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

by Emilia Ferguson

  Blaine laughed. “I could hope, lord.”

  Broderick nodded. “You could indeed.”

  As could we all, Broderick thought archly. The more closely they approached the fortress, the more nervous he became.

  The night was settling now, and the fitful rain of earlier was filling with a steady, dripping rain shower. It clanged on helmets and soaked chain-mail and made the men swear and curse as they rode. Wet chain-mail was horribly uncomfortable – heavy and chafing. Broderick, who wore only a short mail jerkin over a tunic, felt pity for the men who rode beside him.

  They're along for this raid because of me. They risk their lives, but at the end, I'm the one who marries Amabel.

  The thought made him smile. He would marry the beautiful lady, wed her. Bed her. At the thought of his wedding night, his mind drifted. He imagined slowly peeling the velvet gown from her shoulders, exposing the flesh beneath. Her breasts would fill his clutching hands and her nipples, which he imagined pointed and pale pink, would fill his eager lips.

  He shook himself sharply. Stop it, Broderick! You need to concentrate.

  He blinked. Up ahead, rising through the mist, was a stone wall. They were at the border and he had just stumbled on the post.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SISTERLY LOVE

  SISTERLY LOVE

  “...and so, I told him, no. Not until I am sixteen at least!”

  Amabel laughed and Chrissie giggled. Alina's shoulders shook in silent mirth.

  “Oh, Chrissie. What would we do without you?”

  Amabel patted their young cousin affectionately on the hand and Chrissie dimpled.

  The three – Alina, Amabel and Chrissie – had met in her bedchamber. The fire was burning in the grate, shining coolly off the gray flagstone floor. It lit the scene despite the darkness of the gathering storm without.

  They each sat on a carved chair by the fire. The floor between them was spread with fine linen, so soft it could have been silk. They were finishing her wedding trousseau. Alina had her head down, concentrating on making delicate stitches for a hem. Chrissie was fighting with a snarl-up of thread and Amabel was threading her needle carefully.

  “...and so, when you wed, you'll move far away?” Chrissie asked. Her small, heart-shaped face was bereft.

  Amabel smiled. “Not far away, dear. Dunkeld is not too far.” She swallowed and wished she did not have to think about it.

  “It is only a day's hard ride away,” Alina countered. “And I think that is easy for a Lochlann lady.”

  Amabel smiled. “Thank you for reminding me, sister. It is not far.”

  “Quite so.” Alina smoothed her hands down her blue velvet dress and looked up from her work. “And I am sure you know the stories of our mother's exploits at riding?”

  She said this looking at Chrissie, who, as the youngest family member, was the only one who may not have heard the stories.

  “No?” Chrissie asked expectantly.

  “Well,” Alina began, clearing her throat, “Lady Joanna was a keen rider, so they say. She raced our father once. He was used to hunting in the forest in France, you see.”

  Amabel smiled. It was one of her favorite stories.

  “And what happened?” Chrissie asked, eyes round with interest.

  “Well,” Alina continued, reaching for more thread for her hem, “Joanna was accustomed to our woodlands. And they rode on the moor, heading for the forest where the boars go in winter. They were pounding across the fields, their horses throwing up clods of turf as they went. And Mother rode into the forest…”

  “...and Father rode into a tree branch!” Alina and Amabel finished the story together.

  Chrissie seemed not to believe them, for her mouth was hanging in an unladylike manner. They both laughed. Amabel felt her shoulders shake as she chuckled.

  “What happened?”

  “Well,” Alina sobered, though she still giggled slightly, “it was quite serious actually. He was thrown backward – luckily, he was a good-enough horseman to have his heels down, so his boots slid out of the stirrups and he fell out. He was struck in the face with the branch – just a stick, really – and he still has the scar to this day.”

  “Yes, he did.” Amabel nodded. She recalled it. A handsome man with the same dark hair as Alina and the same wide, heavy-lidded eyes, he’d had a sickle-shaped scar on his cheek, signature of that day. It must have served to remind him of the danger of challenging a woman. Especially any of Lochlann birth.

