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

by Alisa Adams

  Slipping a sneak peek at Alastair at the main table, Mary saw that societal elevation was no distinction. He ate with the same forceful unrestraint in imitation of the others. Mary had to stifle a giggle when she saw Murtagh attempt to force a piece of meat that was more of a slab into his mouth. The battle still raged on with the meat winning out. He can’t for the life of him fit it into his mouth, she thought.

  “Murtagh, would you like me to cut it into a more manageable portion for you?” she asked sweetly.

  He grunted something incomprehensible as he continued to force the flesh into his mouth. He looked like a croaking frog with his bulging eyes, giving away the fact that he was struggling to chew and swallow at the same time.

  “Crivens, that nearly had me,” he said, reaching for his tankard. The bitter liquid soon filled his mouth and dripped from the sides of it into his beard. Without saying another word, he returned his attention to the food that was fast vanishing off the table tops.

  Mary realized that this was not going to be a feast that involved much talking. To her right, Aila was just as consumed as the men were with the foodstuff. In essence, she did not mind. The fare smelt incredible. The fish was fresh and the meat, for the most part, was soft and succulent. Mary soon joined in with the others but with far less carnivorousness. For her, the knife and fork were still the order of the day.

  “So, how do ye like our Scottish food, Sassenach?”

  Startled by the familiar voice that she loathed and craved at the same time, she looked up. It was Alastair who stood by the table with a huge chunk of meat on the end of his long fork. He gnawed on it, occasionally, ejecting small projectiles of bristle from his mouth when the need arose.

  “Hello, Alastair. It’s good to have ye back,” said Aila, looking at him with hero-worship in her eyes.

  “Aye, lass, tis good to be back.” He didn’t look at her once. His scrutiny was for Mary alone. “So, have ye settled in yet?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Alastair sat down next to Murtagh with a grunt and promptly filled the tankard on the table before him.

  “Come to visit us lesser folk, ‘ave ye?” Murtagh said with a snort, between powerful clenches of his jaw.

  “Aye, it’s more fun down here. All the talk up there is about the English and solidifying the ties within the clan.”

  “That sounds like there’s soon to be a marriage in the offing. I wonder who ye father will choose…” Murtagh pleated his brow in thought.

  “It won’t be you that’s for sure.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “No lass would have ye, that’s why.”

  Murtagh chortled, emitting bits of food in Mary’s direction. “Marriage is not for me anyway. Caitlin is more than enough to dampen my ardor.”

  Alastair smiled knowingly.

  “Who are ye going to bed when the feast is over? By God, we deserve a good tumble after risking our lives on the road like that.”

  Mary noticed Aila tense next to her. When she turned to look at her face, she saw the hope written on her features. She stared at Alastair as if willing him to grab her and take her somewhere private for a romp.

  “I dinnae ken. There must be some lass about who wants the pleasure of a future laird’s hands,” said Alastair with a twinkle in Mary’s direction. His remark evoked a boisterous spell of mirth from Murtagh and the men closest to him.

  “Aye, I’m sure there is…”

  “Is that all women are to you? You are nothing more than barbaric louts, the both of you. Murtagh, I really thought you were more than that. From him…” Mary pointed at Alastair. “I have come to expect such behavior, but you.”

  Murtagh lowered his head a little as if his mother had just told him off.

  Next to him, Alastair scowled. “Is it now? You think that I dinnae ken how to treat a lady? The ones I’ve met never had any complaints.”

  Mary scoffed. “I am sure they were the kind a man such as yourself had to pay for to obtain the pleasure of their services.” She felt a blush mushroom on her face. She never spoke of such things. As far as her father was concerned, she had no knowledge of the workings of men and women.

  “Really? Is that what ye think of me? I will have ye know that the lasses love my company and not only for that.”

  “That’s very hard to believe,” said Mary.

  “And why’s that?” snapped Aila.

  Mary arched her eyebrows. Usually women stuck together. She slowly turned to the woman who was the closest thing she had to a friend in her new environ. “I will have you know that that man does not keep his promises. He kidnaps women from their families for his fancy without any regard for the way they feel about it. Aila, the cad whipped me and coerced me to come here against my will.”

