Highlander's Stolen Wife: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  Again, the men vented their hilarity. Mungo was the only one not to join in; instead, he gave his leader a sly look. He hadn’t missed it that he had only referred to one of the lasses. Before he could state his thoughts, Alastair beat him to it.

  “What’s yer name, lass?”

  “That is no concern of yours, and besides, you won’t be alive long enough to use it, you Scottish savage.”

  “Savage, am I?” Alastair grinned. He turned to Mungo. “Do I look like a savage to you, Mungo?”

  “You could do with a wee turn in the loch, my Laird. I do register a slight tangy odor coming from yer person.” Mungo bowed theatrically, causing more laughter from the men.

  “If ye ask the lasses back in the borough, they’d say that young Macleod here smells as fine as blooms on a spring morning—argh.”

  Murtagh never got to finish his sentence. The feisty English woman stamped the heel of her shoe onto his foot and butted the back of her head against his nose. With blood streaming from his nostrils, Murtagh laughed. “The lass has spirit. I’ll give her that.” He drew her closer by pulling on her hair with an angry fist.” If ye ever do that again, I’ll spank yer bottom until it’s as red as my bleedin’ nose.”

  “Enough messing aboot. I suggest we check them for valuables and ransom them off to that earl the young lady so kindly mentioned before,” said Mungo. He always was the one with his head screwed on in the right place.

  Alastair nodded and grunted his approval. Not once did he take his eyes off the full-blooded Englishwoman. She resembled a large female alpha-wolf. Like the beasts that roamed the land to the north, her life force was infectious as it drew him in with blistering potency. He had to shake off her power to again focus on the task at hand. “Gather the prisoners,” he barked out.

  On cue, the men started to manhandle the remaining six Englishmen and the fallen lord into a small cluster with the points of their swords.

  Alastair nodded at the woman who only gave him a withering stare in return. He walked back to the aristocrat who had removed his helmet and eyed him carefully. He was a handsome man with great black hair. The expression on his face was of haughty disdain for the man who had beaten him in single combat so skillfully. Augmenting his appearance was a strong chiseled chin and a slightly beaked nose, bearing testament to his breeding.

  “Do I have your parole as a gentleman that you will not attempt to escape for as long as you are my prisoner?” asked Alastair.

  Lord Leighton took a moment to weigh the options at his disposal. Steeling a furtive glance at his two daughters, he nodded reluctantly. “Yes, you have my word.”

  “Good, then there will be no need to place you in bonds. You may travel freely with your sword.”

  Lord Leighton nodded gravely. “Thank you, I respect that.”

  Alastair dipped his head slightly before turning away. His gaze briefly skirted over a body on the ground. He sighed. “Mungo, make sure Malcolm’s given a proper burial,” he ordered when he saw the one dead clansman lying in a crumpled heap in the dirt.

  “Aye, poor blighter deserves it. He fought well. This bastard here got him from the back,” he said, kicking the corpse belonging to a dead enemy soldier.

  Alastair lowered his head, invoking a silent prayer, as he turned to face the assembled prisoners. “Yer coming with us…the lot of ye, as far as Carlisle that is. Put his lordship in the carriage with the lasses. His men are not to be harmed. I want them treated well.”

  Murtagh manhandled the sisters to the vehicle roughly. “Easy does it, lass. Just get in, and it will all be over soon.”

  “Stop calling me that, you thug. My name is Lady Mary Leighton.”

  “Is it noo? It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Mary Leighton.” Despite Mary’s struggling, Murtagh bowed exaggeratedly as he placed his hands that were the size of plates onto her backside. With a feral snort, he pushed her into the carriage protesting. In quick succession, he did the same with her sister, Elizabeth, albeit with far less effort.

  2

  A LONG FAREWELL

  * * *

  Cumberland, Northern England, the outskirts of Carlisle

  * * *

  “Aye, me thinks that they are the same. Look at ‘em.”