  “He stayed in Paris?”

  “He stayed in court.” Amabel grimaced. As ambassador of the king, their father was almost constantly at court, keeping relations positive between France and Scotland. The girls themselves hardly ever saw him.

  “So, he won't be here, then?”

  “No,” Amabel said. She was surprised that she did not feel hurt by that. Her father was days of travel away, but it was his daughter's wedding. Perhaps some daughters would have expected him to come, but she had not seen him since she was four, since their mother passed away. She was resigned to his absence.

  “Perhaps if the king dies, we'll see him!” Alina said dryly.

  Amabel tried not to laugh, for one should not laugh about death, but she couldn't help it. It was funny that the only reason their father would leave court was if court were to leave him.

  “Well, Uncle Brien will be there,” Chrissie chattered. “And Aunt Aili?”

  Amabel looked up. “Probably not.”

  Aili was the middle sister of the three daughters of Fergal, the last earl. Aunt Aili lived in the castle. She had retired to the east wing shortly after Frances died, and most thought her touched in the wits. The only person who saw her was Alina, with whom she had a special bond.

  “Aili is in retirement,” Alina said gravely. “I think she has taken a vow.”

  “She's a nun?”

  Amabel laughed. Most people believed Aili was in league with another power entirely – the denizens of hell, not heaven. “Not quite.”

  Alina threaded her needle calmly. “I think she is in retreat from the world,” she explained to Chrissie. “She'll come out when she wishes. Not any sooner.”

  “No,” Amabel agreed.

  They sewed in silence for a while. Amabel looked at their work, still not quite believing that they were making her trousseau. The wedding – though she had expected it for most of her life – was rather sudden.

  “And you're to be married tomorrow?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Amabel said matter-of-factly. “When Broderick returns.”

  “And I'm wearing my new pink dress! And I'll have flowers in my hair,” Chrissie enthused. “Even Heath said I'll be bonny.”

  Amabel smiled. “I'm sure he did.”

  “Really?” Chrissie giggled.

  “I'm sure he was not the only one,” Alina said. “And won't be the last.”

  Chrissie dimpled, then scowled. “Well, Blaine might be there, too.”

  Amabel looked down at her work to stifle a grin. Blaine, the young leader of the guard, had taken to Chrissie in a way that amused them all except Chrissie. Uncouth, loutish and cheeky, Blaine was clearly not appropriate. But Amabel had to admit it was a pity: the boy was besotted. Anyone could see it.

  “Everyone from Dunkeld will be coming, too,” Amabel said, altering the course of the conversation.

  “And so, we'll meet all sorts of new people!” Chrissie said cheerfully.

  “Quite.” New people were rare in Lochlann. Delegates from noble houses visited Brien but actual gatherings happened extremely rarely. It was not fair on the young people. Amabel grinned at herself. Just yesterday, she would have thought of herself as a “young person.” How strange!

  I am getting married tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever Broderick arrives. The thought was incredible. In one day, her life would change. She would be a married woman, in charge of her own household. With a husband to care for and the chance of children. And all that comes in between. Amabe
l felt herself blush. She knew nothing of bedding.

  She had asked the servants about it, but most of them had blushed and giggled and looked away. She had resorted to consulting the midwife, whose account had seemed so fanciful as to be incorrect. She could not imagine men and women did such things.

  She could not, especially, imagine doing those things with a man. With Broderick. Imagining his body near hers made her own heart thump. His strong hands on her skin, his muscled chest against her, those strong legs close to her own. She could not imagine herself disrobed in front of him. The thought made her flush.

  “...and so, I'll call to the kitchens for orange water.”

  Alina was finishing a sentence and Amabel had to stare at her to hear her. She had missed almost all of what was being said.

  “You mean for the cake?”

  Alina grinned. “I was thinking about the orange blossom, for your hair,” she said, smiling. “Something tells me you were distracted.”

