by Alisa Adams
Highlander’s Stolen Wife
Alisa Adams
Contents
Free Exclusive Gift
Greetings from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Highland Rebirth
Marooned
Awakening
More Memories
The Kiss
Consequences
Some Conclusions
Troubles
The Puzzle Solved
Making Plans
Murdo the Coward
Murdo's Men
Free Exclusive Gift
Afterword
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To my lovely highlander and my friends who convinced me to pursue my writing passion.
Greetings from the Author
Dear reader,
I am very grateful that you chose this book!
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With love and appreciation,
Alisa Adams
1
WHAT A FAIR LASS
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Northumberland, Northern England, Winter 1327
* * *
Mary, the daughter of Lord Leighton, rested her head against the padded inside of the carriage with the rounded top that transported her to her new fate. She sat in silence, listening to the angry pounding of the horses’ hooves on the dry ground. To her misfortune, the soil was hard and frozen solid. It was the dead of winter and two days after Christmas day. If anything were to drop from the sky, at these temperatures, it would be heavy snowflakes. To her chagrin, the short voyage from her father’s estate in Northumberland to the neighboring county of Cumberland would be swift and without trouble.
She exhaled as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. To a point, she did – at least in her world she did. Absentmindedly, Mary looked out of the carriage window. The blur of the various impressions outside did very little to soothe the morbid sentiments burbling inside of her. She tried to let the forests and sweeping hills she habitually found so pleasant captivate her. To allow her mind to wander, no matter how briefly, would be a boon and a relief. Yet, the frosty environ with countless trees in glacial mantles made her think of him. Mary couldn’t get it out of her head that her father must have had another reason for having chosen him as her betrothed. She just couldn’t believe that he had only picked the man because of his wealth and station alone. Is our family not wealthy also? Why him? Such thoughts kept going around in her mind. There had been many other suitors and far younger ones to boot. It all didn’t make sense.
“Mary, you are thinking about him again, aren’t you?” asked Elizabeth.
Mary shifted her gaze from the racing images of the passing landscape to look at her twin sister. She had to admit that they both were very similar in terms of appearance: they both had cherry-red hair, dark brown eyes, and slim, pointed noses. Even their father sometimes had trouble telling them apart. But to Mary, their differences were so apparent that even a blind man could see them. Mary had a small dimple on her chin and a far softer countenance. Whereas her sister would look spoilt and slightly bored most of the time, Mary boasted an open face that was riddled with a curious disposition.
“Yes, what else is there to think about but the fat old earl?” Mary lifted her shoulders a fraction in defeat, but even that act seemed to tax her physically. She let them fall, and without pause, they promptly continued to tap endlessly against the padded lining in the coach as it lurched over uneven spots on the king’s road of which there were many. The thick leather-covering casing the windows occasionally flapped, letting the cool air inside.
Elizabeth pleated her brow. “I see…” It pained her to witness her habitually vivacious sister be brought down so low. She behaved like someone on her way to the gallows. In essence, when she thought about it, her sister’s fate wasn’t far short of that. To have an old man claim her maidenhead was truly a cruel fate. The only consolation was the fact that he might die soon, leaving Mary with a considerable fortune, a title and maybe a baby or two.
Mary arched her eyebrows. “You are thinking the same thing I am… aren’t you?” It was a statement. She shuddered. For a moment, she felt the intensity of the icy fresh winter air as it caressed her skin to her bones. It was as if her thick coat with the ermine lining didn’t exist. “I am stuck with a fat old earl, and I can do nothing about it.” She sighed heavily.
“How do you know that he is fat?” asked Elizabeth. “You’ve never laid eyes on the man before.”
Mary arched her eyebrows, this time irritably. “What else could the Earl of Wavel be? Father told me that he has some of the most profitable estates in the north of the realm. He said that it was due to the fact that he has a very able and industrious steward. So, now you know why I think he is fat as well as he is ancient and weathered like an old boot.”
Her sister giggled, inviting a hostile look from Mary. “I still don’t see how that makes him fat?” She shrugged as she examined a strand of red hair that hung down her forehead. “Maybe he is just a little on the mature side, but slim and elegant.”
Mary shook her head tetchily. “Believe me, sister, when I tell you that the man is as fat as a tub of lard. I am certain that he does nothing other with his time than sit, drink, and eat while his able steward manages his estate for him.” She pressed her lips together. “I still don’t know what all the rush is for? Why do I have to be presented to him between Christmas and the New Year? Surely, it could have waited.”
“You know papa, Mary. When he has put his mind to something, nothing will hold him back.”
