Highlander’s Unexpected Love: A Medieval Scottish Historical Highland Romance Book

by Adams, Alisa

  Just then, Senga's voice called her from the top of the hill.

  "Comin', Mistress!" she called, then she said cheerio to Jessica and waddled up the hill.

  Jessica smiled and waved, then looked down at Bruce, who was, as usual, bending a thick piece of metal into submission. She had to admit he made an attractive sight.

  Heather had a surprise for Bruce when they met again on a rainy wet night in October. When he went to hug her, she pushed him away.

  "Wait!" She giggled. She was holding something in front of her. It was a napkin-wrapped package and when she peeled back the cloth there was a dark brown, moist mass that glistened slightly in the lamplight. There was a white stripe down the middle and it smelled of a sweet, strong aroma.

  Heather put a finger into it then asked Bruce to open his mouth. She put her finger on his tongue and he closed his lips around it, then closed his eyes as the heavenly taste of chocolate flooded into his mouth.

  He had never tasted anything like it. It melted and flowed down his throat, coating it with a sweet but bitter smoky, flavor. When he opened his eyes, Heather was gazing at him wide-eyed in anticipation.

  "Whit is it?" he asked as he stuck his finger into the moist, delicious mass. "It is the maist astonishin' thing I ever ate!"

  "Is it not wonderful?" she asked rapturously as she took it from him and bit a piece off. "It's chocolate cake."

  She offered it to him again and he took a mouthful, moaning with delight. They finished it quickly, then she licked the crumbs off his face while he laughed.

  "That's tickly," he complained.

  "And your face is scratchy," she pointed out, "which is just how I like it."

  "An' yer hair is loose," he said tenderly, "which is just how I like it. The chocolate is grand, but it disnae taste hauf as good as yer lips."

  He lifted her hair up, then let it flow through his fingers to settle on her shoulders again. He kissed her softly then they lay down on the mattress, nestling into each other’s arms. It was becoming very cold now but they could not light the fire for fear of discovery. The blankets were warm though, and the heat of their joined bodies cocooned them against the chill.

  "I never want to be anywhere else but here," she whispered.

  Bruce sighed. "I will hate lettin' ye go, lass," he said sadly, "but this is jist a daydream. It's no' real. Yer faither will find ye a respectable young Laird tae marry an' ye will have his bairns and forget me. An' that is how it should be."

  "Why?" she demanded angrily, "where is it written down that it has to be that way?"

  "It isnae," he answered, cupping his hands around her face, "but I hae naethin tae offer ye." He held out his hands, palm up. "I scrubbed them before I came oot but I cannae get a' the dirt oot. I cannae keep ye in the style ye're used tae, hen, an' dae ye think yer faither wid gie ye an allowance if ye merrit me? Onyway, who wid marry us?"

  Heather nodded slowly. "We'd have to elope, because I love you," she murmured, "and I know you will be angry with me for saying it, but I have to. Sometimes it's so hard being here like this with you when we have to stop at kissing. I dream about being married in secret and running away—silly dreams, but I'm a silly woman."

  "Naw ye're no'." He laughed softly. "I love you an' a', Heather. I didnae want it to be said between us because I thought that if we didnae say the word it wouldnae be real."

  "But it is, my love." She was smiling widely and there were tears in her eyes.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her all over her face and her throat, digging his hands into the silken mass of her hair. She was almost dizzy with desire but he kept his iron self-restraint as usual. When he gently pushed her away she felt like grabbing him back, but her muscles were no match for his.

  "Just imagine you were a Laird." She sighed. "You would live in Castle Ferguson and I could come and see you whenever I liked."

  He smiled at her. "I wouldnae want it, Heather," he brushed back a lock of her hair, "whit wid I dae wi' a' that?"

  "Marry me," she said quietly, "and have lots of little Bruces."

  Jessica decided to investigate the story for her own satisfaction, so she went to see Lily.

  "Miss Jessica!" Lily looked surprised to see her but welcomed her into her home. They sat down by the fire and Lily poured them both tea, which she had just made. "What can I do for ye?"

