Heart Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

Broderick felt absolutely miserable. He had humiliated her and clearly, she held him responsible.

  Even if her uncle still agrees to the wedding, I have made certain that my bride hates me.

  Still wishing the hall’s floor would open and send him tumbling into the blackness underneath, Broderick walked across the rushes and took his place at the table. It was, unfortunately, just along from the high seat of Laird of Lochlann. He resisted the urge to glance at him, knowing that if he did, it would be a glare, and mumbled something to the servant who served venison stew. The man filled the trencher before Broderick, who felt his mouth water. He was hungry after a day of riding, but he could barely bring himself to eat now. His throat was stiff with sadness.

  Ye want her to like ye, do you not?

  He sighed. He was being a fool. A shameful fool. He was not here for love but for revenge. That was all that mattered. Aisling owned his heart. She always had done, and she had taken it with her into the ground. He could not love again. He would not. All he had was vengeance.

  But she did, in that glance, remind me of Aisling.

  He let the rage at Aisling's death slowly fill him. He heard a cough and looked up. His eyes met the eyes of the lady opposite him. He guessed she was Lady Amabel's sister. They looked alike enough, though there were subtle differences.

  “You're very... quiet, my lord.”

  The woman's damask-dark lips were compressed in a thin line. Her eyes challenged him, as if to say, “Have you no manners at all?” She looked deeply disapproving.

  Broderick flushed. He realized he had been sitting in utter silence, while all the hall talked.

  She only held his gaze a second before she turned away. She addressed the man on her left and seemed to decide to ignore Broderick entirely.

  Now I made her sister hate me, too. Can I no' do anything right? I will be lucky if Lady Amabel does not refuse my hand after all this.

  He decided to take Alina's hint and glanced about, looking for someone he could talk to but every guest near him was talking to someone else. He felt out-of-place in this company as it was, with his different speech and his rougher ways. He looked for someone who might not mind so much.

  There was no one else to talk to. Alina was talking to the man who sat beside her, and the earnestly-sweet young girl beside her was talking cheerfully with a thin-faced young man across the table. The seat beside Broderick was empty, and the lord on his right was relating some tale to a companion. No one seemed to be interested in him.

  I really am a complete fool.

  He glanced down the table. Lord Brien was looking at him. The older man had a strange expression on his face. Oddly enough, it was appraising, not belittling, which gave Broderick some hope. There was a smile lurking there, though why Broderick could not guess.

  If there is to be only one person at this table who does not despise me, I would no' have expected it would be him.

  As abruptly as he had looked at him, Lord Lochlann broke the connection, turning to talk to someone on his right.

  Broderick shook his head, feeling hope grow inside him for the first time that evening.

  One good thing about being ignored was that he was free to imagine Lady Amabel. He imagined her with her long, loose hair cascading freely about her shoulders, her pale skin exposed. He winced as his loins ached. He was shocked at himself, and flushed, embarrassed.

  You cannae think that way about her. She's a lady, wed for alliances. That was not all. You love Aisling. You will never love anyone again.

  Before he forcibly erased the topic from his thoughts, he remembered how Amabel's gray-blue eyes had softened in that moment in the doorway when he had bid her run.

  Perhaps she does no' really hate me after all?

  He hoped he would have the opportunity of finding out.

  “My lord?”

  Broderick jumped. The laird was staring at him.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “After the dinner, meet with me in the solar. I have something I wish to impart.”

  Broderick spent the rest of the dinner tense and edgy. He could not participate in the river fish, mutton, ham, a stew of wild mushrooms – endless courses that seemed to flow from the kitchens like an unstoppable tide. Everything sat like lead in his belly and he did not want to contemplate what would happen after. When he faced Lord Lochlann alone.

  He's probably going to send me packing like the shameful wee beggar he must think I am.

  By the time the dinner ended, Broderick still had no idea what Lord Lochlann planned.

