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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “...and then we'll go far away. And we'll live in a castle, so we will. And you will sleep in a fine bed, with lots of hay and run every morning with the others.”

  He frowned. The person was talking to their horse?

  “Yes, you will. And I will live upstairs. And I'll come and see you every afternoon. And we'll ride every week, so we will. I promise.”

  He watched the forest where the voice echoed. It was a light voice, more like a young person. Or a woman.

  He was staring, his mind only half catching up, when she rode into the clearing. Amabel.

  She was wearing a long green velvet cape, the hood falling so that her red hair glinted in the light. All he could see from here was the tip of her pointed nose and the glisten of her teeth. As he waited in shadow, she turned. She stared at him.

  Her blue eyes widened, in shock, perhaps. Her moist, pink lips parted. She gasped. Then she recognized him.

  “Oh,” she said, sitting back upright and smoothing her hand down her dress. She rode side-saddle, her saddle one of the latest design, French, if he were to guess, the saddle-horn high so it could be held while she rode, though he noticed that she barely touched it, having excellent balance.

  “Lady Amabel.” He inclined his head deeply, throwing back his own hood.

  “Husband.”

  The two of them stared at each other. He could feel raw longing in his body, eating at him. He wanted to dismount and run to her, to grab her and pull her off the saddle and hold her tightly.

  “You are out late,” she commented. “I thought they went for a shorter ride.”

  “My brother and his party left before I met you in the garden,” he explained.

  “Oh.”

  Say something, he begged. He was not sure of whom he wished it.

  “You are enjoying your ride, Amabel?”

  “Yes,” she said. She swallowed, uncomfortably. “I ride often. Once a week. It calms me.”

  “You talk to your horse,” he said, remembering.

  “Yes.” She blushed and looked down. “If it upsets you, I will desist. It is a silly habit, isn't it?”

  She sounded bitter, as if she expected his criticism. He frowned. “No, my lady, I do not find it thus. Many soldiers, many knights, speak to their horses. I believe they understand. The sense if not the words. A bond between a horse and a man is important. It can save your life, to know and trust your horse. I do not laugh.”

  She smiled, then. He felt his breath catch in his throat. He had ridden alongside her, almost without realizing it. He was so close his knee brushed hers. He heard a gasp.

  “Apologies, my lady.” His voice was raw. He swallowed hard, hating himself for it. “I was... distracted.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small, tight voice.

  “Thank you for your... advice,” he added gravely. He did not want to offend her. He was on dangerously thin ice. He could not make a miscalculation.

  “Advice?” She was looking up at him with blue-gray eyes and they were wet. She was crying. He almost groaned as he saw her lower lip tremble. Those pouted pink lips ached for kissing. Even though the situation was grave, he was aroused nonetheless.

  “About the man-at-arms. Armorer,” he corrected quickly. He did not want her to think him stupid!

  “Oh,” she replied. Again, that tight little voice. What had he done now?

  “He was busy,” he explained. “But I will go back tomorrow. He is just the person I need.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well. I hope he will be adequate assistance.”

  “I am sure he will.”

  They rode on in silence. As they did, he fought to control his urge.

  “You will leave soon?” she asked carefully.

  He blinked. He tore his mind away from thoughts of holding her, crushing her to him, taking that sweet body slowly, gently, with every care. “Yes.” His voice was harsh, and he cleared his throat hastily. “Within the week.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You look forward to it?”

  “I look forward to vengeance, my lady.” He had not meant himself to sound so intense, but the words ground out with peculiar satisfaction. “I have hungered for years for this. For revenge.”

  “And my great-uncle lends you arms,” she said.

  “Yes,” Broderick agreed. “He is a great help to me.”

  “You must be glad, then,” she said, and when she looked up, her eyes were flaming, tears running, “to have married so advantageously.”

  He realized then, what he had said. Realized that he had just dug himself into the worst position.

