by Cathy MacRae
The Highlander’s
Tempestuous
Bride
Cathy MacRae
Returning home after a ten-year absence, Ryan Macraig falls for a fiery, red-haired lass from the wrong end of the firth. He can’t ignore his need to see her again, even knowing she must be a hated Macrory.
Gilda Macrory trespasses Macraig land, but haunting memories of the young man she once met there draw her to the forbidden place. Learning he is Laird Macraig’s son threatens her dreams, for her father would never agree to a marriage between his daughter and their enemy’s son.
With pirates raiding the coast, bad blood between the Macraig and Macrory clans could cost Ryan and Gilda their love—and their lives.
This book is dedicated to Derek—my very own hero.
Prologue
Ard Castle, above the Firth of Clyde, Scotland, 1375
Ten-year-old Ryan Macraig sat astride his horse, struggling to keep his emotions in check. He gritted his teeth, but refused to let his father see him as less than a man grown.
Laird Macraig patted his son’s knee awkwardly. “Ye will be fine.” His words were firm, though his voice sounded rough. Ryan wondered who he was trying to convince.
“Ye will foster at the MacLaurey keep. The laird’s son is yer age and ye will get along grand.”
Ryan held back the words he’d already said. He had plenty of friends at Ard Castle, lads he’d grown up with. He had no wish to make new ones. But he knew lairds’ sons often fostered with other clans, and his childhood was now past. It was time he became a man.
“Remember yer heritage, Ryan. Remember our ways.” Laird Macraig’s head turned ever so slightly toward his southern border in a gesture Ryan knew well, but did not understand.
“Learn yer lessons. The Macraigs dinnae always have allies to rely on. Ye must make new ones.”
Ryan faced southward, too. Years ago, the Macraigs and the Macrorys had a firm alliance. For reasons left unspoken, that alliance failed, and the never-ending battle against pirating along their coastal boundary now strained the Macraig power and coffers.
“I will make ye proud, Da.” Ryan bit back the tears of parting.
“I know ye will, lad.” Laird Macraig turned and motioned for Ryan’s escort to mount up. As the procession filed through the castle gates, Ryan allowed himself one final glimpse over his shoulder.
His last sight of his father seared into his mind. Laird Macraig stood tall and straight, the hem of his kilt swaying gently in the breeze, one arm wrapped around the swollen waist of his leman who leaned against his side.
Ryan wondered if his father would forget him once the bairn was born.
Chapter 1
Scaurness Castle, Overlooking the Firth of Clyde, Scotland
Ten years later
Their gazes prickled the hair on the back of Gilda’s neck. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew they were there. Ruthless and cunning, they would not give up until they got what they wanted. Escape would be difficult, if not impossible this time.
Normal sounds of castle life drifted to the third level from the great hall below. Voices chatted, tables and benches scraped against the stone as servants moved them against the wall after the midday meal. Nothing seemed amiss. Yet Gilda knew better. Somewhere in the shadows of the upper gallery, they awaited her first misstep.
There was no place to hide. She’d outgrown such places long ago, leaving her exposed to their every whim.
By St. Andrew! Can they not leave me alone, even for a moment?
It was an uncharitable thought. As the oldest child, Gilda was expected to help care for her younger brothers. But this was the last straw.
She tried to conceal the basket in the folds of her surcoat, but the scent of warm berries wafted out, betraying her presence.
“She has pastries!”
Six-year-old Finn cackled gleefully as he swung from the carved balustrade, landing on the floor with a jolt before her. Gilda jerked to a halt, startled in spite of the fact she’d known he was near. Jamie, his twin, sprang from behind a hanging tapestry, paying no heed to the costly fabric billowing wildly against the wall. He grabbed at her basket but Gilda swung it over her head, out of his reach.
“Och, no fair, Gilda.” Finn’s voice took on a petulant whine. “Ma willnae like it if she learns ye’ve been snitching pastries.”
“Nae, she doesnae like the two of ye snitching pastries. Cook gave these to me because I helped gather the berries yesterday.” Gilda frowned at the two imps. “Ye dinnae help.”