  Heart thumping in his chest, he headed through the dark hallways, trying to guess where the solar might be. After asking directions from a household guard, he finally reached the place.

  It was dark. He slipped in through the door-arch, expecting that Lord Lochlann had not yet arrived.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes?” A harsh voice spoke from just behind his left shoulder

  He whipped round to find the old man in the dark on his left. The old man smiled.

  Broderick let his hand fall from his side, where he had reached on instinct for his sword. He was not wearing it, of course – they had disarmed at the feasting hall doorway for politeness.

  The laird laughed softly.

  “I called you here on business, MacConnaway.” He paused. “And I am surprised to see you jumpy. Am I so deeply a threat to you?”

  “No, my lord!”

  The old man smiled thinly. “Good. Because I do not ally myself with people who fear me.”

  Broderick blinked. “My lord?”

  He stared at Lord Lochlann. The old man grinned at him, a skull-like grin with his eyes that sparked warmly.

  “You needn't stare so. You are surprised? I do not know if that is good or bad. In any case, I do not rescind my first impressions. I decided to accept you as an ally. Welcome to my family.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SURPRISING NEWS

  SURPRISING NEWS

  Amabel lay face down on her bed, the cool linen covers creased under her. She was crying. Still dressed in her nightgown, hair loose about her shoulders, she had woken to the same horror she had felt the previous evening.

  It's really true. Not a bad dream. She lay where she was and wept. At that moment, she heard a knock at the door.

  “Amabel?”

  Amabel groaned: she did not want to see anyone. Chrissie, all innocence and playfulness, was absolutely the last person she felt like seeing. Her uncle had, hours ago, ago given her the most upsetting news she had received since being told Mother was dead.

  He wants me to marry that man.

  She sobbed. How could he ask her to do this? An uncouth oaf, someone who was barely cultured. Someone who humiliated her! How could he? She sobbed and bunched the cushion under her head, giving it a fierce thump. She wished it was Uncle Brien. It was the least of what she would like to do to him to make him feel the depths of her pain.

  “Amabel? Are you there?”

  She's not gone yet. She held her breath. Go away. Leave me alone.

  “Amabel?” Her cousin's voice rang out through the dusky silence. Amabel heard footsteps walk slowly down the flagstone hallway. She sighed and rolled over, looking at the ceiling.

  She thought she would never cry again, never speak. When her uncle had told her of his decision, after the dinner, she had not reacted at all. She had simply stared at him. Then bowed her head in assent.

  What else could I do?

  “You look miserable, lass,” her uncle had said, surprised.

  She had given a bitter laugh. Had her uncle expected her to be pleased about the match? She hated the idea.

  The man is little better than a peasant! She had wanted to scream. He had acted thoughtlessly. He had assumed some right to her, as if he owned her, and he had laid his hands on her. Her wrist still bore the marks of his fingers, his grip holding her tight. She looked at them now, a line of little bruises. He could barely talk and seemed out-of-place at even s
uch a basic gathering.

  That man, rash and rude, was to be her husband?

  She had found her voice, then, and turned to her uncle.

  “May I know the date of this ceremony? I find I need to make finishing touches to the gown and pack for the journey.”

  “That is difficult to determine, Lady Amabel,” he had said.

  “How so?”

  He had smiled then. “Because Lord Broderick has to prepare. To ready his troops and himself for a raid on the Bradleys.”

  What? Her great-uncle had sent him on a raid? Against their enemies? Already?

  She had not known what to say, so she had said nothing.

  Uncle Brien had chuckled. Taken her shock for concern, which was the last thing she had meant.

  “Dinnae worry yerself, lassie,” he had said condescendingly, “he'll come back whole and well.”

  She had never wanted to slap her uncle more than she had wanted to at that moment. Her hand clenched, and she walked out lest she do something she would live to regret.

  Her uncle's mocking chuckle had followed her.

  As soon as she was in the hallway out of sight, she had fled to her bedchamber.