  Raucous laughter followed this remark as the men vented their good humor, ridding themselves of the tension they’d experienced earlier that day when their lives were in danger. They sat around a campfire close to the outskirts of the castle town of Carlisle. It had taken them the rest of the day of hard riding, much to the detriment of the captured men-at-arms who lay by a tree exhausted, to get there. Only the lord and his daughters had any strength left in them. They sat together huddled in a tight group in the well-concealed copse as they chewed on roasted rabbit flesh provided to them by Alastair and Mungo who had caught a few of the animals after they had arrived.

  “I wonder if they would let me lift their skirts? That would answer the question that is burning on everybody’s tongues.” The man who made the remark eyed Mary and Elizabeth with crude eyes. They bored into them as if they were undressing the two women.

  “One honeypot is the same as any other. Even if those two look like twins. I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” said another clansman.

  “Trust ye to say such a thing, Wallace. Yer always too pished to find one. You wouldn’t know the difference between a honeypot and a hole in the ground,” grunted out Murtagh.

  “Aye, I once caught him eyeing the cattle back at the borough, and he had a shifty way about him. He was oot the game and rat-arsed on the whiskey. If I hadn’t brought him back to the tavern, he’d have shagged one of those poor cows,” intoned another man.

  Hilarity had the men careening onto their backs. Murtagh thumped Wallace on the back as he hooted laughter.

  “What’s all the ruckus about?” asked Alastair, coming out of the darkness of the forest.

  “Yer finished pishing all over the bushes, ave ye?” grunted out Murtagh, making Mungo roll his eyes.

  “Aye, there was a fair bit after all of the wine I drunk from his lordship’s stores,” answered Alastair, referring to the wine they’d consumed that was an intended gift for the earl. “Now, what were ye all nattering about while I was a gone?”

  “They were talking about the lasses,” said Mungo, taking a hearty swig from the cask he had sitting on his lap.

  “What about ‘em?”

  “Well, the lads and I were thinking… those two look so alike that maybe their cunnies are the same,” said Murtagh with a serious expression on his face as if he was discussing the most grave of topics.

  “I see.” Alastair cast a glance at the sisters and their father. “Well, don’t let me get in the way then.” He grunted and walked in their direction.

  “Were they really discussing what I am thinking?” asked Elizabeth in shock.

  “They are the vilest of creatures. Look at them. Revolting. I fear for our wellbeing,” said Mary.

  “There is no need, lass,” said Alastair, overhearing them. “I pray that you have been well treated, My Lord?” His gaze switched to the father.

  Lord Leighton nodded. “Yes, thank you. Now, would you be so kind as to inform me what happens next?”

  “Aye. You will be ransomed to the Earl of Wavel on the morrow. Once we have the coin, you may go on your way.”

  “What makes you think he will pay? And even if he does, what’s to stop him from killing the lot of you when we are safe” asked Leighton, getting to his feet.

  Alastair lifted his hand to forestall Mungo, who had not once taken his eyes off the Laird’s son, from getting up and walking over.

  “You are a lord and your daughter the earl’s betrothed. I am sure that is worth something. And with regard to yer other remark, me thinks I’ll play on the earl’s honor as a nobleman. He wouldn’t break a covenant sworn in the eyes of God now, would he?”

  Leighton pressed his lips together in thought. “That may be, but have you no honor, man. Ra
nsoming a lord and his daughters like cattle is not chivalrous conduct even for the likes of you.”

  Alastair chuckled. His gaze slipped back to the women. He swallowed deeply when he beheld Mary. She looked magnificent in the weak light. The flickering flames caught the line of her face, caressing it with thin fingers of orange and red. “Wars don’t pay for themselves. It cost us a fair copper to keep you thieving English oot of our lands,” he said at last, his stare hardening and returning to the lord.

  “You people are unfit to have a country to call your own. Look at you. You are nothing but brutes,” interjected Mary, shuddering against the cold and pulling her coat around her some more to keep warm.