Jamie leapt into the air, crashing against her as he swiped upward with one hand. Gilda staggered, but was familiar with her brothers’ tactics. Well aware of their trick of pushing her into the other’s clutches, she shifted her balance and stood firm.
“Wheesht!” She raised a hand to stop them. “I’ll give ye the pastry if ye but wait a moment.”
The twins eyed her speculatively. It was clear they didn’t trust her to simply hand over one of Cook’s coveted pies. Not willing to lose the game now, Gilda kept the burgeoning triumph from her face.
Food was the quickest and easiest bribe known to the young rapscallions. With a mock sigh of surrender, Gilda pried the basket’s lid up and peered inside. She waited until the boys were all but drooling as the scent of hot berries wafted in the air. Reaching in the basket, she picked up a pastry, careful not to burn her fingers. She held it out to Finn, knowing Jamie would try to snatch it away.
“’Tis mine!” Jamie cried, seeing his brother reach for the prize.
“’Tis not!” Finn protested. He grabbed at the pastry and Gilda let go. The boys fought over the pie, breaking it open, dark purple berries spilling out with a rush of steam and mouth-watering aroma. Their attention diverted by the near-disaster, Gilda made good her escape.
Her feet beat a rapid tattoo down the stairwell, through the hall and out to the stable. With a pause to set her basket on a rickety table, Gilda grabbed a bridle from its peg.
She flung the leather straps over her mare’s head and with a practiced leap, sprang to the horse’s back, not bothering with blanket or saddle. Dainty hooves pranced as Gilda gathered her reins, leaning forward to retrieve the little basket. Thumping her heels into the mare’s sides, she sent her bounding from the stable.
“Run, Fia, run!” she chanted. The mare took the bit between her teeth and raced along the path to the castle gate. Gilda ignored the guards’ stares as she passed through the barbican. Midmorning travel in and out of the castle meant the gates remained open. The guards were too accustomed to her riding to the beach to visit the clan’s wise woman, Tavia, to challenge her. To be sure, she bent low over Fia’s neck and did not slacken her speed until they were well away from the walls.
The surefooted pony skidded down the switchback trail through the bracken to the beach below the castle. Gilda rode pressed close against the mare’s back, gripping her tight between her knees, swaying with her movements.
They soon arrived at the beach and Gilda reined the mare in, mindful of the rocks studding the ground. She dismounted near Tavia’s ancient cottage tucked against the stark cliffs. Dropping Fia’s reins, Gilda checked the contents of her basket and skipped up the driftwood-lined path.
Lifting a fisted hand, she knocked at the portal.
“Enter.”
The pungent odor of herbs filled the little cottage and Gilda inhaled deeply as Tavia glanced up from the leaves she was grinding.
“Ah, lass. ’Tis good to see ye.”
From the far side of the room, a goat bleated.
“Wheesht, Auntie, when will ye put wee Agnes outside?”
“She would be at the mercy of the wood
land beasts were I to stake her out.”
Gilda set her basket on the table and stepped behind Tavia, hugging her waist.
“Ye know there are no beasties in these woods. None that come down to the beach, anyway.” Gilda stepped back to the table, lifting the lid from her basket. The scent of berry pastries shouldered past the tang of the herbs and Tavia perked up with interest.
“And how did ye come by those, lass?” Her ancient blue eyes twinkled as she teased Gilda.
“Och, Cook gave up keeping her pastries away from me years ago. Ye know she spoils me,” Gilda replied with a grin.
Tavia put her mortar and pedestal aside and wiped her hands on her apron. “Ye have always been a wee charmer.” Her lips curved in a smile of affection. “I suppose the more direct question is how ye got these past those two wee louns at the castle.”
Gilda rolled her eyes. “Jamie and Finn are fighting over the pastry I baited them with. They become more annoying every day.” She turned to Tavia, drawing her face into a long-suffering pose. “When will they grow up and stop pestering me?”
Tavia chuckled. “Ye have to give them time. Young boys eventually become young men.”
“And still pester me.” Gilda frowned, deep furrows forming between her brows.