  The anger had not died. All she could think about was how much she hated her uncle. And Broderick MacConnaway. Both of them.

  “My lady?”

  Amabel closed her eyes. Her maid, Blaine. Why would she disturb me now, without my calling for her? And why will no one leave me? Alina, at least, knew her well enough to give her peace.

  “Yes?” she sighed.

  The maid knocked again. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Amabel's voice was brittle. She turned to face the younger woman as she came hesitantly in through the door.

  “Begging yer pardon, milady. But yer uncle. He was wantin' yer presence below.”

  Amabel stared at her.

  “Whatever for?”

  The maid looked frightened. “I dinnae know, milady. I only know he said for ye to wear somethin' bonny. The green dress, I think?”

  Amabel closed her eyes. She wanted to control her anger but she was not sure if she could. She struggled for calm. It was not the maidservant's fault. She would not unleash her anger on her.

  “He said I should go to the hall?”

  “No, milady. The solar. I dinnae ken why, as I say. Only that he said to be there by nine of the clock. And now it be half an hour to nine.”

  Amabel bit her lip.

  “Well, you have half an hour to make me look bonny, as you say.” She forced herself to sound light and indifferent but, from the look on the maid's face, she succeeded only in sounding frighteningly brittle.

  “As you say, milady,” the smaller woman replied. She retrieved the dress and a matching kirtle and ribands from the cupboard.

  Amabel stood and let her dress her.

  She felt empty. I no longer care what happens. Let my uncle do his worst. He cannot reach me behind this ice.

  She glanced in the mirror when Blaine finished. A slender, graceful face stared back at her, high cheekbones carved into the pale face, mouth set hard. A face that looked almost exactly like her mother’s.

  Amabel's memory of her mother was hazy: gray eyes, long, solemn face. Her freshest memories were all from a painting in a locket her father wore beneath his tunic, painted with precious colors from Italy. He had showed it to her one night on one of his rare visits, when she was too scared to sleep. The face that looked back at her from the mirror's silvery surface now was identical to that in the locket. But for the fact, where her mother's eyes were soft and tender, hers were chips of ice.

  I cannot blame myself for that, she thought bitterly. Blame my great-uncle.

  She wore her long green velvet dress, bound at her slender waist with a kirtle of cloth-of-silver. She looked cool, distant and regal.

  Not too bad, she thought appraisingly. A fitting bride for the altar of uncle's arrogance.

  He could make her marry, could humiliate her. But he could not command her to love this man.

  Only she could do that.

  And her heart was set against it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MEETING IN THE SOLAR

  MEETING IN THE SOLAR

  Amabel walked lightly up the stairs to the solar. She could feel the cool of the castle steps under her slipper-clad feet. She ignored it. She was floating in a world of her own, beyond sensation or pain. At the door to the solar, she paused. She could hear voices. One was her great-uncle's.

  “...and you will be facing the Bradley sentry-fort with twenty of my house-guard.”

  “As ye say, my lord.”

  She recognized the other voice. Him. Broderick MacConnaway. She tensed.

  Even at this distance, the voice stroked over her skin like fire. She considered leaving. How could her uncle summon her here, now, to talk to the man! She did not think she could face him after the dinner. She felt so ashamed. She was turning to quietly walk away when some instinct made her stay. Curiosity, probably.

  She lingered in the hallway outside the solar, listening to the conversation behind the half-closed door.

  “Good,” Her uncle was saying. “Now. I have chosen to place them under my own chief of the guard. I am certain you will respect his superior knowledge of our terrain.”

  “Of course.”

  Amabel heard the stiffness of the reply and felt a savage delight blossom. It was no bad thing to hear the man forced to humble himself a little.

  “Now, as to the matter of the marriage. That will occur as soon as you return. I expect you want to get it done as quickly as possible.”

  “No, my lord,” the voice was defiant.