  Alastair grunted as he took another large gulp of ale. “I had my reasons.”

  “Did you? I would like to know them,” hissed out Mary.

  “Oh, it’s simple. The lad wants to couple with ye, he does,” interjected Murtagh. He did not wait to see the reactions on Alastair and Mary’s faces, preferring to devote his attention to the next bit of meat he speared from the serving platter with his fork.

  Mary looked at Alastair. She could not tell whether the red flush on his face was because of the heat and drink or out of embarrassment. “You wish to bed me? That will never happen. The thought disgusts me.” It was an all-out lie, and she knew it no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise. Seeing his Adam’s apple bobble up and down on his neck in an overt attempt to swallow down his anger, she became aware of how soft his skin was above the hard muscle. For a heartbeat, she let her mind wander to what it might feel like to kiss him there.

  Alastair got to his feet. The English women irritated him beyond belief. He couldn’t understand why she was being so difficult. Mary stood in such contrast to Aila who stared up at him as if he were some god. All he had wanted to do was bury the hatchet and try to make amends for what happened on the road north. In his mind, the thrashing had been warranted. She was a danger to herself and to others. Also, a woman did not stand up to a man like that in public.

  Of course, he had witnessed his mother contradict his father many times as he grew up. On occasion, it was difficult to tell who ran the clan. She was a powerhouse that was for sure, but his mother had never once defied her husband in the presence of others. If she had a grievance, it was taken up later in the privacy of their rooms.

  “Ah, come now, Alastair, don’t let Mary dampen yer spirits. Since when have ye let a filly get in yer way, eh?” said Murtagh cheerily.

  Mary arched her eyebrows. “Filly am I? How nice, Murtagh.”

  The clansman shrugged. “Aye, and a damn ferocious one if ye ask me. The way ye kicked me in the night and pulled on my plaid was nothing short of vicious.”

  Mary giggled. “Oh, dear, Murtagh, I was only trying to keep warm and wriggle as far away as possible lest I compromise my virtue. Ladies do not share a blanket with men in an unmarried state.”

  “Then, I will be sure to speak no more of it.”

  “Spoken like a true gentleman.”

  Alastair could not believe what he was witnessing. The Sassenach and his most trusted friend behaved like the best of friends, if not more. What had happened between them during those cold nights? Jealousy suddenly overcame him. He knew the feeling from growing up when another boy beat him at a game or in a fight, but not like this. It felt as if the sensation enveloped his body in an attempt to choke him. He was about to say something when a deep voice interrupted.

  “Be sure to pull at the same time,” ordered Alastair.

  “Aye, we’ll be sure to do that, lad. We’ll have the wallopers across the line that’s for sure,” said Mungo who stood behind his friend.

  “Look at them. They’re worse for wear. Alastair can barely stand on his two feet,” said Murtagh who was the last man holding the thick hemp rope.

  “Yer one to talk. Ye can barely stand yerself,” hissed ou
t Alastair.

  “Don’t be like that, brother. You were the one who placed me in charge of the Sassenach. I had no choice but to talk to her and besides, had ye been a little nicer to the lass, she might even speak to ye without spitting poison.”

  “Ye think I care what the woman does?”

  “Oh, I ken ye do. You’re whipped by the lass. I never saw a man so smitten,” said Murtagh, guffawing. “Ye were practically drooling before, and that was not because of the food. Ye wanted to get yer mitts on a fine pair of hard thòns. And I can tell ye – they’re as hard as boulders, they are.”

  “Haud yer wheesht the pair of ye,” intervened Mungo. The constant bickering between the two men was getting on his nerves. He knew that the Sassenach would be the cause of a lot of trouble. Why the hell had Alastair not listened to him?

  “Not as hard as ye are though. I could practically see yer kilt lift off yer body back at the table when ye ogled the lass’ breasts.”

