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

by Alisa Adams

  She was home, but she had no one to really talk to. She felt like a stranger in the large manor house that bordered on a castle. It was not as well fortified as the castle at Diabaig, but far larger in size. The place had its roots as a Saxon hall. As time went by, one of her ancestors had obtained it as a reward for good service to the king. The gesture was from William the Conqueror no less. It was he who also bequeathed the hereditary title of ‘lord’ onto Mary’s family.

  None of the structure’s Saxon heritage remained. The fortified manor house was mostly of Norman design now. The oldest part of Leighton Manor was the North Tower. It had been built as a bulwark against the Scots in the early to mid-eleventh century. Mary had always liked to play there with the son of the cook when she was little. It was very rarely frequented nowadays. Inside, the floor was covered in tiles, and the walls were full of paintings. Mary had often wondered why the place was so nicely decorated if no one ever stayed there.

  As time went by, a delightful paneled solar, or private chamber for the lord, was added. It featured a magnificently carved wooden fireplace with an elaborate overmantel, boasting the family’s crest. Beyond the solar was the South Tower, a severe castellated barbican reached only by a staircase, and designed to be easily defended.

  To these towers, the timber-framed Great Hall was added in the course of the past century. It was where Mary stood with her father. Her sister had just floated in. When she saw the sad expression on Mary’s face, she rolled her eyes. “When are you going to cheer up? One might think that you didn’t want to be home. God knows what those savages did to you up there in that hostile environment. How long was it for? Yes, something like three months. Perish the thought.”

  “Yes, Mary. What has gotten into you? You hardly eat, and getting you to talk is like squeezing blood out of a stone.” Lord Leighton sighed as he paced up and down before his daughter. “Why can’t you tell us what happened?”

  Mary felt the walls of the world come crashing all around her. She stared ahead; down the entire length of the Great Hall. It was an expansive oblong space, a magnificent structure, topped by a lovely timber roof. The hall featured three large windows in the outer wall, making it clear that even this close to the Scottish border, the owner felt safe enough to make comfort a priority over security – as of late, this was no longer the case.

  At one end of the hall, a steep wooden staircase led to chambers on the upper floor; it was an elaborate affair sawn from whole tree trunks. At the top of the stairs, the landing allowed a person to get a close-up view of the superb timber roof, reinforced by huge wooden supports.

  Work on the core buildings had only recently been completed, and, remarkably, the same group of carpenters worked on the entire project from start to finish. No matter the difference in appearance, being in the hall reminded Mary of the night of the feast back at Castle Diabaig. She imagined Murtagh, his mouth stuffed with food. The memory made her smile briefly. She thought of the tug of war between Alastair, Murtagh and Mungo and the other clansmen. Her Alastair had put on such a feat of endurance and strength. Thinking about it nearly made her cry.

  Then the shock announcement of the betrothal – a farce – a ruse to strengthen inter-clan ties. Mary had felt great sadness at that moment. Back then, she had not known why. Now, it all made sense. It should have been her. She should have been named Alastair’s bride to be. After that stormy night in the country, they were as close as it got to be wed – maybe not in the eyes of God and the church, but in the heart and body – was that not enough? Not for her father and not for Alastair’s. At that moment, Mary realized that they most probably did not have a future at all.

  “What happened to the man I was with when the English patrol found me?” asked Mary, breaking her silence.

  “Listen to her; she refers to her own kind as if she was one of them – a Scot,” hissed out Elizabeth.

  “Hush now,” snapped the lord. He looked at his daughter sternly, then quickly turned to Mary. “Alastair of the Clan Macleod is surely to be hanged.”

  “On what grounds?” Mary could not believe what her father was telling her. She knew she had been naïve to expect any leniency from her kind but a glimmer of hope had always resided within her.

  “That’s a rather strange question coming from the woman he abducted. If that were not enough, that brigand assaulted an English convoy on English soil, held a nobleman and his daughters for ransom, broke his word and finally, he convinced his rogue of a father to demand even more gold for you.”