  She eyed the tall clansman with the hair that became as one with the color of the flames. He was handsome, she conceded, in a rugged and crude way. He stood taller on his thick muscular legs than most men she had seen. Despite the bloodlust he had evoked earlier that day, he had a kind face and intelligent eyes. Their all-pervading blueness was the first thing she had noticed about him in the daylight. Now, they seemed like black orbs in the darkness. She shuddered. Despite all of his efforts in kindness, she could not make herself feel sympathetic towards him. He was the enemy and a killer of the English. The way he and his men had fought showed their bloodthirsty nature.

  “Spoken like an English person would. Ye are strangers in a foreign land, and it is about time you left us to our own devices, lass,” snapped Alastair, breaking the silent connection between them.

  “If I am not mistaken, this is English soil you have trodden upon. And we…” Mary swept her hand around the campfire. “Are English subjects.”

  “Aye, that ye are. And prisoners to boot.”

  “What’s left of us. You and your men slaughtered most of our escort in cold-blood. You behaved like savages would. There is nothing that separates you from the beasts that roam the forests.”

  “And that coming from an English person. It was not us that stripped a man naked and dragged him through the city of London at the heels of a horse in front of a murderous mob in disgrace.” Alastair swallowed deeply. His father had told him the tale many times about what the English did to alleged traitors to the crown. “A brave warrior and a man beloved by the people was hung, drawn and quartered – strangled by hanging, but released while he was still alive – only to be emasculated, eviscerated and have his bowels burned before him while he hung on a thread of life. Yer kind then beheaded the dying man and cut his body into four parts. His head dipped in tar, you placed it on a pike atop London Bridge. That is the kind of people you English are. You will find none of that up north. Simple hangings for offenders suffice there and not a gory display.” By now, spittle erupted with the haze of his warm breath from Alastair’s mouth as he vented his anger.

  Mary swallowed deeply. Next to her, her sister shivered. The clansman’s words made her feel sick and only confirmed her view of him that he was a bloodthirsty cad to tell such things to a lady. “I am sure that the man to which you refer was a scoundrel or a highwayman,” said Mary.

  “A scoundrel or a highwayman, ye say.” Alastair hacked dry laughter from his throat. “It is to William Wallace to which I refer, lass,” he spat.

  “The man was a traitor to the crown,” said Lord Leighton matter-of-factly.

  Alastair snapped his head in his direction. “A traitor! No! Never! He could have never been a traitor to King Edward the Longshanks for he was never his subject. You English would be wise to remember that when a marauding army of avenging clansmen come hurtling down from the Highlands to burn and pillage yer lands, like ye have done on countless occasions back home.”

  “Cet homme n'est rien d'autre qu'une brute sans éducation. Je parie qu'il ne peut même pas dire son pied droit de sa gauche,” said Mary, alluding that the Scotsman was a brute that could not distinguish between his right and left foot.

  “C'est vrai, mais il est aussi notre ravisseur, ma fille.” Her father responded by saying that he was also their captor.

  “Ça suffit. Vous pensez que le fils d'un seigneur écossais n'est pas capable de parler français.” Alastair chuckled when he saw the surprise on the two women’s and the lord’s faces. “I am also proficient in Latin and very well versed in history. Education is a valuable thing.” He moved his face closer to Mary, making her flinch. “My faither, the Laird, thought it always a wise thing to educate his sons in the tongue of their allies. The French are our allies, are they not?” He spun on his heels without waiting for a reply. “Get some sleep; we have a long day of negotiating your ransom tomorrow.”

  “No, no, leave me be,” screamed Mary.

  She ran through the thickets with her tormentor in hot pursuit. He was gaining on her fast as he lurched forward on his long strapping legs. To her, it seemed that she wasn’t moving at all. The thick undergrowth appeared to stick to her feet, each step becoming more and more of an effort. She cried out for help, but there no one in sight. She was alone in the scary forest. The moon hung listlessly in the sky, casting shadows on the trees all around her. Occasionally the silver orb would disappear behind a cloud, rendering the woodland into total darkness.

  “Ye can’t escape me, lass. Before I ransom you, I will have a wee bit of fun with ye,” hissed out a voice in close proximity.