  No? Amabel blinked. Why would he say that? Was he as reluctant as she herself? She tensed, waiting to hear what he would say.

  “Why? Is my niece so repugnant to you?”

  Amabel felt her cheeks flame. Was there no end to her uncle's cruelty?

  “Not at all. I would not wish to rush the lady. The wedding must happen as and when she wishes it. No sooner.”

  Amabel was amazed. He really cares? He wants me to choose when the wedding happens? Why? She felt a tap on her arm.

  “My lady?”

  Amabel whipped round and almost knocked the tray from the hand of a maidservant standing next to her shoulder.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “Sorry, Hannah!”

  The maid looked as startled as she was.

  “The laird sent for tarts and ale,” she explained breathlessly. She tried to balance the silver tray on which a pewter pitcher and a plate of confectionary stood.

  “Please enter,” Amabel invited as she stood aside for her.

  She waited until the maid had laid the tray aside, listening to her uncle's response.

  “...and I wouldn't worry meself on Lady Amabel's account...” her uncle was saying.

  Amabel entered.

  The instant she appeared, her uncle stopped whatever he had been saying. Both men stared at her, frozen to the spot.

  Amabel raised her brow at her uncle. His mouth was open and he closed it again.

  “Quite...” Amabel said briefly. “I can worry on my own account. Thank you, Uncle, for pointing out this important fact.”

  She turned from him before he could answer and met Broderick MacConnaway’s eyes.

  He smiled. His brown eyes twinkled, and she could see he bit his cheeks, fighting a grin.

  “Lady Amabel.” He bowed to her.

  “Good afternoon.” She made her voice detached, though the smile touched her in a way to make her heart thud in her chest. She faced her uncle.

  “You wished to see me, Uncle?” she said levelly.

  “Yes.” He recovered remarkably quickly and now faced her with his usual bland smile. “I had thought you might wish to say goodbye to the young MacConnaway before he rides into peril.” He put his head on one side. “What say you to that?”

  Amabel did not know what to say. Feeling unaccountably emboldened, she sa
id what had occurred to her straight away.

  “I say I am surprised. Not so much at his speedy departure, though that is odd, but at your insistence I say my farewell. You seem to be disinclined to worry on my account in anything else.”

  She heard a sound from the corner of the room. In another setting, she might have interpreted the strange huff as being laughter. But she dismissed the thought instantly. She was sure she had only imagined Broderick's joy in her defiance.

  She risked a covert glance in his direction.

  He looked at her with a neutral expression. His eyes, however, were smiling. They glowed with a mix of admiration and warmth. Amabel blinked. This was the man who had humiliated her, who had treated her like property! And yet he had spoken out for her.

  She sighed. She should say her farewells.

  “My lord,” she ventured shyly. She walked across the room, velvet skirts whispering. She faced him. Her voice was tight, and she cleared her throat. “My lord. I suppose we should say our farewell now.”

  He raised a brow. “As ye wish, my lady.”

  He stepped forward and held out his hands to her. She hesitated. She was not sure she wanted to offer him her hand. Not only because she was not sure if she was ready, yet, to forgive. She also did not trust herself to keep calm if he laid a hand on her. Not with the way her heart was racing.

  What is wrong with me? She shook her head. Something in his gaze had touched her.

  She looked up at Broderick. His look of disarming innocence made her heart soften. At that moment, just as she was about to reply, someone shouted behind them.

  “My lord?”

  They all turned around.

  Amabel's uncle went immediately to the man-at-arms in the doorway.

  “Yes, Donald?”

  “My lord! The watch on the western wall. They crave your presence. Something untoward out there, sir. Didnae want to venture any guess 'til you'd seen it for yerself. Not like Bryce did yesterday...” He trailed off.

  “Quite,” her uncle said smoothly. He followed the man out of the door, casting a glance at MacConnaway and Amabel as he did so, then shrugging. He seemed to come to a decision that it was safe to leave them alone together. Then he left.