  “That was not Alastair. Well, maybe the bit about the ambush, but he did not try to convince his father to ask for more gold.”

  “Of course he did. Don’t try and play the martyr with me, Mary. That man is a scoundrel.”

  “Then why did he free me and accompany me all the way back to the English border? Had it not been for the patrol, he would have brought me home. That was his intention.”

  The expression on the lord’s face softened. “Because he wanted to have his way with you, Daughter. It is common for women who have been violated to deny that the act of rape ever happened. I did not mention him, and that I know, because I wanted you to slowly come to terms with it. It has been a week now, and I think we should discuss the implications…”

  Mary gulped. She had no idea that that was the general consensus of what had happened between her and Alastair. If her father thought as much, then the magistrate was bound to administer his verdict accordingly. Rape and assault on the King’s Road were capital offenses – Alastair was doomed.

  As her father spoke, he confirmed what she thought. He told her that Alastair would stand trial in a few days’ time and after that, he would most probably be hanged the following morning. “However, the news is not all bad,” he added.

  A spark of hope blossomed in Mary’s tummy. “Yes…”

  Her father cleared his throat. He looked the way he always looked when he was about to say something that made him feel uncomfortable. “Despite the violation of your body and the loss of your maidenhead at the hands of that savage, the earl still agrees to honor your betrothal – isn’t that grand? You are still to be married. And that’s no mean feat if you ask me. Usually, women who have suffered like you never find a husband, let alone one as amenable and powerful as the earl.”

  “In God’s name, Father, don’t you understand—”

  “How dare you blaspheme in this house!”

  “I will damn well curse all I like. Don’t you see? Alastair did not rape me. It was, is, love, Father. I love him, and he loves me. It is Alastair whom I will wed and not that fat toad. When they found us, we had become man and woman in body and heart and soul – I will marry him in the eyes of God, I know it.”

  “Mary, you are not well. I will have cook send up your supper to your chamber. Elizabeth, please accompany your sister and make sure she is all right. She has been through so much that she even thinks she is the savage’s woman.”

  “He is not a savage, Father. He is the son of a Laird and heir to the title with ownership over great lands and a castle. No, sister, I do not need you to escort me. I am well and mistress of my mind,” she said, storming to the staircase in the Great Hall.

  Mary found some of her strength again. It was as if thinking of Diabaig and the Highlands returned her spirit to her. She remembered something Murtagh had told her during their daily wanderings around the borough and beyond:

  “All the world is beautiful, and it matters but little where we go, to highlands or lowlands, woods or plains, on the sea or land or down among the crash of the waves or up high in the sky like an eagle flies. Through all the climates, hot or cold, storms and calms, everywhere and always we are in God's everlasting beauty and love. So universally true is this, the spot where we chance to be always seems the best.” His eyes had twinkled at her at this point. “And yet, ye will always feel, no matter where ye are, that the Highlands is that special place in yer heart. It is that permanence, which holds ye, keeps ye enthral
led by the glens and crags, burns and lochs – tis where you will forever roam even when afar.”

  His words had imprinted themselves on her mind. They gave Mary strength, reminding her that no matter what, the land of the Scots would forever remain. She found herself yearning for the place she had so wanted to escape from. Mary missed Murtagh and even the taciturn Mungo, but most of all she missed Alastair. In her heart of hearts, and no matter what her father had said, she knew that she would see him again – in this life or the next.

  “Mary, is that ye?” Alastair rolled on the ground, coming into contact with the wall in his cell. He pressed his body against it as if that might soothe his busy mind. “I can see ye, blossom. Aye, I can.”

  Mary ran on a field covered with flowers. There was all manner of species: Ling, Bell Heather, Cross-Leaved Heath, Bog Myrtle, and Buttercups. It was a sea of color, stretching for as far as the eye could see. Alastair called out her name again, but she kept running.