  Alastair had to force down a smile. It was true what Murtagh had said. The sight of Mary had aroused him considerably. She looked beautiful, like no other. Aila had paled in comparison. But how was he going to convince her that he meant her no harm? The way she had looked at him with such hate in her eyes saddened him. There had been a fire burning there that he knew would not be extinguished unless he thought of something.

  “Dinnae worry, brother. The Sassenach is not my type. I was only a teasing ye. I prefer ‘em buxom, like Caitlin. And that accent of hers would drive me mad if I had to hear it on a daily basis. She’s all yours, laddie. With my blessing,” said Murtagh.

  “I dinnea about that, but thank you, my friend. The lass despises me.”

  “Alastair, those are the ones worth having. Nothing like breaking a filly until she rides smoothly.”

  That final remark even had Mungo joining in with the “Ayes.”

  “Are the three of ye galoots finished? It’s time to show ye who are the strongest men in the clan,” said Hamish, the man who had greeted them close to the castle that afternoon. He stood with two men behind him, holding the rope, opposite Alastair, Mungo, and Murtagh.

  “Aye, we’re ready,” responded Alastair.

  “Then let’s be done with it. Heave, laddies, with all ye got.”

  Mary swallowed when she saw the thick rope snap taut as the six men exerted their strength upon it. For a heartbeat, she thought it was going to break. Mary looked at Murtagh first. The sweat already covered his forehead, telling a tale of his overindulgence during the meal. Her gaze did not rest on him for long. In moments, Mary scrutinized Alastair’s muscular arms that clustered and tightened with the effort. His legs were like tree trunks attached to the ground. He was clearly the most handsome man pulling on the rope in the center of the Great Hall.

  At first, everyone watched the typical Highland spectacle in silence. Gradually, the noise level increased as the first of the spectators shouted their encouragement. In many cases, the women were the loudest of the bunch. Their high-pitched screams overshadowed the scratchy baritone of the men. It soon became clear that the woman had not partaken in as much ale as the opposite sex.

  “Come on, Alastair. Ye can do it. I ken,” yelled Aila.

  Her entire frame shook from head to foot. Her eyes were for one man alone. After her taking sides with Alastair during the recent scuffle of words, she had briefly joined a man in his early fifties who sat at the main table with the Laird. Mary had assumed him to be her father. When she got back, her mood had altered considerably. It currently bordered on the ecstatic. Mary had asked her why, but Aila just said that her father had imparted on some good tidings concerning their family. Mary had left it at that.

  “Look, they’re dragging them down,” cried a clansman, holding a tankard full to the brim with ale.

  “Aye, it appears the Laird’s pup is going to lose this one.”

  “Don’t be too quick. He has come out of worse situations than this and won,” said the forever-protective Aila poisonously.

  And just as she spoke the words, Alastair bellowed from the depth of his lungs. The sound was feral and cacophonous like that of a mating bull. On cue, Mungo and Murtagh pulled even harder. Their concerted efforts soon began to tell.

  Mary found herself rooting for them. Before she knew it, she shouted with the others, and for the greater part, she shouted out Alastair’s name. She thought he looked magnificent as the heat of competitive exuberance took hold of her, ridding her mind of any distaste she harbored for the young clansman. At that moment, Alastair looked like Hercules trying to surmount one of the twelve labors.

  “We nearly have them, lads. Keep pulling… a little more.” It came naturally to Alastair to adopt the role of command as if he were on the battlefield.

  “If I keep going like this I won’t have any energy left for Caitlin. I’d rather she’d be a tugging on something than me on this bleedin’ rope,” grumbled out Murtagh.

  His remark allowed for their opponents to gain on them a little as the three men sniggered.

  “Stop footering about. And get ye head out of yer arse. Not everything in life is about cunny, booze, and food. This is no time to be joking about,” snarled out Mungo.

  Alastair remained silent. He glowered into Hamish’s eyes, willing him with the force of his gaze to forfeit some of his strength. Like a predator, he waited for the right moment. “Now, lads… PULL HARDER!”