  “Yes,” he said quickly. “It is kind of your uncle to have helped me. But...” he paused. “But that is not the only reason I am glad.”

  “I am sure,” she said icily. Before he knew what to say, she had trotted ahead.

  “I seek vengeance, my lady!” he called after her. “I have lived for it for many years. You must understand.”

  She said nothing. Left in the forest behind her retreating back, Broderick could only wait and wish he did not feel so much, and hope that anyone who rode past would not notice his own tears.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MAKING PREPARATION

  MAKING PREPARATION

  Broderick and Blaine met frequently over the next few days. And, true to Amabel's advice, Fergall proved an invaluable member to their small team.

  Sitting at the workbench in the vast armory, the three of them discussed their plans for the campaign. Lord Lochlann had left them with very little time to prepare, but the three men were confident that they could build a siege engine within the week they were granted.

  Two days after his discussion with Blaine in the garden, Broderick and Blaine had decided on the final design. Fergall ran his eye over the plans, sketched out neatly on a piece of parchment.

  “That's a fine hand ye have there, Master Blaine,” Fergall said to Blaine, who looked shy.

  “Lady Chrissie helped me with it,” he said quietly.

  Broderick grinned. He was pleased the boy had plucked up courage to talk to the beautiful young lady of his aspirations. And with any luck, the siege-engine would work well enough to make Lord Lochlann notice the boy. If he offered his patronage to help him become a knight, who knew? He could well reach the status where he could one day claim the lady's hand.

  “It is a fine work,” he seconded, making the boy grin.

  Blain’s eyes shone. “Thank ye, milord.”

  Broderick grinned. “I'm not thane yet, Blaine. Give me a few years.”

  “We none of us are growin' young.” Blaine grinned insolently.

  Broderick gave him a playful shove.

  “We still have nae raced,” he reminded him. His own arm was healing well, and he trusted that the wound would have entirely closed by the time that the campaign was waged. He felt almost ready to take on the upstart youth, if only in the hopes of teaching him manners.

  “Nae, we have not.”

  Fergall looked from one to the other with bemused eyes. Then he shrugged.

  “I think we can get a thing like this built in the week, my lord.” He ran his tongue over his front teeth. “I'll see if I can make a little one this afternoon. If ye'd like to come and see it afore dinner tonight?”

  Broderick inclined his head. “Thank ye, Fergall. That would be a help.”

  “Not at all, my lord.”

  Broderick left the heat of the armory shortly after, heading for the cool of the castle. He waved to the men-at-arms who were already practicing their fighting in the courtyard and paused to shout encouragement for those whose names he knew.

  I feel as if I am settling in now. The thought was pleasing. Already, within two weeks of his arrival, he had fought one campaign against his rivals, taking a border-fort. That was a savage pleasure in itself. If he could manage to achieve a raid like that against Loch Craigh, their town, he would be very pleased. It would be vengeance for the raid on Dunkeld all those years ago. It would not come close to equ
al payment for what they’d done to him and his family, but it would be close enough, a foretaste of the hell to which he was sure they were heading.

  I will be glad to ensure they reach there.

  “Oh! My lord!”

  Broderick looked down, startled. He had been so lost in thought, he had not been aware there was someone in the corridor ahead of him. He looked down to see Amabel's maid. He racked his brains for her name but could not remember.

  “I did not mean to startle you,” he said, contrite. The woman was carrying a basket under one arm, a tray of some oatcakes and a pitcher in the other hand. He guessed they might be for Amabel – she had not attended luncheon, claiming she was ill. An idea formed in his thoughts.

  “Those look awkward,” he said kindly. “Can I not take that tray up to my wife?”

  The maid looked up at him as if he had just walked through the wall. “My lord?”

  Broderick sighed. He knew how unconventional it was for a lord to offer to help with some menial task. “I was heading to the bedchamber anyway,” he said to explain. “And you look as if you're heading to the laundry?”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Oh, aye, milord. I was. And it'd be a grand help tae me if I didnae have to go all the way upstairs and down again wi' such a heavy bag...” She indicated the bag of washing she carried.