  "I am doing some writing about some of the local village characters," Jessica lied, "and I wanted to know about Bruce Ferguson. Alison told me he was a foundling."

  "Aye," Lily replied, her eyes faraway as she gazed into the past, "me an' Senga wis young then, and we didnae knaw a' that we knaw noo. The minister then was no Mr. McFarlane, but Mr. Beatty, an' his wife Sarah wis a lovely, lovely lassie. She found the wee yin an' she brought him doon here." She paused to drink her tea. "He wis cauld an' hungry, poor mite, but he had a good pair o' lungs on him!" She laughed softly, remembering. "Near bawled his heid aff! He wis only a few hours old, an' there wis naethin' tae tell us his name—if he had ane. Nora Ferguson had jist had her wee lassie but she came intae the world too soon an' wis stillborn. Nora wis greetin', but as soon as she looked at Bruce her face lit up. 'I want him' she said, jist like that, and we gave her the wee yin. She pit him tae the breast an' she has been his mither ever since. Nora couldnae carry any mair bairns so he is her pride an' joy."

  "Oh, that is such a wonderful, heart-warming story!" Jessica said rapturously. She had been scribbling furiously with a lead pencil in her little pad.

  "Who else wid ye like tae knaw aboot?" Lily asked.

  Jessica's heart sank as she realized that she now had to listen to an entire afternoon's worth of anecdotes about local worthies, and she berated herself inwardly. You only have yourself to blame, Jessica, she thought, sighing. It was a long afternoon, but to her surprise she enjoyed it. Maybe a book wasn't such a bad idea after all!

  24

  Prospective Suitors

  Katrine and Gordon McVey were at a loss. Their daughter had been causing Gordon so many sleepless nights that he was permanently tired and Katrine could do nothing to help. She thought back to her own wedding day when she and Gordon had been married in a lavish ceremony in one of the biggest Kirks in Aberdeen.

  Her parents had chosen her husband for her, and at first, she had not loved but admired him. However, she had grown to love him, because he was strong and steadfast yet gentle when he wanted to be. That was the kind of man she wanted for Heather, but Heather was too much like her father to be tamed. She needed to choose her own man.

  Regardless of this, Gordon had gone ahead and selected two 'suitable' candidates. Katrine had advised against any more arranged matches, arguing that it would be better to organize a few parties and social events and let Heather find someone she liked, but Gordon was adamant. Heather would marry and she would marry soon. He would see to it.

  One evening he and Katrine were sitting in their private parlor just before bedtime sipping chocolate and discussing the matter.

  "She is still young," Katrine said quietly.

  "No, she is not!" the Laird replied irritably, "she will be twenty in a few weeks and if we are not careful we will spend the whole year looking for a suitable young man. If we cannot find one in time she will be twenty-one and too old for any gentleman of quality to even consider her!"

  Katrine frowned. "Let me see, you are suggesting John Wallace, heir to the estate of Braewood, who is very rich and reasonably handsome, but very pompous," Katrine said. "Then there is Duncan McGuire, the very young Laird of Selsmire whose uncle is still managing his affairs because he has not grown up enough to do it himself. Heather will spend the entire time trying to deflate John Wallace's ego, or using poor young McGuire as a doormat!"

  "She will choose one of them," Gordon said grimly. He drained his chocolate drink and picked up the whiskey bottle.

  "Are you not drinking a bit too much of that?" Katrine asked worriedly.

  "I'll stop when that daughter of ours is safely mar
ried!" he growled, "and not a minute before!"

  "Just meet them!" Laird Gordon shouted, so loudly that the chandeliers in the dining room shook. He was burning with rage as he looked at his recalcitrant daughter down the polished mahogany dining-room table. "You will marry before midsummer if I have to drag you down the aisle myself!"

  Heather, equally angry, had to be physically restrained by James from running out and slamming the door behind her. "Then you will have to tie me up, Father!" she cried, "because I won't marry either of them! One is a windbag and the other a milksop!"

  "Just meet them, Dear," Katrine begged, "maybe they will not be as awful as you think. Please, for me." She covered Heather's hand with her own and looked into her eyes with a mute appeal. It was the right approach.

