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

by Emilia C. Dunbar

  “Ah,” Duncan agreed, nodding. “Yes, I had forgotten that Lady Fiona had taken on that privilege for her own. Better to fight that battle another day perhaps. In fact”—Duncan cast her a more serious eye—“I think it good practice to leave her and Malcolm alone entirely for a while. I understand that the taxes are due to be increased on Malcolm’s property, and the man will not like it for all sorts of reasons.”

  “Niall is forcing his cousin to pay him more for his land?” Caoimhe asked, confused.

  Duncan shook his head and waved a dismissive hand.

  “Only what is due. I am not very well versed in such things, but as far as I am aware, Lord Malcolm has been securing Brodie money for himself, and Niall is going to have the deficit redressed. He won’t like it, for he must have had some purpose for the money he’s been hoarding.”

  “He wants to be richer?”

  Duncan smiled at Caoimhe’s innocence.

  “Unlikely. Even out of direct inheritance, as a Brodie, Malcolm is plenty wealthy. My guess is that he wishes to pay for private fighters. If he and his mother cannot claim the lairdship by rumor alone and you produce your husband a male heir, they may have been preparing to resort to force to claim Aberlynn for their own.”

  Caiomhe felt a flurry of fear in her belly. If they were worried about such things, she could have told them herself that the last week had proven her to not yet be pregnant. She’d rather have the shame of not yet being with child than she would the threat of soldiers and violence!

  It was clear that Duncan belatedly realized who he was speaking to, and quickly corrected himself when he saw the fear in Caoimhe’s face.

  “My dear, such a thing will never happen. Your husband is fully aware of such things and always has been. It is part of his job to ensure that these types of plans or issues never come to fruition by outthinking his rivals and rewarding his loyalists. You need not worry about something that will not happen.”

  Clearly regretting the dark direction that he had taken the conversation in, Duncan reached over to pat Caiomhe’s knee.

  “Come. Let us think of happier things. The Samhain is being held on the heath just a mile from Aberlynn. Perhaps we might ride out together to enjoy Lady Fiona’s toils for our own amusement, eh?”

  15

  Flower Names

  Caoimhe wasn’t generally a spiteful person, but she couldn’t deny that Duncan’s idea was a prospect that pleased. After Lady Fiona had gone out of her way to throw Caoimhe as far from the preparations for the Samhain celebrations as possible, she saw a sort of divine justice in being able to enjoy them as a guest and leaving the possessive matron to stressors of festival arrangement.

  The only issue that remained a bugbear was the question of how to arrive.

  Samhain was traditionally held on the open heath to the south of the Aberlynn estate. The road that she might take towards home gradually stretched out and beyond her township and away from the coastline, closer to the forests and the long grass of the southern meadows. The journey was perhaps a mile from the castle, little more, but Caoimhe’s natural modesty shied from the idea of riding the distance in some grand carriage of importance. The festival was open to all. It was the joyful farewell to a year passed and a harvest rendered. People she had known since she was but a child would be there. And she could not, in all conscience, imagine herself attending as Fiona Brodie would—with all the lavish displays of wealth that she could manage.

  And yet, the distance was too great to walk for a woman of her new stature, and to try and get to the celebrations on her own two feet risked insulting her husband and his reputation.

  Caoimhe was left with the alternative compromise of riding aback a horse. No cart, no carriage. It would be a far cry different from the long walk she had always taken as a youth, but it bridged the necessary gap. Riding her own steed would neither disgrace the rank of her husband, nor color her as some hoity-toity from the estate.

  The only obstacle to be overcome now was her own fear.

  With renewed vigor, Caoimhe requested that a saddle and tack be made ready for her the next morning, and upon the morrow, she was dressed in a simple gown with wide skirts and well-fitted boots to the calf.