“Aye?” Tavia peered at her, new interest gleaming in her eyes. “A particular lad pestering ye, then?”
Gilda trailed a fingertip along the back of a chair. “Not sae much,” she admitted slowly. “But he seems to show up everywhere I do.”
“Tell me.” A deceptively mild command edged Tavia’s voice.
“Now, dinnae be telling Da,” Gilda chided the old woman. “He’d just frighten the poor lad.” She managed a grin to allay Tavia’s fears. “Gordon is making eyes at me, but I dinnae take him seriously.”
Tavia nodded. “Ye are too young to consider a match. And yer da willnae like the lads paying ye too much mind.”
Gilda rolled her head on her shoulders. “But, Tavia. I’ve sixteen summers and my friend Anice has already wed.”
“Do ye have yer eye on someone, then?”
“Nae, ’tis not that…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Then what is it, lass?”
Gilda blew out a breath of frustration. “I’m afraid Da will set me to marry someone I dinnae like.”
Tavia gave a snort. “Ye willnae worry about that, lass. Yer da wouldnae ask ye to marry a wickit man.”
“Not evil, no. But someone I dinnae love.”
“Love?” Tavia’s eyes opened wide. “Ye are the laird’s eldest daughter. He willnae bind ye to a man without honor, but he will ask ye to marry to benefit the clan.”
Gilda brushed at her eyes, startled at the tears welling there. “Ma and Da love each other.” A petulant snuffle escaped her.
Tavia laughed. “Och, lass, ye dinnae remember the two of them before they wed. The king himself commanded it. Yer grandda, the auld laird, was dead, the castle in contention from several clans and pirates marauding the coastline. Yer ma had a great dowry that attracted all manner of scoundrels as long as she was unwed.”
“I know all that. But they act, well…” To her embarrassment, heat rose in her cheeks.
“Yer ma and da acted like cats fighting over the same piece of fish,” Tavia announced. “And they still do.”
“They do not,” Gilda cried, astonishment coloring her voice.
Tavia clucked her tongue. “They dinnae always disagree, and rarely in public. But they do always make up.” Her eyes twinkled.
Gilda pulled the chair away from the table and sat. “So, they dinnae love each other when they wed?”
“They resolved to make their marriage work, and fell in love very quickly. Yer da is an honorable man, but he was once a wee loun just like yer brothers. I remember him well.”
“Not like Niall,” Gilda championed her brother, five years her junior.
Tavia shrugged. “Niall is too serious by half.” Her lips quirked into a grin. “And he is away fostering with yer uncle’s clan. Likely ye dinnae remember his pranks, he’s been gone that long.”
“Mayhap Jamie and Finn will foster soon,” Gilda groused.
Tavia laughed. “’Tis a day we all look forward to, I am sure.” She waved to the pastries. “Now. Let’s enjoy these before they cool.”
* * *
Ryan sat astride his horse, Duer, as he gazed across the beach. The land dipped low beneath the cliffs, sand and stones mingling with the soil of the forest, giving rise to dense underbrush and gnarled, stunted trees. He inhaled the warm scent of berries ripening on the bushes, the sharp tang of the salt air, and the musky sweat of the horse between his knees. The corners of his lips curved upward. After ten years away, he was home.
With a nudge of his hand on the reins, he turned Duer down the beach, content to explore the shoreline for a time. Behind him, his retainers unloaded the birlinn bearing his belongings, and his best friend, Connor MacLaurey, still nursed a bout of seasickness leaving him tired and irritable. It was a relief to be alone.
He trailed down the beach until he reached a small rise. He knew beyond lay the boundary between the Macraig and Macrory clans, and he would not stray that far. A silent feud smoldered between his father and the Macrory laird, and though the Macrorys would not kill him for trespassing, neither would they send him home with a friendly pat to his head.
Reining Duer to a halt, Ryan dismounted, tying his reins to his saddle, leaving the horse to graze. He climbed the rise and dropped to the ground, settling to gaze over the firth. He plucked a stalk of grass and chewed the stem absently, grimacing at the salty taste. Before him, small boats plied the waters, an invisible line drawn between the Macrory and Macraig fishing grounds.