  Heather clasped her hands tightly in front of her and nodded slowly at her father. "I will meet one of them," she said, trying to be calm, "to please Mother. If I don't like him I will meet the other. If I hate them both you have a problem."

  She glared at her father and he glared back, then sighed and held his arms out so that he could embrace her. "You have taken ten years off my life, girl," he sighed.

  "I will meet the milksop first," she announced, "but now I am going for a ride. I need some fresh air."

  Heather rode down to the forge where Bruce was filing the hooves of a huge Clydesdale horse. The farmer who was holding him was a solid, red-faced, red-haired man who gave her a nervous glance as she and Tommy came near. Bruce looked up.

  "Milady," he said casually as he went on filing.

  Heather dismounted and went up to stroke the Clydesdale's nose. They were big, gentle horses, and she loved their size and their feathered feet. "He's a beauty," she said, kissing the big chestnut nose.

  "Aye and gentle as a lamb, milady," the farmer said proudly.

  Just then, Bruce finished his filing and gave the horse a pat on the nose.

  "Thank ye kindly, Bruce," the farmer said, dropping a few coins into Bruce's hand. He tipped his hat to Heather. "Good day, milady."

  Heather wished him farewell and turned to Bruce.

  "I take it ye dinnae need Tommy's hooves filin'?" Bruce said, his eyes twinkling. He bent down anyway, just in case anyone was looking.

  "No," she said heavily, "but I must get out of here, sweetheart. My father wants me to get married—to anyone at any price, it seems. He has two candidates he wants me to meet. I said I would do as he wished, but I know my father. He will want to do this as quickly as possible and I cannot face it."

  Bruce stood up, wiping his hands. "But we knew this wis gaunnae happen, pet." His face was anguished. "And noo we cannae stop it."

  "Yes, we can." Her eyes searched his face desperately. "If you want to."

  He shook his head, suddenly realizing what she meant. "Naw, Heather." He backed away, holding his hands up as if to keep her at bay. "We talked aboot this. We said we wid enjoy it as lang as it lasted, then stop. And that is whit we must dae."

  She put her hand over her eyes. "I can't," she whispered, "I'm sorry Bruce, but I love you too much to do that."

  Bruce crossed his arms over his chest to stop himself reaching out to touch her. "Maybe ye should meet them," he said at last. His heart was breaking. This was Heather, the woman he loved, the woman he would choose above any other to have his children and he was rejecting her. And for what? Because he had no material possessions or money. Life was just not fair. "Heather, ye knaw I wid give onythin' tae marry ye but I hae naethin' tae gie ye."

  "We have each other," she began, then held up a hand to silence his objection. "You have your trade and I can teach. I also have some savings which will last quite a while if we live modestly. We could make a passable living, and it will not do me any harm to make do with less. I have no hope at all that my father will welcome you into the family, but James will."

  Bruce stood with his gaze looking at the floor, frowning in concentration. "An' when ye get wi' child?" He asked at last, "dinnae say that we'll manage, Heather. We likely will, bit would a bairn want a good life or ane where she didnae knaw where the next meal is comin' fae?"

  "I told you, I have savings," she replied, "I get an allowance every month. I spend a little on dresses and looking after Tommy, but I secretly save the rest. I have a bank account, and my father has taken over the financing of the school."

  "How much dae ye have in savings?" he asked doubtfully.

  She told him, and his eyes widened.

  "But I widnae want to be a kept man," he said stubbornly.

  Heather could see that he was weakening. "You wouldn't be," she replied, "you could start another shop in Aberdeen or even Dundee. I could find a school to teach at, and I don't need a castle to live in."

  He was looking at her as if he wanted to wrap his arms around her and carry her off right there and then, but his iron will kept him in good stead. He nodded, his eyes looking straight into hers. "Then let us go, milady," he said huskily, "but I will forgive you if you change your mind."

  She smiled at him. "I will not," her voice was low and tender, "I love you too much."

  "I really, really want to kiss ye," he said sadly. He was standing six feet away from her and would not allow himself to move any closer.

  "Soon," she replied, smiling.