  Mary recognized it, but she didn’t think it possible that he would threaten her with such a vile thing as rape. Maybe it was the other man, the one that had gawped at her and Elizabeth libidinously. He had been the loudest of the group and the most frightening. Murtagh – that was his name.

  “Got ye now, lass.”

  Mary screamed again as she struggled against his strong grip that forced her to the ground. She resisted with every fiber of her being, but the man was just too strong. Before she knew it, her back touched the brushwood. He held her pinned to the ground. He squirmed his way between her legs, positioning himself until she could feel the front of him press against her body. Mary could smell his breath that reeked of stale wine and the food he had eaten.

  Mary cried out in fright and in pain. She tried to roll from side to side, but to no avail. Her screams reverberated in her ears until blackness, then a snatch of light and finally Elizabeth’s face appeared above her.

  “Mary, calm down. You were only having a nightmare. Wake up. You’ve slept well past sunrise.”

  She opened her eyes some more. Perspiration covered her brow. She shook and started to sob as her sister took her in her arms. “There, there, all’s well now. I am here,” cooed Elizabeth, stroking Mary’s back softly.

  “It was him. I know it was.”

  “Who, Mary?”

  “That Scotsman. He tried to…” Mary stuttered. The words were just too abhorrent to let past her lips.

  “Tried to what?”

  “Rape me. He was right above me. I was all alone,” she wailed at last.

  Mary sat up with a jerk. She looked around the camp. The leader was nowhere to be seen. Six men remained to guard the prisoners. They all looked in her direction with questioning expressions on their faces. The others were gone. She searched for her father, but he too was not there.

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “He left with the Scotsmen at sun up. They went to the earl to negotiate our ransom. If all goes to plan, we will be free later today, and we can go home.”

  Thinking about home, Mary started crying again. She wouldn’t be going back there for long. Once she was married, her fate lay in the hands of the earl. Her reality came crashing down all around her. Mary pressed her frame against her sister’s as she released all of the worry that had been eating away at her since leaving her father’s lands. She did not know for how long she cried. A voice uttering a strange accent dragged her back to where she was.

  “Have some of this, lass. It will give ye yer strength back. We swear by it in the Highlands. Puts hair on yer chest, it does.”

  Mary cringed as the clansman, she recognized as Murtagh, bent lower, proffering a wooden bowl contain
ing some unrecognizable concoction that resembled the contents of one’s stomach spewed up.

  “Tis oats mixed in water, it is.”

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth, taking the dish.

  Murtagh smiled encouragingly as he nodded.

  “It can’t hurt if you have some, Mary. You look as pale as a sheet. And this stuff isn’t that bad. I had some earlier.” Elizabeth stirred the wooden spoon in the bowl a few times before lifting out a portion of the steaming brew and held it out to her sister.

  Mary crinkled her nose but accepted the offering. It tasted salty, and there was a hint of something else in it. Something strong that burned her throat when she swallowed. She pulled away from her sister and took the bowl and spoon. Mary started to eat vigorously, astoundingly feeling the strength return to her with each mouthful.

  “I stirred it with my right hand so that the devil wouldn’t come a knocking.” He winked. “And I added a wee nip of whiskey to keep ye warm,” said Murtagh, smiling at her. “Here, have some of this.” He held out a hard, round loaf, which he’d produced from the insides of his plaid where a Highlander would also carry his oats and some dried and salted beef when they traveled.

  “What is it? Looks like bread.”

  “Aye, it is of sorts. We call them bannocks. Very hearty and it goes well with the oats.”

  Mary took the bread and ripped off a chunk, then handed it back to Murtagh who offered some to Elizabeth. She dipped it into the porridge and continued eating.

  “The young Laird should be back soon with yer faither and the earl,” said Murtagh, getting back into an upright position.

  Mary and Elizabeth only nodded. The Scotsman did not stick around for long. He went back to join his comrades by the fire. The sisters exchanged glances.

  “That was kind of him. Maybe they are not as bad as we thought,” said Elizabeth, eyeing the clansman closely.

  “But they smell something awful. Do they never wash those blankets they wear? It reeked of stale sweat. It is like someone rolled over and died in it,” said Mary.