“Yes, I know that. I just wish I could have chosen the man I am to marry,” said Mary with a serious expression.
The color on Elizabeth’s face lit up, inviting pinkness to her cheeks. “I so want to fall in love and marry the man of my choosing.” She said it with a dreamy expression on her face. She crinkled her nose as she spoke. Mary could literally see her imagining a knight in shining armor riding on his horse. For a moment, it irritated her that her sister would mention something like that on the day she was being dragged to her unsolicited betrothed. Then she remembered that her sister was always the same: an egoist and a dreamer.
“Love is not in our hands, Elizabeth.” Mary let her mind battle with the notion of her impending fate for a moment. It had darkened her mood considerably. “We live in a world ruled by men. It is a place where they can take whatever it is that they choose.” A sad expression overtook her features. “Love is a thing told by wandering troubadours and handsome dreamers. You cannot marry the first because he does not believe in his own words, and you cannot have the second because he is most probably a pauper and a drunk.”
Elizabeth frowned. “I disagree, sister. I will find love. I know I will.” She paused a moment. “And so will you.” She lifted her chin like she always did when she had made up her mind.
&nb
sp; “Once I am married to the fat earl, our father will set his sights on you. And you know what that means. He has the power to decide to whom you will be betrothed. It is just how it works in this unjust world.” For Mary, it felt as if the carriage was about to implode. A woman’s lot is just so unfair, she thought.
Elizabeth pondered for a heartbeat. She knew that what her sister had said was true. Her fortunate circumstance so far was thanks to the biological fact that she was the younger of the two by a few minutes at birth. It would be her turn next when Mary was disagreeably ensconced in her new home in Cumberland. She wondered whether she might just be luckier and have a man that was a little younger and maybe not as corpulent. It was in the stars. Intuitively, she knew that her father would choose the man based on his wealth and standing and not his age and looks. Yet, there was a spark of a hopeful flame that still burnt at the base of her stomach.
“There must be men that display the perfect root of honor and nobleness of wisdom, valor, and largesse…” Elizabeth’s face lit up. “Like the brave knight, Lancelot. He honored Queen Guinevere above all things, and he was the flower of chivalry – I will have such a man as my husband.”
The expression on Mary’s face dissolved as mirth overcame her. It was a kind of gallows humor mixed with the stupidity of what her younger sister had said. Flower of chivalry and men of honor; they no longer existed and even if they ever did, her sister and she would never encounter one.
“I don’t know what you find so amusing? I still believe in love. It is the only thing worth living for. And if you don’t change the way you think, Mary, you will never find it yourself.”
Elizabeth’s words carried a certain amount of weight with them. They made Mary think about the kind of person she was and wanted to be. What had happened to her? She worried. For all of her life, she had believed in the finding of true love with a man of honor. What had changed? Was it her current fate? It couldn’t be. Usually, nothing so trivial could remove the wind from her sails. She knew that she was a fighter, somebody who would go down trying until there was not a breath left in her body. Mary pressed her lips together.
“Yes, you are right, Elizabeth. We will both find a man to love and live happily ever after,” she said with force, at the same time trying to quell the inevitability of her fate to the back of her mind.
With all the willpower she could muster, Elizabeth banished her morbid contemplations from her head. For a moment there, her sister had made her feel like there was no hope in life. She had already begun to imagine her own fat earl waiting to mount her. “It would be nice if the men we find are either friends or related.”
“Why?”
“Then, I would never have to leave your side.” Elizabeth shrugged.
Mary smiled. “Yes, that would be nice.” She moved closer and took Elizabeth’s hand. “If we both believe in it then it will happen,” she said sweetly. She watched as the expression on her sister’s face lit up. It made her feel good that her grin was returned to her.
“How will you avoid marrying the fat earl?” asked Elizabeth.
“I don’t know, but judging by what father told me about his health, he won’t live for much longer. Maybe I won’t have to marry him at all. He might die before the day arrives.”
Mary’s words made Elizabeth shiver. She quickly made the sign of the cross to ward off evil omens. She proceeded to touch her right hand sequentially to the forehead, lower chest, and both shoulders, while she uttered the Trinitarian formula, “In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti… Amen.”
“Don’t worry, we will prevail.” Mary’s mouth had become a straight line as determination coursed through her. She took no notice of her sister’s religious antics. She looked out of the window again. Usually, nature helped her when she was faced with problems. Maybe she would be lucky this time as well.
