The Highlander’s Lady: Highlands Forever

by Adams, Aileen

  The Highlander’s Lady

  Highlands Forever

  Aileen Adams

  Contents

  The Highlander’s Lady

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Afterword

  The Highlander’s Lady

  Book One of the Highlands Forever Series!

  Crossing the border can be perilous...

  Olivia Smythe is the daughter an English earl and a Scottish woman. He has decided that his half-Scottish daughter should go to the Highlands for her own safety to avoid the border skirmishes that plague their area. He’s also pleaded her hand to a cruel Englishman.

  Laird Boyd MacPherson has no idea the Englishwoman he’s saved from cutthroats is the cousin of a Highland laird. He has no idea the courage and wherewithal that this young half-Scot can muster. He is quick to find out when she runs away and seeks to hide from her betrothed and the rest of the world.

  Boyd turns the Highlands upside down looking for her, only to find her in the least likely of places.

  1

  Olivia Smythe, daughter of Edward Smythe, Second Earl of Carlisle, sighed as softly as she could when her mare lost its footing just long enough to jostle her in the saddle.

  “Are you well?” Robert asked for what might have been the twentieth time since setting out from her father’s lands. He rode behind her on a grand, chestnut palfrey, while the ambling grey palfrey before her was ridden by the silent Howard.

  “Very well,” she called back with a forced, pained smile as the mare jostled her once again.

  Yes, very well, indeed.

  Excepting the light rain which would not cease falling, the sore bottom she was quickly developing, thanks to so many hours in the saddle, and the fact that her father saw fit to send her away from the only home she’d ever known throughout her twenty years of life.

  Yes. She was doing wonderfully.

  “We ought to arrive by midday tomorrow,” Robert said, ever helpful. He was one of her father’s most trusted guards and as such felt it his responsibility to encourage her and to make this journey as easy as possible.

  He would have done better to argue on her behalf, to find a way for her to remain at home. In Carlisle. With her father and her people.

  Rather than allowing for her to be sent away to strangers in a land unknown to her save from the tales her mother had shared. It had been so long since she’d heard those tales. Since she’d heard the brogue which she had to now recall and mimic as best she could if she wished to pretend believably to be one of them.

  A Scotswoman. Like her mother.

  The road leading away from Carlisle was well-established, which came as a relief. She’d done her share of riding over rough roads, through the woods and such, and knew how much more difficult and uncomfortable this could be if they were unable to ride out in the open.

  She had nothing to hide and posed no threat to anyone, and as such there was no need to avoid traveling down the wide, muddy road. Mud which had been trampled so many times it looked more like a river.

  “Midday tomorrow?” she asked, fighting to keep disbelief out of her voice. “When we have slowed our pace so?”

  “Perhaps it would be best to ride through the night,” he suggested.

  She thought he might be doing just as she’d done, that he did not believe this journey to be for the best at all.

  “With threats of skirmishes at the border, it would be better if we did not linger longer than necessary. We would not wish to be caught unawares.”

  Was this not the reason she’d been sent out with two guards? Two noble warriors who her father trusted with his life—and with hers?

  Skirmishes with the Scots. And it was the Scots with whom her father insisted she would be safe. It made just as little sense to her now as it had when he’d first suggested the notion, but there had been no refusing.

  There was never any refusing him, though it was not fear which caused her to obey Edward Smythe. It was love, and a desire to please a father who had never been anything but kind, loving, and dear.

  This did not, however, mean she had to be happy about obeying. It did not leave her without questions and concerns.

  And fears. An entire array of fears she had not known existed before now.

  How would she manage it? It would not do for anyone beyond her mother’s friends, the MacNairs, to know she was of English heritage. Perhaps they would keep her in the house all the while, away from…

  Anyone who entered the house.

  While she had little doubt of life being different on the other side of the border, she found it difficult to believe it was so different from her own that no one ever visited. That there were no other members of the household, such as the many cooks and maids and stewards who Olivia had always considered part of her family.

  Surely, there would be more than just Donnan and Ann MacNair to speak with, to take meals with. How would she convince others of her Scottishness?

  What would become of her if she failed?

  From what she’d overheard of her father’s meetings with other nobles and advisors, the threat of war loomed over them all. She recalled some of what took place during the last war Scotland waged in hopes of gaining their independence from England and supposed she understood why her father wanted her away from the English side of the border.

  How many nights had she spent in the dug-out space beneath the keep, huddling together with the maids and wishing her mother was there to comfort her while fighting raged on?

  Yet what frightened her worst of all had nothing to do with herself. Not directly.

  What if something were to befall her father while she was in Scotland? She would never know. She could not help him even if she was aware of the danger.

  Her hands tightened around the reins until they ached, and she only realized when she forced herself to loosen her jaw that she’d been clenching it, to begin with.