  Broderick nodded.

  “There we are, then.” He took the tray and went upstairs.

  At the door of the bedchamber, he knocked.

  “Blaire? Is that you?”

  Broderick said nothing. He turned the handle and found the door unlocked, so he walked in.

  “Blaire? Oh!” His wife stood up quickly.

  She was dressed in a loose shift of white linen, her long red hair hanging to her waist, and she was brushing it with a silvered comb. Her work-basket was at her feet, filled with bright skeins of silk. Her eyes were wide and she looked startled, lips parted in a way that made Broderick's blood pulse wildly through him.

  “I thought I'd serve you myself,” Broderick said, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Oh,” his wife said with a small voice. “I do not wish to keep you. It was... kind of you to relieve my maid. If you could put the tray down there? Thank you very much,” she said, showing him a small oaken table in the corner by the fire.

  Broderick nodded. He had not seen his wife so icy before. Her coldness to him fought with the rising warmth in his body as he looked at her, clad only in her nightshift, hair long and loose about her figure. He bit his lip, trying not to drink in the sight of her, all tall and willowy. He felt almost guilty about his desire, when she was so cold and seemingly angry with him.

  “You have been talking to Fergall, planning the campaign?” She had stepped behind a screen and seemed to be putting on her dress.

  “I have,” Broderick called to her. He placed the tray where she had indicated, then came to stand outside the screen. “He has been most helpful. He and Blaine have constructed something we believe will help in the campaign. You did well by recommending him to me.”

  She stepped out from behind the screen. She was wearing a becoming green dress, a pale emerald color, of a sheened velvet. He felt his mouth dry up with longing. He cleared his throat.

  She blinked at him. She was standing an arm's length away – so close he could see the gray rings around the blue of her irises, but they were still separated by her stiff politeness.

  “I am glad he is useful, my lord,” she said carefully. She cast her eyes down, hands gripping each other in front of her. It was a demure posture, and one which set his heart racing despite all its innocence.

  “He is. With his help, we may crush the Bradleys, finally,” he said. He bit his lip as he saw her eyes suddenly hooded.

  “A fine goal,” she said in a small voice. “May I ask why you are so set on helping my uncle fight his enemies?”

  Broderick stared at her. “Your uncle's enemies? I fight my own! I am no hound on your uncle's leash, to fight at his bidding,” he said hotly, feeling offense.

  Amabel blinked at him. “These enemies are very important to you, I think.”

  “Of course, they are!” he said loudly. He winced when her face fell into careful neutrality. “I am sorry, Lady Amabel. I did not mean to raise my voice.”

  “I take no offense,” she said, turning away. He shook his head at himself. He had upset her even more, driven her even further away.

  “If you find your enemies so important, it is no concern for me, I am sure.”

  Broderick sighed. “I did not mean that. It's just that... this fight is my life.”

  Lady Amabel made a strangled sound in her throat. It could have been a laugh. “I see,” she said quietly. Her voice was raw. When she turned to face him, her eyes were pools of sorrow. “And so, it must also become my life?”

  That confused him. “In what sense, my lady? I have made no demand on you. I seek only to avenge Aisling.”

  She bit her lip. “I know,” she said in a small voice. “I know.”

  She turned away from him then. She walked to the screen in the corner. When she was behind it, he heard a sob.

  He hated himself in that moment. “Amabel?”

  She said nothing. Her tears were falling faster now – he could hear her gasp as the crying became more intense.

  He sighed. What could he do? He had no idea what he had done in the first place. No idea of how to make it right. All he could do was wait. Hope that she would come to understand what drove him.

  Wordlessly, he tiptoed to the door. Pulled it shut silently. Walked away as quietly as he could. He headed down the stairs and to the courtyard. Perhaps a ride would clear his head. Perhaps a bout in the yard with the men. Maybe a good fight. I don't know what I've done. All I did was tell the truth.

