Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

  Destiny Of A Highlander

  Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

  Emilia Ferguson

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A Personal Note From Emilia Ferguson

  Dedication

  About The Author

  DESTINY OF A HIGHLANDER

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

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  Also By Emilia Ferguson

  Acknowledgement

  If You Have Enjoyed This Book…

  Publisher’s Notes

  Copyright © 2017,2018 by EMILIA FERGUSON

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real or dead people, places, or events are not intentional and are the result of coincidence. The characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author/publisher. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover designed by Ms Melody Simmons. Author has the copyrights to this cover.

  A PERSONAL NOTE

  FROM EMILIA FERGUSON

  * * *

  To My Dearest Lovely Readers,

  There is something picturesque and dramatic about the Scottish Highlands. Not only the landscape, which is mysterious, with its own special wildness and drama. It is the people themselves.

  Scottish people are the original untamed spirits: proud, wild, forthright, in touch with their inner selves. The Medieval period in Scotland is a fascinating one for contrasts: half the country was steeped in Medieval culture - knights, ladies, housecarls and maids - and the other half was a maelstrom of wild clans people; fighting, living and loving straight from the heart.

  If the two halves - the wild and the courtly - meet up, what will happen? And how will these proud women and untamed men react when brought together by social expectations, requirements and ambitions?

  Read on to find out the answers!

  Thank you very much for your strong support to my writing journey!

  With Hugs, Kisses and Love…

  ~ Emilia

  DEDICATION

  Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be man's last romance.

  Oscar Wilde

  * * *

  This Story Is Specially Dedicated To You, My Dearest Reader!

  It is with gratefulness and gratitude that I am writing to you this personal dedication.

  Thank you once again for giving me this opportunity to share with you my creative side.

  I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much I have enjoyed writing it!

  It is with such great support from you that we authors continue to write, presenting you with great stories.

  Have you checked out my other western historical romance books series?

  Click the link below to get started

  *** AMAZON USA ***

  * * *

  Do you like what you have read?

  I want to hear from you!

  Please do get in touch with me:

  facebook.com/EmiliaFergusonBooks

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Emilia Ferguson is the pen name of an author who writes historical romance with her husband.

  When she is not writing her Medieval Historical Scottish Romance pieces, she enjoys taking long walks with her husband and kids at the nearby beaches.

  It was these long walks where she got inspirations and ideas for her stories. She credits her wonderfully supportive husband John, her great cover designer Ms Melody Simmons and her advance review reviewers for helping her to fine-tune her writing skills and allowing her creativity to explode.

  ~ Emilia

  DESTINY OF A HIGHLANDER

  A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY

  * * *

  by

  EMILIA FERGUSON

  PROLOGUE

  Duncliffe Manor

  1740

  “No!” Francine whispered in horror. Her words fell away into the silence of the room. Beside her, Fraser laughed.

  “No?” he asked, amused.

  Francine swallowed hard, recalling where she was: in her father's office, by the fireplace. Her father was behind his desk across the room. Beside her was Lord Fraser, the McGuinness. She saw things that would happen, sometimes, in the future of others. However, she had never foreseen this.

  Not Fraser. No.

  “My lord, I...I cannot think of marriage at this time. It is too soon. I am too young.” Her speech was carefully planned. Nevertheless, her father laughed.

  “You are twenty years of age! It’s past time you were wed. I would not have thought you so timid?” The voice held mockery, albeit lightly done.

  Francine swallowed hard. Beside her, Fraser chuckled. She closed her eyes, shutting out his long, red-bearded face. Inwardly, she was closing herself away from the mockery, the insult.

  He isn't ugly. Not on the outside, anyway. The ugliness is inside.

  At thirty, Fraser was a handsome man: strong, firm-jawed, and capable. With red hair and big brown eyes, and the broadest shoulders Francine had ever seen, it was not his looks that repelled her. It was him. His indifference, his amusement, his cruelty—each repulsed her.

  I saw him laugh when my father had beggars whipped from the doorstep. I don't think I could ever love a man who did that.

  Francine made herself forget about Fraser. She made herself step up to her father's desk and look into his dark eyes, and that narrow, cunning face. “Father, I am...honored...by your suggestion. But, nevertheless, I cannot comply. It is...too soon after Arabella wed for it to be seemly.”