  “There.” Howard lifted an arm, pointing to a place up ahead. It was perhaps the third or fourth word he’d spoken since they set out at dawn and began their slow, sodden journey.

  She took this to mean the border sat within viewing distance.

  “What will happen to you once we’ve crossed into Scotland?” she asked, looking over her shoulder for an answer from the ever-helpful Robert.

  Both he and Howard were skilled warriors with a great deal of fighting experience. They’d availed themselves well during the last war and had protected her father, his lands and Olivia herself. She owed them a great deal, as she did her father’s entire guard.

  Which was why she understood at first glance the meaning behind Robert’s change in expression. He was a man who did not wish to answer a question truthfully because he knew all too well what might come as a result of their venturing into Scottish territory.

  “Another reason why it would be wise to ride at night,” he reasoned by way of reply.

  There was a chance they might be accosted, then. Her stomach churned. She knew that were it possible, her father wou
ld have sent his entire guard along with her—but not only did he need them at home, the sight of so many armed men riding into Scotland would hardly be taken lightly.

  “I suppose all we can do is hope, then,” she announced, trying to be cheerful while her insides tossed and turned. She tugged at the hood of her woolen cloak, hoping to cover as much of herself from the weather as she could, though it mattered little now that the wool was soaked through.

  Maintaining hope was a difficult matter indeed when one wore heavy, sopping wool.

  By the time they reached the border, it was already well past midday, thanks to their slow going. The mounted guards patrolling the border eyed them with great suspicion, but allowed them to pass without comment. At least one thing had gone right.

  Even so, they sent a chill down her spine. Such tall, rough men, all of them fairly itching to start a fight. She could feel it in the air, just as summer storms sometimes made the fine hair on her arms stand on end.

  While it was not wartime as of yet, and she and her guards could pass freely into Scotland, that did not mean this was precisely safe. Or well-advised.

  It was daft, to be certain, but she found breathing to be difficult now that they were in enemy territory. Enemy territory for her guards, at any rate.

  Any Scots who crossed their path would undoubtedly assume she was full English, as well. She could hardly prove her Scottish blood, could she? Her dark red hair and fair, lightly freckled skin were certainly her mother’s doing, but they were hardly helpful.

  What had her mother told her about this land? It seemed so long ago, a lifetime, since Ava Smythe had woven tales as rich as the fine tapestries which hung in her husband’s ancestral home. Tales of the fair folk and will-o’-the-wisp, tales of the fierce fighting men who’d carved Scotland’s history.

  A proud people, a fierce people. Her people, at least by half. Would she ever feel a part of them?

  After another few miles, Canonbie spread out below them. A thick blanket of fog hid much of what was on the ground, giving the village a rather ghostly appearance which did little to improve Olivia’s dread-filled mood.

  Howard shivered, drawing his cloak more tightly about himself. He did not need to express his apprehension in words. She understood all too well and forgave him what others might view as cowardice.

  In her mind, it was not cowardice to have misgivings, especially when those misgivings were well-founded. What was truly brave was the way they carried on in spite of reservations, because a mission was a mission.

  “Aye, who goes there?” A pair of dark shapes approached in the fog as the three of them began the slow descent down a rocky embankment. The men were not on horseback, and by the looks of their clothing as they cleared the fog had been traveling quite a way in their mud-caked tunics and hose.

  Olivia’s heart took off like a frightened hare at the sight of the men—large, wide-shouldered, one of them with a rather nasty scar running from his temple to the corner of his mouth. He appeared always to be half-smiling, the scar tugging his lips upward.

  “What have we here?” he rasped, his sharp eyes taking them in as she’d taken him in. “Such fine garments ought not be ruined in this muck.” He reached for the hem of Olivia’s cloak, which she was quick to pull out of his grasp.

  It was reflex, nothing more, but his face darkened when he glared up at her. “Ye believe yerself so fine, then, m’lady?” he asked, performing a deep bow which was in no way a sign of respect. No one need tell Olivia this for her to understand.

  “Out of the way,” Robert ordered. “We are merely passing through, and you are frightening the horses.” Indeed, her mare had a difficult enough time making it down the rocky slope without two strange men roaming about nearby. She wanted to run, her muscles bunching and tensing, her manner uneasy.

  Olivia was far too preoccupied with her own growing dread to calm the frightened beast, however, and as the horse could sense her fear, it would have made little difference.

  “Och, we wouldna wish to frighten the horses, would we?” the second man snickered before spitting his indifference onto the ground.

  “We only wish to ride further north to the home of Donnan MacNair,” Howard announced, looking down his nose at the pair of scoundrels. “Let us be on our way.”