  Now that October was fully underway, the bright sunshine that had clung to its summer days was finally slipping into cooler times. Caoimhe suppressed a shiver as she stepped out onto the gravel walkway. She supposed that the activity of her lessons would see her warmed soon enough. Reaching up, as she marched, Caoimhe pulled her braids back and refastened them at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. She was determined to not see her own tresses distract her.

  “Caoimhe!”

  Still not used to hearing her name, called in the low and husky tones of her husband, Caoimhe jumped at his call and spun on her heel. With the wind brusque, she almost disorientated herself and lost her footing, but she held true.

  Niall was headed over the lawns. He looked dressed to leave, with his sword in place at his hip and a saddle blanket over his arm. His expression was one of suspicion as he approached.

  “What are you doing?” he asked once he was within an easier distance. His tone was not unfriendly, but the towering way he came towards her made her feel under inquisition.

  She stammered a little, worried at how their last encounter at the stables had turned out.

  “I…I was just going to the stables. I’ve been trying to learn how to ride.”

  “With Roy?” Niall’s gaze slanted in the direction of the stable building. His tone did not seem friendly.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t going to ask him, this time.” Caoimhe shook her head, a promise on her lips. “I know that I distracted him from his work before, and I apologize. I was going to practice alone.”

  She had thought that such an adaptation to her lessons would have pleased him. Instead, she only got the brunt of his stormy expression cast in her direction.

  “You’re not learning to ride a horse alone, Caoimhe.”

  Almost instantly, he had her riding crop from her hand and his fingers around her wrist. Before she knew it, Niall was towing her along the pathway, her shoes sparking little stones in every direction as she tried to keep up.

  “I’m fairly certain I have mentioned before that you’ll gain more from not toting me around like a piece of cargo!” Caoimhe protested, a little out of breath. Unlike the last time she had made such a comment, Niall came to a quick stop and turned to her in a good-natured challenge.

  “How am I to ensure that you follow, otherwise?” he demanded, one of his brows lifted over his hooded gaze.

  Caoimhe resisted the urge to smile.

  “You cannot. You just encourage in the hopes that I will.”

  Niall did not seem to like the uncertainty of such a plan. She could see the edge of his jaw popping out of joint, as he ground his teeth.

  “And just how do you propose I do that?”

  As Niall let down his guard, Caoimhe grew bolder. Her teeth came down upon her lip and she wriggled her wrist free of his hold. Before his hand fell away, she twisted her hand around and linked her fingers through his.

  “Like this?” she asked, holding his hand as a sweetheart might her bonnie boy on the marsh.

  Niall had gone still.

  His fingers slowly closed around hers.

  “This feels little different,” he insisted. But his voice was slurred and mumbling. His eyes had fallen to her lips, to her neck.

  “You sure?” Caoimhe asked, unable to resist the taunt. It was the first time she had seen her big, strong husband out of sorts. She watched as he struggled with some internal dilemma, his desires and his focus at odds.

  With a clearing of his throat, Niall had broken the moment and set them both back on track. He headed once more in the direction of the stables, his boots crunching on the stones.

  He kept hold of her hand.

  Feeling a shiver of heat running from the tips of her fingers to the curve of her neck, Caoimhe risked the smile
that she cast at the back of Niall’s shoulder, her eyes wistful and her heart light. For a man that could face war unblinking, Niall was surprisingly unsure of his steps when it came to tenderness.

  Perhaps he was less a brute in the ways of romance…and simply a novice?

  By the time Caoimhe could hear the soft snorts and movement of the horses, the two of them had adjusted themselves to each other. Caoimhe’s steps were a little longer, Niall’s slower. The hold they had on one another’s hand had loosened, and their fingers clung together. So distracted by the easy feel of familiarity, Caoimhe walked clean into her husband’s shoulder when he came to a stop.

  Niall looked back at her with an amused expression on his face. She wrinkled her nose at him and tried not to shiver at the way heat had just flushed the whole left-hand side of her body.

