by Ashe Barker
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgement
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
Epilogue
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
A Totally Bound Publication
Red Skye at Night
ISBN # 978-1-78430-387-7
©Copyright Ashe Barker 2015
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright January 2015
Edited by Sarah Smeaton
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Melting and a Sexometer of 3.
RED SKYE AT NIGHT
Ashe Barker
Two strangers, one outrageous proposal, and the journey of a lifetime.
How far would you go? To Skye and back?
A random accident as a teenager wrecked Hope Shepherd’s aspirations to be an international athlete. Now working as a taxi driver, Hope is unsettled by a sexy Canadian she picks up at the airport. With his good looks and easy charm, he’s just the sort of man she can do without. But can she afford to turn down his offer?
He offers her a small fortune to drive him to Scotland, where he hopes to discover his ancestral roots. And not just anywhere in Scotland. Harry McLeod wants to go to the Highlands, to the Isle of Skye.
He is persistent, and Hope needs the cash. But what are the real terms of this outrageous deal?
Harry McLeod desires Hope, and the attraction is shared. If he can get her in his bed—or better still, tied to it—will she allow him to peel away her protective layers to release her inner submissive? Harry is stern, uncompromising, outrageously sexy and utterly irresistible. How will Hope respond to his dark brand of sensuality? Does he offer more than a generous fare and a few erotic encounters?
When they reach Skye, a feud spanning four generations challenges all that Hope thought she was coming to know about submission. Will it be enough to convince her that this could be a relationship to stand the test of time?
Dedication
This book is dedicated to John and Hannah, as ever.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Carlsberg: Carlsberg Group
Ford Focus: Ford Motor Company
Nike: Nike, Inc.
Midsomer Murders: ITV plc.
Rado: Swatch Group Ltd.
iPad: Apple, Inc.
Hogwarts: J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter: J.K. Rowling
Topshop: Arcadia Group Plc. and Leonard Green and Partners
Primark: Associated British Foods plc
Ann Summers: Ann Summers Ltd
Harvey Nicks: Dickson Concepts (International) Ltd.
Boots: Alliance Boots GmbH
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
RSPCA: Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
Jacuzzi: Apollo Global Management LLC
Portaloo: Portakabin Limited
Cheshire cat: Lewis Carroll
Audi: Audi AG; Volkswagen Aktiengesellschaft
Mini: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG
Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits: Bang Records
Prologue
Kilmuir, Skye, Scotland,
June 1962
“Are ye mad? Are ye quite bloody senseless, lad?” Angus McLeod regarded his son, his expression nothing short of incredulous. “Ye’ve hardly even met the lass.”
“I’ve met her, Da’. I’ve met her plenty of times. I love her.”
Angus’ snort was one of pure derision. “Aye? Well, that’ll pass. The girl’s nae fer ye, lad. Ye’d never make a crofter out o’ that bloody sassenach.”
“Sarah’s Orcadian, Da’. Ye know that. From Orkney, like Mam’s kin.” Ritchie was careful to keep his tone even. He needed his father to see reason. He’d promised Sarah, and it was down to him to make that happen. He had to somehow manage to talk to the angry older man calmly, and keep talking until the stubborn auld bugger finally got it through his skull that the deed was done. Sarah was part of his future, his father’s too. The old man just had to accept it, though his belligerent attitude at the merest mention of Sarah’s name suggested it would be uphill work.
“Yer mother grew up not two miles from where yer standin’ noo, lad. Her da’ was from Kirkwall, I’ll grant ye that, but she’s a Uig lass. That’s the sort ye should be lookin’ to wed, to run this place with ye when me an’ yer mam’re gone, not some wee thing who thinks ye can drag a living from books an’ chalk.” Angus turned from his son to position the hefty wooden stake in the peat soil and reached for his mallet to drive it into the earth. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, the matter was closed.
“Sarah’s trainin’ to be a teacher. She’s good at it. It’s important work. Honest work. We need a decent school round here.”
“What we need round here, lad, is a decent summer and not to get knocked sideways by the bloody wind come winter. The school can shift fer itsel’. Hand me another post, will ye, and cease thi ditherin’.”
Ritchie picked up one of the stout lumps of pine the pair of them had dragged uphill across nearly two miles of heather and stood it upright, pointed end poking into the firm ground at his feet. He took the mallet from his father and waited until the man had steadied the stake before heaving the lump hammer over his head in one long arc. He hit the stake solidly and was satisfied to see it plunge a good six inches into the solid earth. Ritchie’s eye caught his father’s, and the older man nodded his approval. Ritchie swung the mallet again, this time driving the stake a further eight or nine inches downwards.
“It’s gettin’ there, lad. Another couple o’ swings, I reckon.”