  She licked her lips and made herself hold his gaze.

  “Nonsense,” her father said brusquely. “You are my only marriageable daughter left. I decree you will marry as I bid, to secure an important alliance. The McGuinness seeks your hand, and you are duty-bound to agree to it. Now, what do you say?”

  She took a slow, steadying breath. “I say that I will consider it.”

  She saw her father's eyes widen, then narrow. She continued. “I am certain Laird McGuinness is not
so hasty that he cannot grant me a week's contemplation?” With this, she turned to Fraser, an innocent expression on her face.

  Fraser licked his lips and swallowed hard. A long-standing frequenter of gatherings at Duncliffe Manor, Fraser McGuinness was an ally and a guest. He owed her father courtesy, and her. She saw him weigh the need for allegiance with the affront of refusing a simple request and watched as politeness won.

  “I can grant a week, of course.”

  Her heart sparked; a small flame of triumph. She turned to her father, whose jaw visibly tightened. Francine fought to keep a neutral expression underneath the spreading grin she wanted to display. She was, quite plainly, afraid of her father. To have managed a triumph, however small, over him was a huge victory.

  “Thank you, Laird Fraser,” she said humbly. When she raised her eyes to her father's face again, he had masked the dark, angry expression and appeared neutral.

  “Well, then,” he said, patently ignoring his younger daughter. “I suppose the matter is settled. I extend my hospitality to you for an extra week. It seems sensible to keep you here to assist my daughter in her choice.”

  Francine shivered as he ground out the words.

  I wish Arabella was here.

  “Well, then, daughter?”

  “I accept this decision, and thank you.”

  “Humph,” her father said.

  Francine curtsied and walked quickly from the room.

  Upstairs in her bedchamber, she called for her maid, Bertha. When the woman appeared, she had to clamp her jaw to stop the tremor in her voice. “A cup of warm ale, please, Bertha? And if you could find Douglas? I want to ask him a favor.”

  Douglas, her brother and junior by two years, was not quite the same as having Arabella, her dear sister, with her. However, Francine reckoned, he understood her and her father better than anyone else, failing Arabella. And mayhap he can take a message to her.

  It wasn't impossible.

  If only Arabella hadn't wed an Englishman, perhaps she could have settled closer. Now that she was wed to Richard, a Hanoverian, it was difficult for her to come to Duncliffe without incurring their father's cool indifference—or worse.

  So I will at least write to her.

  Francine settled herself at her oak writing-desk – her favorite possession – and started to compose a letter. By the time she had scattered sand to dry the ink on the parchment, Douglas was walking up the hallway beyond the door – she could hear his boots ringing on the stone of the hallway.

  “Sister?” a voice called through the wood door.

  “Douglas!” Francine jumped up lightly and threw open the door, finding her dark-haired, handsome brother on the step outside.

  “Bertha sent for me? You need my help?”

  “I just wanted to talk, Douglas,” Francine sighed, “and to ask you to take a letter into town for me?”

  “Of course. You were...with Father earlier?” he asked carefully. He could not have failed to notice her being summoned from the solar to her father's office, nor the fact that Fraser was likewise summoned. He was an intelligent young man, and would have guessed her news.

  “Yes. Father wishes to broker an alliance with the McGuinness clan” Her voice was soft.

  “Sister. I hope that...”

  “They have granted me a week.”

  “Oh.” He smiled. “Congratulations, sister! You asked for that…And he allowed it? Would that you asked him for an increase in my allowance. I'd be wearing velvet and riding a new hunting-stallion by now.”

  Francine laughed. “Oh, Douglas. I would if I could, you know that. As it is, you'll have to make do with wool and Mr. McGinty for the moment.”

  Mr. McGinty was Douglas' current hunting-stallion. Francine smiled. “I hope you eventually get an increase, Douglas. Until then, we will just have to make the best of it, you and me.”

  “Yes, well,” Douglas murmured. “I think I have little to complain about besides my allowance. You and Arabella, well...” He trailed off awkwardly.

  “I know,” Francine murmured. “We have limited options.”

  “Yes.” Douglas was silent a moment. “It's disgraceful.”

  “It's typical for our station,” Francine said dryly. “And it isn't as bad as it might have been.”

  I have a week.

