "and make it look as though nothing has happened here. Go and get whatever you Then he squatted down and picked up the body with little apparent effort. When Maisie opened the door he crept out as quietly as he could. They watched him as he walked along the hallway and disappeared down the stairs. When he was gone, the two women looked at each other.