Lusting for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  What in God’s name is she doing?

  As he watched the woman move things out of the cottage, he realized he had a vantage point. He had seen them, but he was certain they hadn’t seen him. Deciding to go investigate, he quietly staked down Hermes’ reins and made his way toward the cottage.

  He made it about twenty yards closer before the great black beast let out a deadly growl, and bared his fangs in his direction. Immediately the woman stopped in her tracks, and turned to look at him. The crate in her arms dropped and in its place suddenly was a hand-carved bow tipped in gold, and a rather sharp arrow aimed directly at his chest.

  “Don’t you take another step toward me, man!” she yelled, her accent undeniably English. Instant fury rolled off of her in waves so potent Gregor could feel it even from where he was.

  “If my arrow doesn’t get you Zeus will, so I suggest you do as I say.”

  Her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Yes, she was threatening to shoot him through the heart, but still. He’d never heard anything like it. It was soft, yet commanding. Refined, yet sensual and wild. It stirred something inside of him, something he had forgotten he could feel. However, now wasn’t the time for such realizations. Not with an arrow aimed at his chest.

  “Easy there, lass!” he yelled, holding up his hands. Despite the dangerous situation he had the urge to laugh at her, but judging by how well she was holding her bow, he could tell that her aim would be true to its target if he made her mad. Instead, he rose up to the balls of his feet, ready to dive out of the way if she let the arrow loose.

  “That’s not yer property to be taken there,” he called out, his eyes locked on hers. “I daenae ken what be yer plight, but it doesn’t give ye rights to take things that aren’t yours.”

  “I’m not taking a thing,” she shot back, tightening her stance. “This is my house and I live here.”

  For a second Gregor looked at her, genuinely puzzled. Then the laugh he had been holding back let loose, and he shook his head. Tily wouldn’t let anyone on her property, she liked her privacy too much.

  “Now I ken for a fact that cannae be true, lass, for I ken the woman that owns this cottage and if she were here right now, ye’d be more afraid of her than me right now!”

  A growl from the giant beast at her side drew his gaze away from her. The thing had taken on a predatory stance, with his eyes locked on Gregor. In the back of his mind, he tried to figure his chances on getting to Hermes without getting a bite to the arse. It didn’t look good.

  “I have to say, I’ve nae kent a thief to ken Greek Gods,” he scoffed, referring to Zeus. “I’m impressed.”

  “I told you I’m not a thief!” the woman yelled, her beautiful cheeks flushing red with anger. “Tily has granted me leave to move in and I have every right to be here!”

  Genuinely flustered, Gregor was trying to figure out what was going on when he heard Tily’s familiar voice.

  “Morgana? Morgana what be going on here…oh?”

  From the other side of the porch Tily came into view. The old woman didn’t look afraid at all of the black beast or the fiery-haired armed woman, but rather well at ease with them. In fact, she was looking at Gregor as if he had been the unwelcome one. He began to wonder if perhaps he had made a mistake after all.

  “Laird Henwen!” Tily called, slapping the young lass on the shoulder.

  “Put that thing down lass,” she hissed in a lower tone. “This be the Laird of Henwen yer threatening!”

  “Land’s sake, Laird Henwen!” Tily turned to Gregor, put her fists on her hips, and began to scold him. “What ye be doin’ out here? Ye usually come from the south. Not that ye should be coming at all, mind ye. I told ye over and over again I am just fine!”

  Gregor’s lips twitched in amusement as the woman slowly lowered her bow, her eyes trained on him the entire time. There was a familiarity in her gaze, as if she knew him. Surely, they hadn’t met though. He would never dare to forget such a woman. Strong, beautiful, daring. No, he definitely had not met her yet.

  “I’ll get to ye in a moment, old woman,” he responded playfully. Then he turned his gaze to the young woman.

  “Let’s start this conversation over, aye?” he suggested, lowering his arms. He waited until he saw her mass of fiery curls nod in consent. Only when he was sure the two women were comfortable with his approach did he finish crossing the distance between them and the porch.

  As he got closer, he was able to make out more of the woman’s stunning features. Her eyes were the clearest blue he’d even seen; the color of sky on a hot summer day. She stood tall and proud, her chin raised rather haughtily so that her adorable button nose was almost upturned. Her full lips, bowed like her weapon, were a startling dusky rose that contrasted stunningly with her milky-white skin.

  To his surprise, he felt his fingers twitch. He wanted to caress that cheek, he realized, just so he could discover if that hard exterior was actually silken to the touch. His eyes wandered back up to hers again, and this time her gaze caught him like a stag in goddess Diana’s sights.

  Something deep inside his soul stirred awake as he stared into her eyes. Something he’d never quite felt before. Whatever it was though, he was both drawn to and afraid of it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull the woman into his arms, or turn on his heel and run fast away from her.

  “I believe I owe ye an apology, lass,” he said calmly, choosing to do neither. He held his hand out to her and waited patiently.

