Haunted By A Highland Curse: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance

by Emilia C. Dunbar

  “Take your sister,” she told them. “I shall stay here with this young man and you two can go and march about your grand estate, my dear.”

  The words were tongue in cheek, but they stung a little. As if Caoimhe was now somehow too impressive for her mother to cope with. Too much to be a Webb.

  Not that she was, she guessed.

  She was Caoimhe Brodie now.

  “I still can’t believe that you know how to ride a horse.”

  Unlike with their mother, when the words seemed to sting somewhere deep in her pride, Iris’s little jokes were easier. Caoimhe was able to laugh them off or jab back as sisters did, able to take shots so long as she could dish out a few of her own. Iris had learned to ride years ago, in an effort to impress several of the sons of Old Man Angus when they went into the militia. It had only served in her breaking her leg and being laid up grouching for four weeks. That had been a particularly long summer.

  “I don’t,” Caoimhe explained quickly with a laugh. “But I aim to learn.” She smiled, a little indulgent over her own fears. “I just need to stop my hands from shaking in their presence first.”

  Iris’s giggle drew the attention of Roy, his head popping out from the open stable door; his body following a moment later. He was wiping down his hands on a rag, his fingers damp with water from dowsing the hay.

  “Miss Caoimhe,” he said, his tone surprised and pleasant. He then spotted Caoimhe’s companion and corrected himself. “I mean…Lady Caoimhe.”

  He sketched an awkward bow.

  “Roy, please meet my sister, Iris Webb. Iris, this is Roy, our head stablehand. He’s taken on the impossible task of teaching me to ride a horse.”

  “Not impossible, my lady!” Roy contradicted, reaching out to take Iris’s hand and offer a brief kiss to her knuckles.

  “Just time consuming?” Caoimhe offered instead, and Roy’s smile stretched to his ears.

  “As you say,” he agreed, tugging at his forelock.

  The three of them laughed.

  The weather was good that afternoon and the sun bright. Their giggles were caught by the breeze, swirled around them like a dancing echo and then carried off over the tops of the trees. Caoimhe could hear the leaves rustling and smiled as she smelled that crisp scent of fall in the air. Autumn was definitely coming.

  “I wanted to show Iris Lady’s—”

  Caoimhe never finished explaining that she wanted Iris to see the mare. Instead, her words were cut short when a dark and ferocious bark shot through the air like an arrow to the heart. Caoimhe became frozen in place, her arms even coming up towards her face in a defensive gesture against the noise. The growls were angry, barking one over another, an argument between beasts.

  She felt herself shudder and only calmed when Iris’s hand came to her shoulder and she was able to look out towards the estate.

  Niall had just stepped out from the kitchen doors, his dogs at the heel, and fighting with one another for a large stick they had found. A simple command from their master and they all bent to heel, their angry calls silenced.

  Caoimhe took a long and calming breath.

  Roy was watching her with a look of worry.

  “Are you alright, Miss Caoimhe?”

  “It’s the dogs.” Iris spoke before Caoimhe could catch her breath and assure the man that it was nothing. “She’s terrified of them. Always has been.”

  “Iris!”

  Caoimhe’s rebuttal was quiet but firm. She might not know a lot about being a lady, but she knew enough to recognize that personal secrets should not be shared with the staff over your husband.

  “I’ll…I’ll get you some water…” Roy offered, jabbing a thumb towards the well a few dozen yards from the stables. He was already turning to make good on his promise, his feet headed in that direction, but his eyes still held on Caoimhe.

  She shook her head and quickly stood straight again, her hands dusting over her skirts. She felt the sweat on her palms and briefly touched her neck and cheek.

  “No, thank you Roy, I’m fine.”

  Before anyone could protest, Caoimhe was chivvying Iris back to the house, having completely forgotten why they had come out to the stables in the first place, and wanting nothing more than to be inside the safe and secure walls of Aberlynn. It would be several hours before she realized what her exact thoughts had been as they turned back towards the estate.