  “Just what would three English as yerselves be visitin’ with a MacNair for?” The men exchanged a glance before one of them parted his shabby cloak to reveal a wicked dirk tucked into a leather belt. “We want the horses. Now.”

  Olivia could barely breathe. What would they do? They could not give up their horses, not if they expected to ever make it home again. And who was to say this pair of thieves would stop at just the animals?

  The scarred man reached for her mare, his hands rough and uncaring as he tried to snatch the reins from her. She screamed, the mare reared, and it was only by the grace of the almighty that they did not both tumble down the rest of the slope.

  Fury bloomed in her chest, likely the result of blind terror, and she let out a roar. “Keep yer hands off me, ye wretched thing, or I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug!” It was her mother’s voice coming from her, her mother’s own words when she’d chastised Olivia’s naughtiness. I’ll give you a slap on the ear, she used to say.

  That was enough to stun both thieves into silence for a moment. Even she was stunned silent, as she had not expected to scream so.

  “She’s a Scot!” one of them snorted. “Ridin’ with a pair of bloody Englishmen, at that!”

  “Scot or nay, I want this mare,” the scarred man snarled, now more determined than ever. “Off with ye, then, lassie, and be glad I dinna take more than this.”

  She kicked out while Howard and Robert circled around, drawing their swords. The scarred man drew his dirk, holding it to Olivia’s leg as if intending to use it on her. No matter how she squirmed and kicked, he would not loosen his grip on her ankle.

  “What is this about, then?” A third voice, deep and rumbling, came out of the fog just before a massive man emerged from the grey clouds. Even on horseback, his size was impressive, as was the broadness of his chest and shoulders. He held his head at a proud angle, his back ramrod straight. Dark hair and eyes, eyes which seemed sharp and clever as they surveyed the scene. “What do ye think yer doin’ here?”

  She wanted to warn him the men were armed, that he should protect himself if he wished to defend three strangers, yet her throat produced not a sound no matter how she tried.

  It mattered not, for the hand around her ankle was nothing but a memory not a moment later. “Boyd MacPherson,” the scarred man murmured. “We—”

  “I ken too well what ye were up to,” Boyd grumbled, dismounting with a grunt. He was all muscle, yet surprisingly graceful for a man of his size. “I have enough on my brain without having to keep the likes of ye in line. Get away with ye, and dinna let me see ye at this sort of thing again if ye know what is good for ye.”

  The men disappeared into the fog in an instant, all but running away from the imposing man with the deep voice and fists the size of hams. Olivia slumped forward slightly, relief washing over her now that the danger had passed.

  “Are ye injured, lassie?” Boyd asked, eyeing her companions. “Did yer guard here allow them to harm ye?” There was no mistaking the jest in his tone. He was not impressed with the lack of action on their part.

  “Step aside,” Howard commanded, still holding his sword. “We must be on our way. You have our thanks for dispatching the pair of thieves before any violence occurred.”

  “Such talk,” Boyd observed with a wry smile. “And I ken, o’course. Ye would not wish to come to blows with a lady present. Do ye have any notion what ye have taken upon yourselves by bringing a lassie such as herself into Scotland? Now, of all times?”

  Proud, vain Howard drew himself up to his full height in the saddle and moved as if to level his sword at Boyd’s thick neck, but Olivia held up a hand to stop him. She’d managed to compose herself, at least a bit,
and was prepared to speak her mind.

  “These men are my father’s most trusted guardsmen, and I am on my way to visit friends of my mother. We had not been over the border for more than half an hour before this.”

  “Aye, and ye will see more of it,” Boyd predicted, stroking his chin. His dark eyes cut this way and that, taking in the pair of armed guards. “I mean no offense, but ye are outmatched. Ye dinna ken the ways of the roadside cutthroat. I will ride with ye.”

  “You will do no such thing!” she gasped.

  “And ye will be stripped bare by thieves before the day is over,” Boyd predicted with a knowing sigh, swinging himself into the saddle once again. “Dinna think this pleases me, lassie, but I would rather not have English blood spilled on Scottish soil if it can be helped.”

  She looked to the guards, who appeared just as furious as she.

  What were they do to with this man?

  2

  All the Laird of Clan MacPherson wanted was a warm fire and somewhere soft to rest his head.

  Why did he always manage to find himself in situations such as this one?

  They were no responsibility of his, and he knew it well. But he knew, too, the likelihood of their blood being spilled once they were spotted by men with even fewer scruples than the MacLennan brothers, with whom he had just dispatched. They were bairns with sticks when compared to the ruthlessness of some.

  And the bonny lass seated so proudly upon the back of her spotted mare was a jewel, to be certain. Her cloak was the finest wool, her saddle new, and shiny as the clear, wide, grey eyes which pierced him from beneath her hood.