  The woman studied him coolly before finally deciding to accept his hand.

  “Do you always accuse newcomers of thievery before you welcome them?” she asked sardonically. “Or am I just lucky today?”

  Her fingers slid into his palm softly, tracing sparks along his flesh and sending heat to his groin. A deep chuckle rose from his chest at her wit, and he swept a chaste kiss over her knuckles.

  “A Scottish tradition,” he quipped back, smiling at her. “Welcome. Me name is Gregor Reid. I’m the Laird of Henwen and protector of its lands. I offer ye me apologies and the warmest of welcomes to Scotland. I assure ye, we’re nae as bad as ye English make us out to be.”

  With a wink, he bowed at the waist, and watched in amusement as a blush bloomed in her cheeks. The woman looked at him rather peculiarly again, as if she wasn’t sure if she knew him or not. When she didn’t respond, Tily elbowed her in the ribs, making her flinch and grant him a smile.

  “My name is Morgana, Laird Henwen,” she offered at last, curtsying in full English fashion. There was more warmth in her voice this time, and Gregor noticed that something akin to playfulness in her gaze when looked back up at him.

  “I appreciate your apologies and extend mine,” she continued. I… men make me a little nervous, you see. Thank you for the welcome. I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

  Gregor raised an intrigued eyebrow.

  I wouldn’t mind a little trouble from ye.

  Tily, who seemed to like the way the two were talking, stepped in to be part of the conversation.

  “She’ll be movin’ in here and taking over the bare fields,” Tily explained proudly. “Blessed lass. She’ll be helping look after the place too, so ye won’t have to worry about me so much.”

  Gregor had to force himself to turn from Morgana to look down at the dear old woman and smiled. She was looking frailer than ever, now that Waryn was gone. But there was a light back in her eyes, and her wildling attitude was saltier than ever. Gregor had a feeling it had to do with Morgana.

  “I only want me best lass safe,” he replied, bending down to give Tily a warm hug. She gave him a quick squeeze, then muttered about proprieties before pushing his arms away from her. He chuckled as pulled away, and looked back at Morgana.

  “I suppose I owe ye a thank ye now too,” he told her. “I’m glad she’ll have some company out here now. She shouldnae be out here by herself.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m a bairn,” Tily scolded, giving him a dirty look.
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  Gregor opened his mouth to speak, but closed it after letting out a sigh. There was no convincing the woman that she was too old or too frail for anything. But that’s what he loved about her. Tough as nails, Tily was. Which was probably why the two women got along well. From his perspective, Morgana seemed more than capable of handling herself.

  For a few moments the tension on the porch eased, and the three fell into pleasant conversation. Morgana told him about her gift with herbs and her plans for the fields. At hearing her plans Gregor felt a sense of relief. His village had gone without a healer for too long.

  As she relaxed, so did the giant beast. At one time, the thing even came close enough to sniff his hand. Slowly he reached out, letting the animal inspect him, and knew it was safe to pet him when he pressed the top of his head into Gregor’s palm. He was able to give the boy a good stroke behind the ears before the beast decided he’d had enough, and turned away from him to go to his mistress’ side.

  Morgana seemed grateful when he told her how to get to the village market and where the main river was, and he had laughed heartily when she told him of her first meeting with Tily. All was going well until he asked where she came from.

  The moment he did that Morgana closed herself off from him completely, even her body language changed. The dog, Zeus, sensed it and the hackles went up on his neck. The young woman’s lips drew into a thin line, and she refused to answer. This time Tily didn’t elbow her for her silence.

  Instead, she appeared suddenly very interested in something inside the cottage, and turned away to go back in. Gregor didn’t know why, but suddenly he felt rather intimidated being there with Morgana alone.

  Whatever her secret was, she and Tily were obviously going to keep it together. Gregor looked back at Morgana and tried to think of ways to save the conversation. However, it was clear from Morgana’s expression that she wasn’t interested in continuing it any further.

  In the distance Toby, the sheep farmer’s son, suddenly sounded his horn as he did every morning. The sound bugled over the terrain, breaking the tension that had mounted on the tiny cottage’s porch. Gregor found it the perfect time to leave the exciting, if not confusing conversation, and took a step back.

  “Well, my dear lady,” he announced, clearing his throat. “I’ve taken up enough of yer time. Ye’ve got a long day ahead of ye getting this place cleaned out, and I’ve got matters to deal with at the castle.” He turned to leave, then a thought struck him.

  “Before I go,” he added, turning back to her once more. “If ye need any help, come into the village, aye? I can have a guard or two out here immediately to help ye.”

  To his surprise the young woman laughed, and crossed her arms over her chest haughtily.

  “That’s very generous of you, Laird Henwen,” she replied, smiling. “But I think you underestimate how strong Tily and I are.”

  “I’ve nay doubt about that,” he murmured.

  Gregor went down the steps and started to head toward Hermes. He made it halfway before he turned around and took a few steps back. Although he had already offered his protection, something told him to repeat it.