  “Why are ye running away from me?” She was fleet and nimble on her feet. Somehow, Alastair could not keep up with her. He tried. When he got closer, she gained speed until the distance separating them grew. When she appeared to disappear from view, she’d slow down again, spinning on her heels and offering herself to him. She lifted her thin white smock, made of damask or silk, revealing her ankles and parts of her ivory-colored legs. She giggled.

  It sounded like music. Sweet notes of happiness carried over the airwaves to where he stood in total thrall of her beauty. Seeing and hearing her coaxed him forth. Alastair started running, catapulting forward, carrying his bulk on his strong legs. Her laughter became more intense when he got closer; it was when she would again flee from him. “Mary!” His voice was but a rasp. He felt thirsty, as if he had not had a drink in days.

  A carpet of blossoms accompanied them up all the way up the hill. The incline tired Alastair, each step sapping more of his strength from him. He had to keep moving. He could not let her escape. When he reached the top, Mary was already on her way down, heading for the next hill. He followed. He was in a trance. He saw nothing but her escaping frame that pranced over the grass like a frolicking nymph. Despite all of his efforts, he did not gain on her. She was as fast as a deer in flight.

  By the time Alastair reached the next summit, he stood overlooking the vast green and blue expanse of the sea. In his haste, he had not noticed the breeze or the gulls floating on the zephyr. There was a low bank of clouds covering the water, reaching the beach further down the coast. He could hear the crash of the waves against the rocks below him. They hurled their fury against the land disintegrating into white bursts. Moments later, more of their brethren would follow, creating an infinite dance that waxed and waned depending on the weather.

  He stood atop a cliff with a long grassy surface. It descended to the right toward a beach. It was pristine, almost white under the sunlight. To get there, he would have to follow the seam of the cliff that fell precipitously down to the sea. To the left, there were a series of vast estuary inlets. The land there was primarily of a machair formation, a dune pasture that rolled all the way down to the water. Further beyond, there were firths and lochs, more beaches, albeit smaller ones than to the south.

  Where had she gone? Alastair could not see Mary anywhere. He swiveled his head this way and that. Panic overran him when he still saw nothing. A pretty giggle sounded over to him. It was barely audible, like a whisper, clandestine and private. He spun his head in the direction of the sound – there she stood with the sun behind her. He squinted and placed his arm on his forehead to cover his eyes. He swallowed deeply, feeling arousal overwhelm him.

  Her nipples pressed against the translucent, near diaphanous fabric of her garment. He frowned. “Blossom, you must put some clothes on. Tis too cold to be running about with next to nothing on.”

  She giggled and pirouetted on the spot. “Don’t you like it?” She lifted the garment some more, bending over to expose a part of her behind. “This is the part of me you like most, isn’t it, Alastair? My bahookie.” She tittered again. “What funny words you have in Scottish,” she added.

  Mary’s frame was ethereal. It almost appeared as if the breeze might lift her up and take her away. Alastair called to her again, asking her to come to him. She responded by twirling on her heels again, offering him another glimpse of her legs. One, two, three, four heartbeats past, then, like a sprite, she turned again and ran away from him.

  He followed, this time gaining on her quickly. Mary giggled as she raced down the grass-covered crag toward the beach. Alastair focused on her silhouette that was framed by the sun in front of her. Her body was this white shape with black tresses dancing on the top of her head. Wisps of hair fluttered about her like a crown, creating a dark halo that burnished in the light. It was as if God had reached down to touch her and grant her his benevolence and divinity.

  “Got ye now, Sassenach. I told ye to put some more clothing on. Now get under my plaid lest ye catch a death of cold.” Mary squirmed in his arms, writhing and twirling like a freshly caught fish. Despite his far superior strength, it took all of his efforts to hold her in place. When he finally had her pinned down, she reached under his kilt, stroking him between his legs.