  The revenge on the Bradleys was everything to him. All that mattered. It had to be. To turn his back on it was to turn his back on Aisling. And that would be the most wretched thing he could do.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A DINNER AT CASTLE LOCHLANN

  A DINNER AT CASTLE LOCHLANN

  “Could you pass me the gravy, my lord?”

  Broderick blinked. That sentence was the second one Amabel had said to him all evening.

  “Of course.”

  It was the night before he was to leave on campaign. He was sitting in the solar having dinner with the family. Amabel had been avoiding him ever since the day he told her of his vengeance.

  The gathering was family only, and that meant seven of them: Lord Lochlann of course, himself and Amabel, his new lady wife. Also her sister and cousin were there. His brother Duncan who was still at the castle and boy named Heath who was introduced as a ward. Since it was to be the last night before the departure, Lord Lochlann had declared that he wanted an intimate dinner – one with family alone without all the men-at-arms and castle servants watching them. Accordingly, they had all sat down to dinner in the castle's solar.

  “Is not this fitting?” Lord Lochlann said with a smile. “All of us here to see off our helpful allies.”

  He made a broad gesture at Broderick. Duncan smiled, and Heath raised a glass. The meal continued. So far, most of the conversation was around Lord Lochlann. Broderick and his wife sat in resolute silence, eating their quail and roast parsnips from trenchers, sipping claret and not talking.

  He passed her the clay pitcher of sauce and then sat back, waiting until she was finished before replacing it before him.

  “Thank you.”

  Broderick sighed. He had absolutely no idea what he had done to cause this brittle politeness, but he wished he could change it. She had been like this ever since their argument. She slipped into bed before he arrived and was asleep when he slipped in under the covers. She woke early, leaving him alone in the bed. He still desired her with an ache that burned at him, but so far, she had maintained a brisk distance that suggested she wanted their relationship to be a courteous exchange of words and nothing further.
/>   He wrenched his eyes away from her and toward the rest of the diners, seeking distraction from his sorrows.

  “...and we will finish them this time!” Lord Lochlann was saying enthusiastically.

  Broderick nodded, remembering the thread of the conversation. “That is my fervent hope, my lord.”

  Lord Lochlann was in a particularly open frame of mind that evening, it seemed.

  “Aye! And mine, young sir,” Lord Lochlann said. “A toast! Drink to that!”

  Broderick grimaced but lifted the glass and drank. To not do so would have been rude. His head already ached, and he had trouble focusing. He knew he was drinking too much and also knew he did not want to be sober. Sobriety meant awareness and awareness reminded him of how much his wife disliked him.

  Lord Lochlann tossed back a glass and wiped his mouth on a napkin. He had spent most of the evening talking about the campaign, recounting past success and failures and funny stories from when he was Broderick and Duncan's ages. The Bradleys, it seemed, had long been trouble for their family as well. He seemed eager to finally repulse them.

  “I believe you intend to use some new technique, my lord?” Heath, the young ward, said. Broderick looked at him. A lean-faced youth with dark hair and shining eyes, he seemed clever and perceptive. Broderick liked him. He hoped to get to know him a little better before his departure for the campaign.

  “Yes. That is true, young man. I shall bring you back an account of how it unfolds. We will all learn something this campaign, I understand.”

  Lord Lochlann laughed, amused, overhearing them. “If those Bradley learn something, that's good enough.”

  Broderick raised a brow. “I hope it shall be them who learns, my lord. But in either case, so shall we.”

  Lord Lochlann seemed to find that very funny. He chuckled. “How true, young Broderick.”

  Broderick sighed. He glanced across at his brother, who grinned at him. The laird's patronization of them evidently annoyed him, too, but he seemed to counsel him to ignore it. That made sense. In a month, he hoped, Broderick would never have to see the man again. His vengeance over, he could return home to the MacConnaway fortress.