  “In all seriousness,” he called out, his tone dropping deeper. “If ye have any problems, ye come to me, understand? This land and all those that live on it are under me protection. That includes ye, lassie.”

  Morgana’s eyebrow shot up and she opened her mouth to speak. He waited for her sarcastic reply, but instead was given a curtsy.

  Morgana of England, Gregor mused, pulling himself back into his saddle. Who are ye?

  Chapter 3

  Cliff’s Point, England

  Nigel Fordun glared angrily down at the three young women on their knees. Each had been pulled from their beds in the middle of the night by his trusted guard and brought to him to pay for the crimes against God and his children.

  The young women, all fair, and of good stock, claimed their innocence through tear-stained cheeks and white-knuckled prayers. But Nigel Fordun, the Witch-Hunter, knew better. They all looked so pure, so innocent. But he knew better. In their souls they were dirty, just like their leader. She may have escaped, but he had at least found her accomplices.

  At least the village would have someone to pay for their crimes.

  “My dear ladies,” he said sweetly, taking the chin of the blonde furthest to the left into his gloved palm. Immediately they all hushed their whimpers and stared up at him in fear. Their mouths had been gagged and their hands had been tied behind their back.

  Just the way they should be.

  “This can all stop,” he told them, stroking the blonde’s cheek with his gloved finger.

  “All you have to do is just tell me where she went. Then I’ll let you go. You can return to your families, ask forgiveness, and live better, more Christian lives.”

  The calm in his tone would have a stranger thinking that this was not a man of violence. In fact on the outside, Fordun appeared to be shaped from the very hands of God himself. His dark brown eyes radiated warmth, and his sculpted jaw even made him handsome.

  Though not a tall man, he had a muscular build that impressed most people. Of course, with his armor engraved with the holy cross on the chest and wings etched into the back, he looked ready to save any soul from the deepest depths of hell. If his armor or his good looks didn’t impress people, then his skill at finding and hanging witches always would.

  Tired of getting nowhere and ready for them to start talking, Fordun ripped the gag away from the blonde woman’s mouth, making her cry out and coil away from him.

  “I won’t ask you again, child,” he promised, his tone harsh now. “Morgana the witch and her demon wolf. Where did they run off to, hmm?”

  “I swear,” the woman pleaded, her words coming out rushed. “We arrived in the morning like we always did and she just wasn’t there. None of her belongings were missing except for her dog and bow, my lord, I swear it!”

  The young blonde threw herself down at his feet and sobbed for his forgiveness, utterly terrified for what Fordun might do to her. She swore to him over and over again that she wasn’t lying, but he refused to believe her.

  “I beg you believe me, Sir,” she pleaded, sobbing. “We know nothin’! We thought she was a good, kind woman. She never hurt a soul. She helped everyone!”

  “Stupid chit!” Fordun growled, pushing the woman savagely backwards. “You have no idea what she is.”

  With her hands tied she lost her balance and fell back hard, hitting her head and causing her to cry out. Seeing their friend in so much pain, the other two women’s sobs also rose, and soon the room was filled with terror-filled whimpers.

  Annoyed at the lack of progress, Fordun pressed his hands to his ears tightly and demanded them to be silent. Their cries stopped immediately, and they looked at him in pure horror. Losing his patience, he strode over to the girl that had fallen and yanked her back up to her knees harshly.

  Twelve years. Twelve years he had been chasing the little witch. He should have been more careful with her after burning her parents. It had been the mistake of his life to let her live long enough to watch them die. He had gotten too cocky, too full of himself to think the little one was too young to work her magics.

  He had taken his time to watch Samuel and his wife Victoria burn, taking pleasure in seeing them turn to ash. In fact, he had been so wrapped in the joy of catching his long-time target that he had brushed off his little girl as if she were no more than an annoying bird that kept chirping.

  So wrapped up in watching the flames were he that he hadn’t even noticed that the chirping had stopped. When he had gone to her cage to bring her to the pyre, he had found naught but an empty cage with a broken lock. Somehow, she had vanished into the wood as if she were Fay, and he had never been able to catch her again.

  Through the years he had been close time and time again to finally recapturing her, but his continued failure was as reliable as the change of seasons. It angered him deeply
, and to sate his hunger for violence he had set the English countryside on fire executing witches. Some had been real, nearly as powerful as he was. Others didn’t have a drop of magic in them at all, but were simply too close in appearance to Morgana to not be tried for her sins.

  Sometimes, in the earliest of mornings when sleep would elude him, he would weigh his life count, and feel a shred of guilt for the possible innocent blood he had spilt. But then not long after he would remember that God would sort them out and send them to their rightful place. Or at least that’s what he told his men if any questioned him.

  Fordun looked over at the girls, tired and disgusted with them. He could torture them some more if he wanted to, really push them until they gave him something, but he knew he didn’t have to. They were telling the truth, even if he wished they weren’t.