  I want to be inside. I want to be home.

  13

  Insult and Injury

  It was remarkable how quickly a life could adjust. From a small cottage of only a few rooms, two floors, and a single hearth to heat the whole family, Caoimhe now lived in an estate that she thought truly able to contain the entire population of her township. In lieu of nephews and nieces to chase after, she now had a staff of nearly twenty to see to the normal tasks that would have kept her toiling throughout the day. Her meals were larger and finer, her clothes softer against her skin. Her manners were being naturally altered as she responded to the requirements of those around her; their need for her to appear as the lady she now was.

  That title of privilege, however, was also giving Caoimhe the freedom to do as she wanted. If she wished to spend an afternoon in the kitchens practicing a culinary talent, she could. If she wanted to wander the heaths and seek out wild flowers, have her family brought for visits, or be escorted down to the portside herself, she could. There was only one individual in the Aberlynn estate who could order her to do what he wanted, and Niall kept himself hidden away with his mysterious laird business.

  While the speed of it was surprising, Caoimhe had never had great doubts that she would eventually settle into her new home. Though she had never thought of herself as a materialistic or greedy person, it was hard not to accept that life was simply easier when you wanted for nothing. She had never supposed that her new life at Aberlynn was going to be arduous.

  What did truly puzzle her, however, was how such a life could feel empty of an element that she had never once possessed.

  In the first week of her marriage, Niall had been away from home, and her new life had seemed complete enough. It was strange and new, and she had many changes to adapt to, but barring the homesickness she had for her family, she hadn’t felt that anything was truly missing from her world.

  Now, with Niall back home at the estate but often closeted away behind closed doors, his absence was all the more obvious for his proximity.

  As Caoimhe grew used to his presence about the place—however rarely she saw him—the reminders of his existence had stopped sparking panic or worry in her heart and slowly molded into something more poignant: a longing sense of disconnect.

  With a forthright attitude, Caoimhe set about putting a tray together for her husband. It had been four nights since her mother had visited, and still she had not yet had the chance to speak with her husband about his generous delivery to their household. Tonight, she was determined to correct such things and interrupt her husband, whether he wished for the disturbance or not.

  Waving away Millie’s insistence that she should carry the tray for her mistress, Caoimhe picked up the gilded silver handles of the piece and headed directly to her husband’s study. It was there that he spent most of his evenings working on his papers and other such duties that she didn’t wholly understand. But when she reached the door in question, there was no flickering light beneath the doorway. The fire had clearly burned down, and the room felt chilly even from the other side of the door.

  With a frown, Caoimhe went in search of an illuminated chamber that might hold her husband. She mapped the path in her head to move through the lower levels of the estate, on a general path towards their own bed chambers. It was not so late and, if he had retired early, she would offer him little disturbance.

  She only wanted to thank him, after all.

  Five minutes later and Caoimhe had marched herself into a little temper.

  It should not be this hard to find your own husband in your own h
ome! she decided.

  Like most little girls, Caoimhe had thought upon what her married life might have been like. She had thought of flowers, of home-cooked meals, and sweet whispers in ears. She had wondered what it would feel like to grow large with life and then hold her own kin in her arms. She had wondered what it would mean to gaze into a face and know that such a wonderful thing could be called hers and hers alone.

  And yet, now, she couldn’t find the face of her husband at all!

  She was about to give up when an odd little light caught her eye. A bright slant of moonlight coming down through one of the windows seemed to angle strangely off of the wall on the opposing side of the corridor. The hallway led down towards Niall’s parents’ rooms, and she was only familiar with it because she had been trying to clean and renovate the blue parlor.

  Caoimhe headed in that direction and reached the entry to the parlor, where she could see the orange and yellow glow around its trim. There was the soft crackle of a fire beyond.

  Wanting to knock but realizing that she didn’t have a hand free to do so, Caoimhe shifted to place her hip against the door and pushed it slowly open.