  Amabel bit her cheeks to hide her grin. She slit her eyes at Alina, then the grin burst forth. She chuckled. They clearly knew what each other were thinking. Chrissie, however, was lost, and stared from one to the other as her older cousins threw a thimble at each other and collapsed in giggles.

  She must think adults are very odd indeed, Amabel thought. In that moment, she was so very glad to have her family around her. She would miss these two so much when she was gone.

  Only later, when they set aside their sewing, did she stop to wonder how Broderick fared.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BATTLEFIELD

  BATTLEFIELD

  “Go, go! ‘Round the front. Ride!”

  Broderick whispered it urgently, wishing he could shout to Blaine to instill him with some sense of urgency. He waved a kerchief – a makeshift signal banner – to Blaine instead, who saw it and whistled back in acknowledgment.

  They had split the force in two. The rain had stopped, fortunately, and the night was cool and quiet. Even so, they could not risk any signals besides the fluttering banner. They had to be silent.

  Suddenly, the night erupted into noise. The first force of eight men began an assault on the rear of the post, throwing themselves at the wall and the smaller gate, all battle-cries and wildness. Broderick rode to the front, whooping and yelling like a demon, making as much noise as three men.

  The concerns about the raid, and the motive for making him do it, dissolved as he swung his sword, grinning fiercely into the dark. He was striking his first blow at those who killed Aisling. He had known it would feel good but had not expected the wild savage delight he took in riding to their fortress with deadly intent.

  “Hold back, lads!” he shouted to the men as he saw three run at the gates, a long branch in hand to serve as a ram. “We need to keep them busy.”

  That was because this was not the assault.

  Blaine led twelve men – their main assault force – ‘round the front. While Broderick and his men formed a distraction, hammering at the rear, he and his troops would capture the main entrance.

  Ride fast, lads. And silent. Broderick willed the larger force, and then turned back to the wall. One of the men was howling as he tried to climb the stone wall before them.

  “Back, for heaven's sake!” Broderick bellowed. The men on the wall had arrows and were firing down with them. He did not actually want his men slaughtered. They were a distraction, not an assault, and there was no point in needless death. The man blinked but fell back.

  “Fire, my lord!” another called. He was waving a pitch torch he had somehow contrived, its thick, ink-dark smoke smudging the air. .

  “Yes!” Broderick shouted. “Bring more!”

  If the defenders thought they were setting fire to the rear gate, they would redouble their efforts. The man nodded, and soon three other makeshift torches were lit, spilling smoke into the air.

  “Wave them!” Broderick commanded. “Let them smell smoke.”

  The plan worked.

  The instant the defenders saw them, they howled in rage. Arrows slammed down, and Broderick shouted for the torch-bearers to stay out of range. Stooping to scoop up a rock to throw, he surveyed the wall and counted ten men.

  That must be the whole force. At least, I hope so.

  He threw his stone and saw it connect one of the defenders on the arm. Good. He bent down to grasp another and ran forward into the range of the arrows to cast it. He whooped, blood singing in his veins as his anger was finally unleashed on his foes.

  This time, he hit a man in the neck and saw him fall backward sharply, clutching his throat.

  Not bad. He remembered how his brother, Duncan, had the best aim. He and the younger man had spent hours as boys aiming at targets with their slings. His brother had always been the one to hit ten targets out of ten. Broderick himself was usually almost as good.

  I wish Duncan was here. Duncan was always the more sensible of the pair, or so he told himself. I wish he was in line to be laird, not me.

  He stepped up to the wall and felt a sudden sting. He looked down, surprised, and saw an arrow in his arm.

  “Bloody thing!”

  He swore and ducked into the shelter of the door to inspect the wound. Barbed and wicked, the only way to remove such an arrow, if it had gone in all the way, was to push it through. A closer inspection showed him that half the metal head was still free.

  Broderick roared as he pulled it out, shocked by the sudden pain that flowed up his arm. One of the men pushed him out of the way, none too gently, and Broderick was about to shout at him when he realized why.

  The defenders had gone.