Ritchie duly obliged, sinking the fencepost securely into the peat before turning to hoist another into position. This time Angus took the sledgehammer and did the grunt w
ork. The two of them continued to labor in near silence for a further hour, sharing the work evenly. They had done this, or similar back-breaking tasks, so many times before that conversation was unnecessary, a waste of precious energy. Each knew his role, his job, they relied on each other. It was a system that worked. Would always work. Or so Angus seemed to think.
“Sarah’s pregnant.” Ritchie delivered the killer blow as they neared their croft in the dwindling daylight, striding down from the hillside in search of a good hot meal and cozy fireside. Even in the height of summer the evenings here on the Isle of Skye, perched on the west coast of Scotland, were chilly. A bowl of hot lamb broth would offer a welcome end to a satisfying day’s work.
Angus shrugged, didn’t even break stride. “Aye, well that doesna surprise me. Whose is it then? Does she ken?”
“For fuck’s sake, Da’, it’s mine.” Ritchie usually managed not to swear at his father, but his temper had been simmering dangerously below the surface the whole afternoon, despite his outwardly cool demeanor. He had hoped to be able to reason with Angus, even knowing his father’s determination to dislike Sarah Harrison. Angus’ single-minded loathing of Sarah had not wavered one iota since he’d first set eyes on her at the kirk down in Uig the previous autumn. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Matters were coming to a head. They had been for weeks—months even. The baby was just hurrying things along. “Sarah’s havin’ my baby. Your grandbaby. Ye’ll need to make her welcome, Da’. She’ll be my wife.”
“Welcome? Ye expect me to welcome some sassenach bitch wi’ a belly full o’ arms and legs into my home? Me father’s home and his before him? To share ye mam’s kitchen? Your bed? Oh no, it’s not happenin’, lad. She may ha’ fooled ye but not me. No bastard brat’s getting free bed ‘n’ board at my expense. I havena worked me whole life to see some English brat at me table.”
Exasperated, Ritchie whirled round to plant himself in front of his father. “D’ye ever stop to listen to yersel’, Da’? Yer talking crap. This is the twentieth century, not the bloody Middle Ages, and Sarah’s a teacher, not some kept woman. She works hard for a livin’, like the rest of us. I’ve been seeing her for months and you know it—or you would if you weren’t so stubborn. She’s pregnant, and the baby’s mine. We’re gettin’ wed and there’s an end to it. Get over yersel’.”
This latest onslaught did cause the older man to slow, just enough to step around Ritchie, but not to stop.
Angus ignored the comment about being stubborn—it would have been hard to deny the truth of it in any case. He preferred to think of himself as tenacious, and over the years he’d found it to be a helpful trait when it came to dragging a reluctant living from a hostile, ungenerous environment. It was a quality that would serve him well now since someone needed to set this matter to rights and it would fall to him, as ever.
“Ye canna be serious. Ye’re dafter than ye look if ye’ve fallen for that old trick. Forget it. Tell the sassenach to find some other meal ticket, some other fool to take her and her bastard in.”
“Sarah won’t need takin’ in. She’ll be my wife and she’ll live with us. Mam’ll love having her here.”
Angus stopped, turned to face Ritchie, his face a reddening mask of pure fury. He rarely raised his voice, rarely had to. His word was law here, his authority absolute. No one would gainsay him on his own land, his own croft. Not his wife, nor his son. And definitely not some meddling upstart bitch who’d somehow managed to inveigle her way into the soft-headed Ritchie’s affections.
“That English bitch is not welcome here, and she ne’er will be. Now you listen to me, lad, and listen well. Ye’ll tell her to go, and bid good riddance to ‘er. There’s plenty o’ nice lasses hereabouts, lasses what’d suit ye well and who know when to keep their legs together too. Pregnant… Christ Almighty. She must ha’ seen ye comin’.”
There the matter might have rested. Certainly it was where Angus expected it to rest. He’d said his piece—the discussion was over, the matter closed. He half turned, his countenance again set on his home and his dinner. His sanguine opinion on the issue was sorely tested when Ritchie’s fist connected with his jaw.
Angus spun in a half circle, the force of the blow ringing in his ears as he dropped the sledgehammer and sprawled on his back, flattening the heather beneath him. His son towered over Angus’ prone length, chest heaving, eyes shining with an emerald glitter Angus could not recall observing previously. Anger churned in the man’s gut as he sprang to his feet, fists raised.
“Raise yer hand to me, would ye? Ye’ve a lesson tae learn, lad, an’ I’ll be teachin’ it now, I think.”