  25

  The Elopement

  The interview with the prospective husbands was a disaster and Heather had decided that she would not take either of them as a gift. The first, Laird Duncan McGuire of Braewood, whom Heather had called 'the milksop' was a very attractive young man, she thought. He was very tall, wiry rather than muscular, had brown hair and a pleasant, open face. However, he was only twenty years old, and this, added to the fact that he looked and acted like a fifteen-year-old, made marriage impossible to contemplate for Heather. When Duncan wanted to express an opinion, he looked at his Uncle Hamish for approval first. Heather decided that she wanted a real grown-up man, one who would protect her rather than the other way around.

  She disliked the second, John Wallace, heir apparent to the estate of Selsmire, on sight. He was a stocky man of medium height who was prematurely gray, but he had a pleasant manner at first. After a few moments, however, it became apparent that he had only one topic of conversation—himself.

  Heather was treated to the delights of his tales of how he had shot the biggest stag on the estate that no-one else could catch. She heard about how he had caught the biggest trout anyone had ever seen in Loch Selsmire. John Wallace was the best gambler ever born and had won a hundred pounds at cards the previous month.

  "Excuse me, sir," Heather interrupted frostily, "but do you not want to know anything about me?"

  John looked embarrassed and blushed furiously. "Forgive me, for my rudeness, milady." He bowed slightly. "Pray, tell me about yourself."

  "Well," she began, "I do not hunt stags, only rabbits. I have started a school in the village. I go to church every Sunday, I like horses and I love chocolate. I do not like people who boast about themselves. Goodbye, sir." She stood up and gave him a polite curtsey. "Close the door behind you, please."

  When Gordon McVey met an almost apoplectic Wallace striding down the corridor he felt, not anger, but resignation. Heather now had a reputation among the gentry for being headstrong. No man would come near her now—except one.

  Bruce was waiting for her impatiently in his cottage where they had stored all their supplies. She had pretended to go to see Mrs. McFarlane that evening and had taken with her some cakes, ostensibly to drink tea. They would be a pleasant surprise for Bruce.

  She had bought a new horse a few days before and told her mother and father it was a surprise for Jessica's birthday. She had told no-one of their plans, not even Jessica because she had reasoned that if Jessica knew nothing she could say nothing. She had written her father and mother a letter and placed it under her pillow where they would not find it till later in the morning when the beds were made.

  They had timed their journey for a moon
lit night, and though it was cloudy they could still see reasonably well. It was cold, even though it was only late autumn, but they were well wrapped in their cloaks. Aberdeen was twenty-five miles away and it was ten o'clock. All being well, they would get there at mid-morning.

  "I cannae believe I'm daein' this!" Bruce whispered loudly as he climbed onto his black mare, Rosie. Heather had bought the horse, especially for her black color because she was almost invisible in the dark.

  "Still time to turn back!" Heather taunted him mischievously. She could only see the gleam of his eyes as he looked at her. The rest of his face was lost in shadow.

  "Not a chance," he whispered, laughing softly. They had muffled the horses' hooves so that there was hardly any noise as they left the blacksmith's shop. The night was utterly still, without even the noise of a night bird, and as they walked the horses on their quietened feet they felt like the only creatures alive in the world. Despite his misgivings at first, Bruce was quietly ecstatic. Heather was going to be his, and his alone, at last.

  They made good time, urging the horses into a trot where there was a bit more light. By the time dawn came they had almost reached the outskirts of the city and Heather felt a shiver of trepidation as she imagined what was happening back at the castle.

  "I wonder if anyone's found that I've escaped yet," she said apprehensively.

  "Escaped?" Bruce frowned. "That's a funny word tae use, pet."

  Heather inhaled a deep breath of the numbingly cold air. "It's how I feel, my love," she answered, "I feel glad to be gone. Next time I go back I will be Mistress Ferguson, and there will be nothing anyone can do about it. You know, I once tried my first name against someone else's surname, but it didn't sound quite so nice."

  "Who?" Bruce asked curiously.

  "Laird Jamieson," she replied, laughing. "But I want to be Mistress Ferguson and if I can't be Mistress Ferguson I won't be Mistress anybody."