  Blaine had broken through the gate.

  He heard howls of triumph coming from inside the fortress, mixed with the clash of steel on shields, the rush and clatter of battle on a stone-flagged floor.

  “Come on!”

  He drew his sword, a great two-handed one, and ran toward the front gates. Now that the twelve men were inside, they had to support them.

  Howling his own wordless battle-cry, Broderick ran through the gates.

  The fight was short and at the end, he and seventeen men stood in the fort, exhausted and swaying.

  Of their force, only three were wounded. He glanced to where they sat, propped up against the wall, panting and pale-faced. He could see one at least who would need the attention of a surgeon, and soon. The other two were mainly surface wounds. He turned to Blaine, who was doubled over, panting heavily, his stout wooden shield dropped by his feet.

  “Well done, Blaine. Thank you.”

  Blaine blinked, eyes shining. “'Twas nothing, milord. Your idea.”

  Broderick smiled. “You did it.”

  “We did it together, sir. We make a good team.”

  Broderick blinked. He suddenly understood, or thought he did, why Lord Lochlann had sent him on this mission. Not as an exercise, or proof, but as a means to introduce him to the guard.

  Brien wants me to fight his battles and therefore, he wants to establish me in his troops.

  He shook his head. What a conniving old fox.

  As it happened, the wily old man was helping him, too. The assistance and backing of the powerful Lochlann clan had been exactly what he had wanted.

  That would help his vengeance. And he had already started taking it.

  Looking around the stone courtyard of the fortress, strewn with bodies and blood, the smoke smudging inky dark across the scene, he realized this was the first step of his quest to send the Bradley family howling to their deaths.

  And I was thinking of Lady Amabel.

  The thought filled him with a mix of awe and shame. Awe, that his depth of feeling and desire was so great after a single visit. Shame, that he had not thought of Aisling. The vengeance is for her. It was only because of the vengeance that he was here, now, wooing Amabel.

  But it had been days since he had thought about that part of the story. He’d thought only of Amabel.

  “My lord?”

&n
bsp; “Yes?” Broderick asked tiredly.

  “What do we do now?”

  He blinked. “Go back.”

  The faster they returned, the faster they could get succor for the wounded. And, he thought with a self-deprecating frown, the faster he could set the plan in motion. To marry Amabel.

  He had struck his first blow at his enemy. And the day following tomorrow, he would wed. Aching, tired, reeking of smoke, his arm throbbing painfully, he was still not sure if he could remember such happiness since Aisling had died. He grinned at Blaine, and the young man smiled wearily back. Together they began the slow, exhausted march to set up camp.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A WEDDING AT CASTLE LOCHLANN

  A WEDDING AT CASTLE LOCHLANN

  “Must I go through with it?”

  Amabel sighed wistfully. She was sitting in her bedchamber while Alina wove flowers into her hair.

  This was her wedding day. Broderick had returned from the raid, exhausted but elated, just yesterday afternoon. She had barely had a chance to talk with him, spending most of the day as he did closeted with her uncle, talking about their military campaigns.

  She sighed again. “I suppose there is no last-moment remedy?”

  Alina paused in her brushing. Amabel glanced at her reflection, wondering what she was thinking. Their two faces were side-by-side in the silvered mirror, long ovals with pale skin and red lips. Her sister was smiling.

  “What?” she asked crossly.

  “Nothing.”

  They both giggled.

  Amabel sucked in a breath, letting her giggle gradually fade. There was no good in hiding things from Alina. Alina always guessed. Her sister knew her feelings for Broderick were... not as damning as they had been.

  If I am honest, I am... not unexcited.

  Amabel had felt her feelings change following their meeting upstairs before his campaigning. She did not hate Broderick anymore. In fact, if she were honest about it, she felt something she had never felt for anyone before. Alina, observant and sympathetic, had noticed her changed attitude. She knew her sister actually liked him. Knew, probably, that she lay in bed thinking of him, that her heart thumped whenever she remembered his smile, his face, his words.