“No you won’t, old man. Ye have the wrong in this. Ye’ll need to admit it eventually so why not now? I’m sorry I hit ye, but ye had it comin’. Let’s set this behind us and look ahead to bein’ a family. Now, before it’s too late.” Ritchie backed away from his enraged father, though his fists remained up.
Angus noted that one of his son’s knuckles was bleeding, a fact from which he derived some measure of satisfaction. There was little else in the way of comfort in this mess, though. Still gripped with near blinding rage, Angus nevertheless knew this was a turning point. He must win this confrontation. He simply had to. His entire way of life, his ancestors’ way of life, was at stake. Ritchie would conform. There was no alternative. If the only way to make his point was to pummel some sense into the lad, he would.
The two men circled each other, their feet trampling a round trail in the springy heather on the hillside. Angus was intent on watching his son’s movements, impervious to the voice approaching, calling out to them, the pounding of running feet.
“What are ye doin’? Stop this. Stop now. Angus, what’re ye about?” Ann-Marie McLeod came charging up the hillside, her thick tweed jacket flapping in the stiff summer breeze. Mud-spattered black wellington boots and a knee-length woolen skirt the same shade of purple as the heather surrounding them completed her practical ensemble. Neither man answered her.
“Ye’ll not bring that flighty little bitch into my house an’ there’s an end. If I have to convince ye of that wi’ me fist I will, make no mistake…” Angus lowered his head, glaring at Ritchie under his brows.
“No, Da’. That’s not how this is going to go. You know it. I know it. Mam knows it too.”
“Yer mam knows what I tell her to know. And ye’ll no’ be marryin’ Sarah Harrison.” Angus lunged at Ritchie, but the younger man sidestepped his advance with ease.
With an entire hillside at his disposal, the chances of Angus managing to corner him and land a blow were remote. Angus snarled in frustration as Ritchie continued to elude his father’s flailing fists long enough for his mother to reach them. The small woman flung herself between the two men.
“Angus McLeod, are ye mad? Ritchie, what is this? What on earth’s happened?”
“This doesna concern ye, lass. Go inside.” Angus issued his instructions, expecting his wishes to meet with the instant obedience he was accustomed to.
Ann-Marie stood her ground, chest heaving as she shifted with them while Angus and Ritchie continued to circle each other. On this occasion his normally compliant wife had other ideas, using her own body to keep them apart.
“And leave ye to kill each other out here on the heather? People can see ye. Ye’ll be the talk o’ the kirk. An’ ye’re scarin’ the sheep. Come on. Come in the house and talk it over.”
“I told ye to go in. Now do as ye’re told,” Angus growled at Ann-Marie, though his glare never wavered from Ritchie.
“We’ll all go in. I’ve a nice mutton stew on, an’ some fresh bread.” She reached for her husband’s upraised arm, intending to lead him away. By some instinct, she seemed to have surmised Angus to be the more dangerous of the two. Ritchie looked riled, but somewhat less than murderous. Though his wife’s presence had a slightly calming effect on Ritchie, Angus was ready to admit that the same could not be said of himself.
He shook off her restraining hand, h
is contemptuous glare withering. Ann-Marie frowned at him. She appeared confused, and Angus couldn’t blame her for that. Angus could be stern, usually was. He and Ritchie could always find something to argue about. But he could not recall the lad ever having driven him to such raw fury and he knew she was seeing that in his face now. She looked stunned.
She had a point. To be brawling out on the moors with his son, in full view of the neighbors they’d known all their lives? He must have lost his mind.
“Come now, we’ll talk indoors. All of us.” Always the peacemaker in their home, Ann-Marie directed her glance at her son, who simply shook his head sadly.
“Has he told ye? Has he told ye about that lass?” Angus bellowed the question at Ann-Marie.
She turned to him, frowning. “Lass? Ye mean Sarah?”
“Sarah!” Angus spat the word at his wife, glowering at Ritchie as he did so. “Yes, I mean Sarah Harrison. Has he told ye that the conniving little bitch is expectin’?”
“Sarah? Sarah’s pregnant?” Ann-Marie looked to Ritchie for confirmation.
“Aye, Mam. Ye’re going to be a grandma.” Ritchie’s gaze was steady, unapologetic.
Ann-Marie merely nodded. “Aye, well, I canna say I’m surprised. Still, we’ll manage. It’s nay what I would ha’ planned but no cause to be throwing punches at each other. What’s got into ye both?”
“Manage? There’ll be no managing, at least not by my hearth. The bairn’s none of ours. I’ll lay a year’s peat store on that. There’ll be no bastards foisted on me or mine, not while I’m head of this house.” Angus reached for the sledgehammer, and Ann-Marie stepped forward again, as though she believed he intended to attack their son with it.
Ritchie seemed not to share that concern. “Now ye see why I had to land him one, Mam?”