  Francine smiled at Douglas as he pulled a face. They talked a little longer about various things, and she gave him her letter. Then he left her alone, to plan. After all, seven days were not long to find true love.

  A BALL TO REMEMBER

  “Why are we here, Marguerite?”

  “Because, brother,” Marguerite replied in a whisper, “we couldn't very well get out of it. Now hush – people are looking at us.”

  Henry sighed. Of all the places he could have wished to be, an antechamber in the middle of Bronley House in Edinburgh was one of the last. Nevertheless, as it happened, it was where he had turned up – and, as Marguerite so rightly said, he couldn't get out of it. Not now.

  Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Henry tried to let his mind wander out of the stuffy reception area and off to somewhere else. It wasn't easy and he gave up, which was just as well – they were about to enter the main ballroom.

  “Excuse me.”

  A lady walked past him, velvet skirts whispering; the strong, sweet perfume she wore reaching to his nose.

  Henry stepped aside courteously, doing his best not to speak and betray his English birth. The sounds of a gigue wafted out toward them from the hall, lively and stirring. The music did little to raise Henry's spirits as he paused with Marguerite by the doorman.

  “Lord Henry and his sister, Lady Marguerite.”

  Henry swallowed hard as his identity was announced. This is it. He waited for heads to turn, as they always did, at the foreign names. In a way that had become painfully familiar to him over the last months, he saw the eyes widen, and then narrow, and then the heads turned away abruptly.

  He shifted from foot to foot again, the peruke he wore making his head ache terribly. Not that he needed a tight wig to make his head ache – with all the tension of the evening, it was aching already.

  A curse on Father and his Jacobitism! Why must we be the only lords in England, or nearly so, who follow Charles Stuart?

  The Earl of Althorpe, Albert Gracewell, a noted Jacobite, had brought his son and daughter with him to Scotland. That was why Henry was here now, attending a ball in a big house in Edinburgh when he could have been comfortably ensconced in a tea-house in London, discussing the wars on the Continent and reading the Gazette. As one of the only Englishmen in a hall of hostile Scots, it was a hard place to be. A place where everybody was hostile and he felt as if everything about him was wrong.

  I suppose I would rather be here than there listening to some popinjays make slaughter a light discussion.

  One thing Henry couldn't bear was indifference. Better a madman with a cause than an impassive, sane one. It was that conviction that had led him to stand by his father, who could be deemed mad, rather than remain in England, where most people were deemed sane. Sane and indifferent, even when it came to the Austrian wars.

  At least here, with him, I feel that I can keep my heart open.

  Marguerite seemed to sense his thought, because she reached across and touched his hand lightly. “Well, brother. I'm glad to be here...at least we escape London. And the wilder London fashions.”

  Henry felt his cheeks lift in a smile. Looking around the hall, he had to agree. The women, or many of them, were still wearing the wide-hooped skirts of two years ago in London, and the fashion for patches on the cheeks had not quite snuck up this far North. That fact, at least, was a relief.

  “I agree,” he whispered back. “Though, in my case, I'm rather sorry about the lack of modernization – look how heavy some of those wigs are.” He inclined his head toward the gentlemen who stood or sat by the wall on his left.

  Marguerite giggled and glanced up at Henry's neat wh
ite peruke. Some of the men still sported the vast curling wigs that had been popular a decade ago, and still, clearly, were, so far away from Court. “Well, brother, I must admit – modernization does have some advantages,” she said quietly. She herself wore a pale yellow dress with panniers in white lace, the bodice cut in a low “v”, the skirts lighter and more colorful than those of many of the other women. Her spice-red hair was loose, without adornment. She eschewed the powder that was becoming fashionable everywhere and here, at least, many other women did as well.

  “I know,” Henry murmured ruefully. “I just need to look at those thick cravats and be thankful I'm more modernly-attired.”

  Straightening his wig, he walked further into the room. As usual, stares met him.

  English Hanoverian.

  Nobody actually said it to his face, but Henry had heard it said enough times behind his back to know that they were thinking it. As it was, the hostility that came at him was something he could have cut with a knife. That was the trouble with attending Jacobite gatherings when your very name singled you out as hostile – you had the sense that it was only a matter of time before someone put a steel stiletto between your ribs and pushed hard.