  Each touch, every accidental collision, seemed to spark something beneath Caoimhe’s skin that she had yet to be able to place a name to. A little frightening, a little exciting. It dared her to move closer. As if Niall was a flame and she longed to be warmed, never sure if the heat would heal or burn.

  Niall let her go so he could saddle and tack her horse, releasing her from such touches. But, she soon discovered that his gaze could have the same effect. With each glance he passed in her direction, Caoimhe felt her cheeks warm and her lips grow dry.

  “Right.” The single word was as defiant as it was a little breathless, and accompanied by Niall’s gentle pat upon Lady’s Breath’s neck. “Let’s get you up on the old girl.”

  Instantly, any sweet warmth still lingering in Caoimhe’s body sunk to the floor and dissipated through her feet. Her hands were clammy and her chest suddenly ice cold.

  “Wait, I need to get used to her first.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing with Roy?” Niall asked, moving around the horse and marching straight for her. Caoimhe tried to take a few steps back.

  “Yes, but I hadn’t gotten too close just yet, and I wanted to—”

  “Too late,” Niall insisted, revealing a trickster streak she wasn’t sure she liked. He came forward quickly, skirted around her, and then placed heavy hands on her shoulders. He urged her closer to the mare, as her heart beat a pounding tattoo in her against her ribcage.

  “Don’t be afraid to fall. That’s natural. You want to keep your feet on the ground. But you can’t listen to your fears. You need to just get up there and do it.”

  Caoimhe felt as if she were tripping over her lips, her mouth loose and her words lost. It wasn’t the fall that she was afraid of, but the animal itself. And Niall had no idea of the whys and hows to that.

  Her terror was shocked into submission, for a second, when there was a soft little pressure above the neckline of her gown. Surprise replaced fear, as Caoimhe realized that Niall had just kissed her shoulder.

  Before she could assimilate to the little gesture of affection, Niall had bent low, hooked a hand around her leg, forced her to bend it up against him, and then practically hurled her into the saddle!

  With a yelp and a cry, Caoimhe was left to claw a hold on the only thing she had—the horse—and was immediately bent double laying upon the mare’s back. One knee had naturally fallen to either side of the saddle, and Lady’s Breath was still and patient, not caring for the flailing misfit that had found her way to her back.

  Caoimhe shot a look of angry fire at her husband. It was a glare usually reserved for her sisters when they were particularly mean, but she felt that it suited the present situation.

  “What did you do that for? I could have fallen down the other side!”

  “Nonsense! You’re up there, aren’t you?”

  Caoimhe couldn’t argue with that. But she also couldn’t be sure that she was ever going to be able to sit upright, regardless of any instruction. At least now she was mostly out of Niall’s reach, so he couldn’t suddenly have her jumping fences or galloping about the grounds.

  “I’m here but I’m not moving,” Caoimhe insisted stubbornly.

  Only, the next thing she knew, Niall had reached up to hold onto the saddle, and had levered himself onto the horse behind her.

  Instantly, Caoimhe froze.

  Niall’s legs had found their place behind hers, the top of his thighs pressing into the back of her own. She could feel the angle of his pelvis behind her bottom and his arms now caged her in a prison, his big hands reaching for the reins.

  Closing her eyes, Caoimhe was now even more determined not to sit upright.

  “It’s okay…”

  Instead of laughing at her or reprimanding her for cowardice, Niall’s words were tinged with soft encouragement. The hands that she had thought were headed for the horse’s bridle were now warm upon her arms, her shoulders, and then her hips.

  Caoimhe gasped as his fingers slowly shifted around her middle, moving possessively over her lower belly and then pulling gently to encourage her upright. She held her breath, unable to resist the strength and support in his touch. Her middle went taut beneath his fingers.

  By the time she was sitting like a real rider, astride the white mare, her back was flush against the wide breadth of Niall’s chest, and she was entirely breathless.