Ryan shook his head, wondering at the cause of the rift between the clans. His father would say naught about it and as a lad he’d learned little from even the most ardent gossip. He knew only his father had offered for Lady Macrory before she wed, and had been rebuffed. He shrugged. It was not uncommon enough to remark on it further. Something else had happened, it was certain, but he was unlikely to ever know the whole truth.
A whistle from the beach below caught his attention and he spotted a pony trotting lazily along the shore. The horse halted beside a girl, her hair blazing red in the afternoon sun as it peeked through gathering clouds. She waved to someone in the shadowed doorway of a ramshackle cottage tucked beneath the overhanging cliff. Springing lightly to the back of her mount, she kicked her pony into a run up the beach.
Ryan admired her skill. He saw neither saddle nor blanket, yet the lass clung to the beast’s back like a burr. They passed before him at speed, hooves kicking up sand. Surprised to see her cross into Macraig territory, he rose to his feet and mounted his own horse to follow.
He caught up with them, and found the pony idly plucking grass near a sprawl of brambled berry bushes, an empty basket nearby on the ground. Curious, Ryan urged Duer cautiously through the underbrush. The clouds and deep afternoon shadows cast confusing patterns among the trees and rocks. He paused, adjusting his eyes to the gloom. Scanning the area, he saw nothing. He grew still. The forest was quiet. Too quiet.
Duer bobbed his head nervously and pawed the ground. Ryan checked the horse, and Duer tossed his head again as he sidled deeper into the bushes, protesting the hand on his reins. Ryan peered into the undergrowth and spotted the girl’s pale gown spilled across the forest floor. With a start, he realized she knelt on the ground, a hand outstretched in a placating manner, her red curls tumbling across her shoulder. Ryan’s gaze darted past her hand and his blood ran cold.
A young wolf lay awkwardly in the brush, apparently unable to rise.
“There’s a good lad,” the girl crooned. “Someone left a trap unattended, didn’t they? Ye need only be still a moment longer and I will have ye cut loose in a trice.”
Ryan stared at her in disbelief. The wolf’s front leg was twisted beneath him, and the girl would have to get next to the
animal in order to free it. Was she daft?
Slowly the girl reached a hand inside her bodice and pulled forth a sgian dubh, its short blade winking dully in the sun-dappled gloom. Easing forward, she reached toward the wolf. The animal recoiled with a snarl, exposing his trapped leg. With a swift move, the girl cut the slender length of tether, releasing the beast.
The wolf leapt to his feet, and Duer neighed in fright. With a gasp, the girl startled, losing her balance. She rolled backward, her skirts flying, arms windmilling wildly as she tried to catch herself. Duer reared, front legs pawing the air, squealing in terror.
Afraid the horse would strike the girl, Ryan hauled back hard on the reins. Duer, unable to remain so poised, fell backward with a crash.
* * *
Gilda jerked at the unexpected sound of a horse behind her, afraid of a Macraig patrol. Her feet slid beneath her as she tried to rise, and she sprawled hard on her rump before she managed to stop.
She caught a glimpse of the horse as it reared in panic. The poor animal staggered backward and fell, tossing its rider into the underbrush. Gilda rolled to her knees, fingers against her lips, aghast at the sight. Unexpectedly agile, the horse surged to its feet and bolted away. The sound of its escape faded and Gilda stared after it.
A low-pitched moan pulled her attention to the man on the ground. Scurrying to him, she knelt at his side and shook his shoulder, afraid to roll him over after witnessing the force of his fall.
“Are ye injured?” Her voice pitched low and soothing.
The man moaned and rolled to his side. Gilda gasped at the blood smeared across the side of his face. She tightened her grip on his shoulder, willing him to be still. “Dinnae fash. Ye took a bad fall.”
He eased onto his back and opened his eyes. Gilda stared into their amber depths, shaken by their unusual, pale color. She shivered.
He frowned. “My horse…” He gave a low grunt of pain.
“Has run off, as has mine, I would imagine.” Gilda grimaced at the thought of the long walk home.