  The chamber was mostly in the dim darkness of nighttime. None of the candles in their freshly polished holders had been lit, and the newly cleaned curtains had been drawn across the glass. A linen cover of soft white was still draped across the large mirror in the corner, and most of the chairs still had their large dust sheets in place. The only one that was on the floor, lying crumpled in a heap, was that which had been covering a high-backed chair of soft, brown leather. The chair had been moved closer to the fire, and Caoimhe could see Niall’s long legs stretched out before the grate.

  “My lord?”

  Caoimhe couldn’t see Niall’s face from the door because it was hidden away behind the winged back of the chair, but he clearly recognized her voice.

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  His words were not angry. They were calm, tired.

  Caoimhe drew closer to the chair, using her bottom to push the door once more.

  “I’m sorry…I don’t…I don’t really know what to call you.”

  She wasn’t sure if that was something that a wife should be admitting to her husband, but Caoimhe had always been a believer in honesty reigning supreme, wherever possible.

  “What is it that your mother calls your father?” he asked. He had yet to look around at her, his elbow on the arm of his throne and his gaze, no doubt, fixed upon the firewood, broody and stoic.

  Caiomhe moved around the room, drawing closer to the hearth so that she might see his face.

  “She would call him darling and dear.” Caoimhe smiled. “Sometimes, idiot or dolt.”

  She was surprised to see a curling at the corner of Niall’s mouth, a break in his stony disposition.

  The firewood crackled and Caoimhe’s thumb rubbed over one of the silver nodules on the tray’s handle. She glanced down at the jug, cups, and plate that sat upon its surface.

  “I learned to make caudell,” she said with an attempt at making conversation. She strode forward with a decidedly light step and set the tray down on a little table just next to the mantelpiece. “Would you like to try a little?” She lifted the jug and tapped its pewter surface. “I don’t know if it will be any good, but I think that’s your risk to take as my spouse now, correct?”

  Niall didn’t laugh. Instead, he watched her with a curious look. He was slouched in his leather throne, dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair tousled from too many fingers running through the locks. He hadn’t shaved since he had arrived back in Aberlynn, and the stubble over his chin had started to grow in, to form a little beard.

  “You know that you don’t have to work in the kitchens, don’t you?” he asked her. There was a chalice already in his hand where he held it over the arm of his chair. It appeared to be empty. “I have servants to tend to the food, and the caudell. I don’t need my wife to.”

  “So, what do you need me to do?” Caoimhe asked, feeling a little deflated. She had been finding her days hard to fill with all the nothing-duties of a lady of the house.

  “I don’t need you to do anything. Just do what ladies do.”

  “In my house, ladies tend to the kitchen and weave,” Caoimhe challenged. Surely he couldn’t marry a woman of common birth and then expect her to know how to behave like a lady? She was doing all that she could to work out the rules on what was and wasn’t permitted as his wife, but it was hard without her husband there for instruction.

  Caoimhe felt awkward now, standing by the hearth holding a jug, and her fingers twisted about its handle. Her little knuckles were spotted white in the firelight, and she was left in one of those moments where she felt decidedly out of place.

  There was quiet in the room for a few minutes.

  In that time, Niall watched her, reading the thoughts on her face and her emotions in her hands.

  He held out his cup. “Let me try some.”

  Caoimhe looked up, confused.

  Niall nodded his head towards the jug in her hand. “Some caudell. Let me try it.”

  “Oh! Of course…” Caoimhe hurried over to pour a little of the egg-laden wine into his cup and then moved away again to give him his space. Niall sipped from the cup, paused as he assessed the flavor, and then sipped again. He nodded and licked his lips thoughtfully.

  “That’s very good.”

  Caoimhe didn’t notice that her answering smile was one of the brightest she had offered in the man’s presence, nor that he was caught watching it as she turned to return the jug to the tray. By the time she turned back, Niall had risen from his seat and fetched her the brother of his own. He set it on the other side of the grate and removed its dust cloth. Caoimhe only hesitated for a moment before sitting down.