  “How is it…” Niall’s voice was a rumble against her back. It growled beside her ear and had a shiver run down her spine. Caoimhe closed her eyes, lulled by the voice that had once had her too frightened to move. Now she was paralyzed for an entirely different reason. “How is it that you have grown into womanhood without ever learning to ride a horse, wife of mine?”

  Caoimhe swallowed, trying to wet her tongue and summon words for it to weave.

  “I just never wanted to. My sisters were the ones that wanted to be princesses, riding over the dunes. They called themselves the princesses of the fairies and the flowers. Heather and Iris.”

  “You don’t have a flower name.”

  Caoimhe shook her head but froze when it caused her cheek to brush against his. Niall was resting his head just above her shoulder.

  “I always wanted one. My sisters called me Bogbean. Still do. They always used to say that that was my real name, my flower name.”

  “Isn’t that a weed?” Niall laughed.

  Caoimhe wished that he wouldn’t. That laugh had become a more frequent occurrence around the house in the last few days, but it still tightened something wholly feminine inside of her and sent her thoughts reeling in every direction. Somehow, she couldn’t form the simple words that bogbean was indeed a weed. And not a particularly pretty one either. It grew in marshes and was often mistaken for pond scum.

  Luckily, her husband didn’t seem to require such an answer.

  “Knotgrass,” he told her.

  Caoimhe blinked in confusion. “What?”

  “If you were a flower, that’s what you’d be.”

  Caoimhe squealed as Lady’s Breath moved beneath them. The horse was more bored than anything and had only resettled her hooves, but it had Caoimhe panic and grip at the hairs on her back. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe deep and slow as Niall breathed a whispered hush in her ear.

  He made calming noises into the shell of her ear and across the nape of her neck as if she were a tentative filly. She felt the back of her neck grow hot.

  “That’s another weed,” she insisted. She was too full of anxiety in that moment to be truly offended but felt the need to point it out anyway.

  “Weeds have their uses just like flowers. More so, usually. They actually do something for nature instead of just looking decorative,” Niall defended. She felt his chest shift behind her as if he might be shrugging. His fingers tightened on her hips and she squirmed beneath his touch, her muscles tense.

  Niall appeared to be talking more to himself than to her.

  “And knotgrass gets everywhere. It grows on you before you have the chance to escape. But...it’s pretty.” His words grew quieter, barely a whisper over her skin. “If you look closely, there are little pink flower buds on knotgrass. When th
ey bloom, they’re delicate and beautiful. You just have to look closely to see it.”

  Caoimhe couldn’t breathe. It took every inch of muscle she possessed to resist leaning back into Niall’s chest, to surrender to the protective cage that his arms made around her. Part of her wanted to draw closer to him, to take in his scent and the feel of his skin.

  But was she allowed?

  Would that overstep some hidden boundary between the two of them?

  Niall was erratic. His temper was fierce. She had no trust or certainty that he wouldn’t, once more, turn upon her with features of thunder and a darkness in his tone. Each time that she thought she was making ground, connecting with him on some level, only served to make the rejections more painful. It felt safer to keep to the known path, her instincts maintaining a division of territory.

  There was she... and there was him.

  Caoimhe did not yet know how to accept or understand the concept of “them.”

  She gasped as Niall moved to bridge the distance for her, his arms coming to loop around her waist and his chin to fall upon her shoulder. He drew her in close, her body flush against his. She heard him inhale deeply, and then his lips were right beside her ear.

  “Have you bled yet, Caoimhe?” he asked.

  Was she imagining the longing in his voice?

  And if not, which was he longing for? That she had or that she had not?

  Unable to trust in her own tongue, Caoimhe looked down at her hands, the fine white hair of the mare twisted around her fingers.

  She nodded shyly.

  Niall’s next breath was shaky and cautious.

  “Then I shall come to your rooms tonight…if you’ll permit me?”

  And with all of her senses overwhelmed by his presence—his scent, his warmth, his closeness—what else could she do besides nod once more?

  16

  Smearing the Painting