  With one final effort Murtagh, Mungo, and Alastair dispensed with every last reserve of strength their arms and legs gave them. It paid off as the other group of burly men gave ground. It happened slowly, at first, until they could hold on no longer. With a cry of anguish, they fell forward and were dragged over the flagstones until the last one of them crossed the chalked line in the ground.

  A loud applause erupted from the onlookers. Tankards were raised into the air, dousing the tables with their contents. Men and women hugged. Others jumped about on the spot. Mary let Aila envelop her in a strong embrace that nearly winded her. The cheers continued until everyone was hoarse from the screaming and the alcohol they’d consumed. Slowly, the Great Hall fell into near silence, leaving only the sound of hundreds of breaths being forced into lungs. Occasionally, enthusiastic slaps could be heard. And then, the deep rumble of an authoritative voice overtook the space like a thunderstorm.

  “Men and women of the clan Macleod Wallis, it is with pride I declare my son and his companions the victors of this bout. It is a fitting tribute to his impending betrothal and more than ample grounds for his intended bride to feel proud this night…”

  Mary gulped at the words. She barely heard the Laird continue his speech about the merits of forging a stronger clan in the face of the English threat that was still preeminent in the British Isles. She watched Alastair stare at his father with a consternated expression on his face. Mary knew then that he had no idea of his father’s intentions. She looked at the chieftain, then at his wife. Her gaze finally rested on the man Aila had spoken to earlier. The smile on his face told her what she already instinctively knew – Alastair was to be married to Aila.

  7

  TEMPUS FUGIT AMOR MANET

  * * *

  Castle Diabaig

  Elizabeth was always unbearable when she was in one of her foppish romantic moods. She would go on and on about love and how much she deserved it in her life. She even did not stop when Father had announced Mary’s betrothal to some English aristocrat she did not know. It was all that mattered to her. It had been the day Mary had cried rivers. When she had thought she had nothing left in her, she would start all over again. Elizabeth had tried to console her by saying it was not all bad, but Mary had known otherwise.

  And yet fate had a different plan for her. It was as if God had some divine design for her life that Mary did not yet know about. Why had she been abducted from the bosom of her family and taken to a strange land where the people hated her kind? Mary knew that if it had not been Alastair who had taken her, then it would have bee
n the earl. Fate was inexorable in its machinations – there was no way around it. The only thing a person could do was accept it.

  Mary did not know why she was thinking about her sister and those days and in the Scottish Highlands of all places. Nearly a month had passed since the fateful banquet and the announcing of Alastair’s betrothal to Aila. She could still see the shock on his face as if it was yesterday. Everything after that had happened so quickly. His fellow clansmen had raised Alastair into the air with enthusiastic fervor. Cries of “Long live the new couple!” could be heard as far as the lochs and the hills and mountains that surrounded the castle.

  The feast had taken on epic proportions. It had been as if the people of the clan had forgotten about the prodigious amounts of ale they had drunk before then. Fresh kegs had been opened, more food served, and the entertainment had become more lavish as troubadours voiced love stories of old.

  One of them had been about an old Celtic legend. The bard with the spindly legs and the long neck had recounted the tragic love between Tristan and Iseult. His Adam’s apple had bobbled up and down in his neck. Spittle had spewed from his mouth as the telling became more urgent. And even tears had streamed down his beardless face when he reached the climax of the tale. Most of the clanswomen had joined him in his sadness, and the men had drowned their grief with more ale and without a tear. Only Alastair had sat on his chair with an expression of death etched onto his features. There had been no emotion, just despondence as the weavers of destiny wove their threads around his neck and began to tighten them.

  It was when their eyes had met. Mary had tried to elicit some kind of a response from him. She did not know why – it just happened. At first, he had stared back her, eyes lifeless and dark, their blueness erased into oblivion. Mary had smiled. He did nothing. Then it happened. As if the entire tale of Tristan and Iseult came crashing down upon him, his gaze focused. Mary imagined him to be replaying the story in his mind. Was she to be Iseult and he Tristan? But why? They were not in love with one another.