  A deep groan escaped him. His grip loosened as he let himself be seduced by her ministering. He lost himself in a swirling world of intense sensations that came to him in different colors, shapes, and tingles. He was overcome with joy to be with her again. He had thought he had lost her forever. To hear her laughing softly, occasionally whimpering when she saw him react to her busy hands, and smiling at him when he looked into her eyes. Alastair felt a familiar heat well up deep inside of him. It birthed from his pelvis, radiating outwards and everywhere.

  A deep rumble tumbled out of his mouth in deep gasps and even deeper breaths. The sky above them darkened in concert. The individual, fluffy clouds turned from white to black, amalgamating into one mass. Gone was the cumulus that looked like grazing sheep on a canvas of blue, they had been replaced by a dark and angry sky. As Alastair panted and Mary remained relentless in her pleasuring, a roar of thunder ripped from up above, shooting lightning down from the heavens. The sea crashed waves onto the beach, rising up into a tsunami – Mary was gone.

  “Mary!”

  Alastair felt himself submerged in water. To his great surprise, it was not icy cold as the North Sea should be. Instead, it was tepid. There was no fresh saltiness in the air around him, no suffocation, just the stench of a sewer. The thunder in his dream turned into a deep laugh, the lightning no longer came in intermit bouts but, instead, turned into one beam of light. Alastair shivered, as the water on his person grew colder. His eyes snapped open – he was back in the dungeon at Chillingham Castle.

  “You were having quite the dream, you Scottish dog,” hissed out the voice belonging to the man sporting the enormous growth on his nose. He held a lantern, casting light on Alastair’s person. “Just the thing to douse your feverish mind with your slop bucket. Give you a nice perfume, that will.” The guard sniggered again.

  Alastair looked up. He could’ve fallen into despair. It had only been a dream. He should have known. Mary would never run away from him in real life. He sat up into an upright position, resting his back against the wall. He wiped his face with his hand, removing the contents of his bowels and bladder. It no longer sickened him. He had spent more than enough time sleeping next to the vessel. The stench had become a part of his life.

  The loneliness was worse than the cold, the stink, the food and even the fact that he would face death when he stood before the magistrate. Finlay was no more. He had died a day, a week, a month ago – Alastair did not know. As his deceased friend had said when he had awakened after his arrival, that time was nothing and everything in this hellhole.

  They had taken him one day as a punishment for talking. There had been no warning just brutal retribution for breaking the rules. An indefinite day or week or month after that, the hideous guard
had stood before Alastair’s cell for far longer than was usual. He had, in lavish detail, regaled him with the exact manner of the demise of his friend. According to him, Finlay had been thrown into a twenty-foot deep pit, called an oubliette. The name was aptly suited, for those who ended up there were always forgotten. The guardsman explained how the bodies were left to rot and how the inmates had always left deep scratch marks on the walls on their way down. He had said even more.

  Alastair shivered as an odious thought crept into his mind, like in the nightmares that plagued him most nights: Had Finlay also fed on the flesh of the deceased or had the starving rats gotten to him first? Maybe the ghost of John Sage had escorted him to the afterlife. It would be a fitting tribute to the wraith belonging to Edward the Longshanks’ former torturer who also found his end at Chillingham Castle on the command of his former master. He could not help but think that it was all his fault that his friend was dead. Had he not traveled south, then maybe Finlay would still be alive.

  “Get yourself cleaned up.” Alastair had not noticed the Englishman leave his cell and return again. He thwacked a bucket down on the stone floor in front of him. Alastair bent forward to sniff the contents. To his surprise, it contained fresh water.

  “Strip off those rags and wash. There are some fresh clothes for you outside when you are done.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Do I look like a fucking herald to you? Just do as I say and be quick about it.” With those words, he left the lockup; only this time he did not close the door behind him. Come to think of it, he had never been inside of his cell since his confinement.

  Alastair groaned as he began to undress. He might as well face the man who would sentence him to death looking partially civilized. A quick death under the noose was preferable to the agony he experienced now. He swore to himself that he would leave the world with the dignity befitting a clansman of the Highlands. He would depart holding Mary’s cherished memory close to his heart.