  The firewood popped pleasantly in the quiet.

  Niall was the first to break the calm between them.

  “How are you finding Aberlynn?”

  Caoimhe didn’t know whether to feel hurt or amused by the question. It was the sort of thing you might ask a guest or visitor. A stranger. Not your wife, surely? And yet, there were a lot of ways in which Niall didn’t seem willing to treat her like a wife.

  “Well, aside from not knowing what the wife of a laird should be doing with her day, I’m finding myself a home here, I think.”

  Niall nodded. His lips drew together consideringly as he looked about the room they sat in. Two weeks ago, it had been coated in a film of dust and smelled of abandonment. Now, it was near usable.

  “Yes, I can see that. You seem to be moving things around to your liking.”

  Caoimhe wasn’t sure that she liked the tone of that statement and she noticed how his eyes seemed to flicker towards the painting above the hearth.

  “Only to clean. Brogan said that he knew a man in Dunidge who can clean paintings without removing the paint. I asked him to invite him here to look at your mother’s portrait.” Caoimhe shifted awkwardly in her seat. “Perhaps I overstepped my bound, but I thought that this room was too pretty to be left idle. I also wasn’t going to see it used once more without your mother able to see it.”

  There was a quiet in the room as Niall seemed to struggle to process her words.

  “You…were having it cleaned?” he asked. “That’s why it was taken down from the wall?”

  “Well, that and so that we could clean the wall behind it. There was a lot of dust around the frame. But…yes.”

  Caoimhe watched as her husband seemed shocked by this information. He stared blindly into the fire before closing his eyes and pinching down upon them with his thumb and forefinger. He turned away from her, as if shamed.

  “What did you think I was doing with it?”

  Niall couldn’t answer her.

  What had he thought she was doing with it? Well, he had thought her the same as most of the high-class women he had met at mòds and cèilidhs. He had thought her an egotistical female wanting to stake her claim up
on his house.

  In short, he had thought all wrong.

  Niall didn’t need to be a great reader of people to be able to see that her complete confusion over his questions was a sign of innocence. She had taken his mother’s portrait down to have it fixed and reapplied to the wall in pride of place. The woman was a complete stranger to her and yet, because she had been his mother, Caiomhe had wanted the portrait of Jeanna watching over the room.

  He looked to see Caoimhe’s eyes, her expression, so simple and full of love for family and tradition. He suspected that her perplexity came from the fact that the removal of Niall’s childhood and family tokens had never even entered her mind. Not for a second. Such a whitewash of either of their pasts was so intolerable a concept to her that it hadn’t even entered her head.

  Niall was humbled and could feel only regret for his anger on the day that he had returned home. In how he had instantly jumped to unfair conclusions.

  Worse still, that rage had sent him down a path of dominance, an instinct to establish control over the wife he had thought was taking his estate by storm. It had led them both to her chambers and to his claiming of her chastity.

  “Nothing,” Niall grunted, rubbing his palm over his face. “Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

  Except that it did.

  Despite his consummating of their marriage having been handled all wrong, Niall still thought about it whenever he saw Caoimhe’s shadow headed down a hallway, or spotted her from a window, wandering the grounds. With her in the chair beside him, just an arm’s length away, it was even worse.

  For a woman who had been raised in poorer lodgings and spent so much time in the harsh, open air of the highlands, he had discovered Caoimhe to possess incredibly soft skin. And while she had neither the buxom figure or rounded curves of a bonnie sort of lass, that softness had moved something in him, drawn him to her delicate femininity and seen him claim her for his own.

  Yet, whenever such thoughts invaded his mind, turning his body hot and wanting, he was drenched in the chill of other such memories. Of the way that she had barely moved beneath him as he merged with her. Of the little winces, the gasps of pain, and how she had barely touched him in return. He thought of how she had drawn herself in that first night after their marriage. How, even in her dreamlike state, her body rejected him.