The River Tyne meandered along to the south of their position. She took a moment to scrutinize the snaking blue watery expanse that had accompanied them all the way from the North Sea. The crisp winter’s air pressed its way past the thick curtain hanging by the window as she lifted it. It felt like piercing needles on her skin. Despite the pain, she stuck her head out of the carriage. She could see her father riding his great black hunter at the front of the procession. She swiveled it back to where there were at least twenty men astride of horses. It was the personal escort that formed a part of the earl’s guard. She backed down into the carriage with a deep sigh.
English noblemen had to beef up their security since the famed King Edward the Longshanks had died, leaving his insipid and useless son, Edward the Second, on the throne of England. That had all come to an end when his young son, the Prince of Wales, replaced him to become King Edward the Third of England in January of that year. After ascending the throne with his mother, Queen Isabella, formally a Princess of France, acting as his regent alongside her lover, the nobleman Roger Mortimer, the English pressed north to Scotland again to put an end to the war that had been raging between the two countries for close to thirty years.
The Scottish, in a daring attempt to thwart the English advance north, had invaded England instead of waiting for them to arrive. During the Battle of Stanhope in County Durham, the Scots, under the command of Sir James Douglas, had led a daring night attack on the English camp. The result was the near capture of the young king in his tent and the death of several hundred English soldiers. After that, the Scots had broken camp and returned home. The English were unable to pursue due to a lack of manpower and coin.
It worried Mary. Were there still any Scotsmen about? They did move south of the border occasionally. Especially after their great victory earlier in the year, they were becoming bolder. She had never seen one in the flesh, but she had heard the tales told about them. William Wallace, when he lived, was ten feet tall and had slain over a thousand men in single combat – that was the legend at least. According to wagging tongues, even Queen Isabella had fallen for the barbaric and masculine charms of the man. A slight shiver slid down Mary’s back. She looked to her sister for comfort, but she had fallen asleep. The notion of such a man excited her just as much as it frightened her. Surely, they were nothing more than simple barbarians with an evil penchant for more power and blood?
Deep down, Mary knew different, but she quashed the budding thought before it could germinate. “The Scots are a horde of troublesome savages that have forgotten their place in the world,” she hissed out. “I swear if I ever see one, I will run him through with a sword.”
Cries coming from outside the carriage made her stick her head out of the window again to see what was going on.
“Mungo, can you see the Sassenachs aboot? This is the place where they usually pass when they travel from Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Carlisle. There should be some rich pickings for us,” whispered Alastair, referring to the English tradesmen that plied the road. His hot breath left a plume of white in the cold winter air that soon intermingled with that of his men.
“Na, there’s none of them hereabouts.” Mungo, clansman of the clan Macleod, scanned through the thick shrubbery onto the dirt road in front of the small raiding party of twelve of the clan’s best warriors.
“We’ll just have to move closer to the toon. And while we’re at it, we will get revenge for what they did to my brother, Kyle, at the Battle of Stanhope,” said Alastair Macleod, referring to his older brother who had died that night.
“Aye. That we shall, brother. And I will praise the day when a bunch of them Sassenachs kiss the tip of this.” Mungo tapped the hilt of his broadsword lightly.
“I could just do with a wee dram of whiskey to wet my thrapple. The cold and drizzle are getting to my bones and threatening to freeze off my tackle and bawsack,” said another member of the posse.
Silent mirth followed this uncouth remark.
“Can’t you think of anything other than a tipple and yer welly. Have you not wetted your plaid and lain in it? That keeps the wind, rain and the cold out, ye dozy wa
lloper. We should have left you behind at the borough with the lasses,” grunted out Mungo.
“And me missing out on all of the fun? Na, you ain’t getting all of them Sassenachs to yourself, Mungo. But with you looking like a dug licking pish of a nettle, they’ll all run away with fright at the sight of your ugly mug.”
Mungo smirked with the other men. He loved it when Murtagh made his little jokes. He was right though. He was a frightful sight. Scars crisscrossed his face. There was a large one that ran diagonally down his face. He had received it from an English sword during the battle a few months back. It was still a purple welt that became even more pronounced when it was cold. Dressed, like his brothers, with thin brogues on his feet, bare thighs with brawny muscles and a short buskin of various colors on the legs and all wrapped up in a great plaid, he was a fearsome sight. He carried a bow in his right hand and a dirk and broadsword on a thick leather belt around his waist. On his back hung a quiver of arrows.
Each man in the raiding party could shoot with a bow and arrow, but apart from maybe Alastair, Mungo was the best shot. The true Scottish warrior considered archery for cowards. They preferred to use the sword. Sometimes, the occasional fighter employed the use of an axe in imitation of the Norsemen that once roamed these lands. What made them all the same, was the fact that they would move up adjacent to their enemy and fight them in close quarter combat – that was the way of the clansmen, and that was the way of honor.
