Capturing The Reluctant Highlander (Lasses 0f The Kinnaird Castle Book 3)

by Kenna Kendrick

  In the castle, which was more a fortified farmhouse than a keep, was employed a young lass by the name of Lena McGowan. I did not know her until much later, but she worked hard, her mother having died when she was very young. She was a pretty wee thing, with black hair and soft, white skin, quite different from the other servants. Her large blue eyes and pretty face offered an attraction to any man, not least one who feels his wife has failed him and is seeking solace elsewhere.

  It was my father who approached her first, seeing the young servant as a possession for his own pleasure, though as she later told me, she did little to resist. He had been drinking heavily with the other clansmen, toasting a raid across the border on the home of the Musgrave family, sworn enemies of our family, and with whom a long blood feud had been endured.

  “Ye’re looking very pretty tonight, lass,” he said as he found her at her work, scrubbing the steps which led up to the hall above, where the dogs would lie at night before the embers of the fire and many a whiskey was consumed in honor of this or that victory or raid, such things being my father’s chief occupation. It was quiet, the rest of the clan having gone to their rest, while Lena saw to the unending list of chores which my mother had commanded her to undertake.

  “Thank ye,” she replied, blushing as my father sat himself down next to her on the step.

  “And a pretty lass like ye should not be working so hard when everyone else is in their beds,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and running it down her arm as he smiled at her, tilting his head on one side.

  Once again, she blushed but had no qualms in allowing his hand to run farther over her breast. My father was a handsome man in his youth, and it was well known among the servants that his eyes often strayed where perhaps they should not.

  It was wrong, and they both knew it, but the combination of drink and lust was strong, and the two gave in to their desires there and then. That night, as a storm blew up around the castle, their passions were aroused, and when my mother awoke in the night, she found her husband absent from their bed.

  It was not long before it became clear that young Lena, the pretty servant girl, was with child, and much rumor and speculation circulated as to who the father might be. She was unmarried, and it was said she offered her favors to anyone who wished it. Young lasses like that are always falling foul of such rumors, and when they are too old to be attractive, the second accusation is witchcraft, which has seen many an innocent woman to her death. An unmarried girl in such a state was a thing to be reviled, and it was only due to my father’s benevolence that she was not thrown out immediately, a fact that caused even more rumors to spread.

  Was his kindness the result of guilt? Others had seen him watching her, just as he did the other servant girls who came and went. But Lena was different; she was pretty, and the labors of her work had not yet taken their toll upon her. My mother had her suspicions, and she questioned my father repeatedly as to why he would not cast young Lena out for her wicked, whoring ways. When I was younger, I used to wonder why there seemed an unspoken animosity between them. But now that I know the truth, I can see that her heart must have broken so fervently at his betrayal, I know mine would, as well.

  But my father dismissed her murmurings, and still, Lena remained, seeing to her duties in the castle, as the day of the child’s birth approached. She had no one to see to her needs, except for a kindly old maid who worked in the kitchens, who herself had born five children in her long life, and it was she who guided Lena through that most difficult time.

  Nine months after that encounter on that stormy night, Lena gave birth to a boy. It was then that the answer to his lineage became clear. The baby was healthy, kicking and screaming its way into the world as Lena lay back in exhaustion on a bed of hay in the stables, the only place that my mother would allow her to birth. The old maid, who had held her hand throughout, passed the baby to its mother, and let out a deep sigh, as she shook her head.

  “There is nae doubtin’ who the father is, lass,” she said as they looked down at the baby, now at its mother’s breast.

  The little baby, lying peacefully in its mother’s arms, was possessed of a fine head of hair, black and thick just like my father’s. On his right hand was a birthmark, running from his little finger along to the wrist, and he had a face quite like his mother’s, even at this most tender age.

  Lena sighed and cradled him in her arms, the birth had been long and difficult, and she felt exhausted. What might happen next was of little concern, all that mattered now was that the baby was safe, and she had him in her arms.

  “What might ye call the wee lad?” the maiden asked her, gently stroking the baby’s head.

  “Fraser,” she replied, “after my father.”

  Chapter One

  Later that day, my father heard of the baby’s birth, and he visited Lena in secret to see the child and check upon her condition. When he saw the baby, he shook his head and sighed, unwilling to even take wee Fraser in his arms.

  “He is yer bairn, too,” Lena said as he turned away from her.

  “‘Tis nae bairn of mine,” he replied, and from that moment onward, he had nothing to do with the child or Lena, a fact for which I cannot forgive him, though perhaps I understand why.

  But my mother was even more unforgiving. Rumor soon went around of the baby’s black hair and the birthmark upon its hand, which some said was a sign of Lena’s indiscretions in the child’s lineage. It was clear that Fraser was the son of an Elliott, and my mother flew into a rage, demanding that my father throw her out, else she would do so herself.

  My father had no choice; he was master of his clan, a noble man, at least that is what he liked to think. But my mother had spoken, and reluctantly, he sent Lena away, the child taken from her and given to the old kitchen maid, who assured the young lass she would take good care of him.

  Lena was distraught, and she begged to be allowed to stay and to keep the child. But my mother would not hear of such a thing, and it was she who ensured that Lena was put out of the house, without so much as a crust of bread. She could be cruel as well as kind, and perhaps it was her own inability to give birth, which so soured her against the poor servant girl.

  “Ye are nothin’ but a wee whore,” she cried, as she slammed the door of the castle, leaving Lena alone in the cold and damp of that bleak winter morning.

  A young lass, alone, and without the support of a man has little choice but to seek refuge wherever she can. The borders are a dangerous place for anyone, not least a poor servant girl fleeing in disgrace. Lena took to the road and somehow found her way south across the border and into England. She begged at the pitiful hovels of the peasants and sought refuge in the stables of an inn for the night. The landlord took pity upon her and allowed her to scrub pots and sweep out the hearths for a few pennies. But he had no permanent employment for her, and besides, his was a respectable establishment. While he could be kind, he had no wish to associate himself with a young lass such as Lena, a disgraced and unwanted thing, unloved by anyone.

  She went on her way, dejected and mournful, as she lamented the loss of Fraser, and found herself at the gates of Musgrave castle. The Musgraves were a noble English family, who kept the King’s order on the borders, sworn enemies of our clan, and no friend to any Scot. I have been unfortunate enough to have many dealings with this family, and I can say with surety that they are among the cruelest and most unpleasant of people who inhabit the lowlands between England and Scotland.

  “What do you want here, girl?” the guard on the gate said, looking her up and down with disdain, “be gone, Sir Percy does not allow such things as you to cross his threshold.”

  “Please, I have nothin’ I beg ye for a bed, somethin’ to eat, please,” she replied, clasping her hands together, the wind biting coldly around her as she shivered before him.

  The guard laughed.

  “A Scot, a wee lass, we do not give charity to such as you. Return to your own people and be than
kful I do not give you a kicking,” the guard replied, turning away in disgust, as Lena began to cry.

  But at that moment, Sir Percy Musgrave himself arrived at the gates of the castle. He had been out hunting and was returning with his retinue, riding up to the gates with the spoils of the hunt. He was a politician, an English nobleman, a man who considered himself principled while being entirely not so. He considered the Scots to be barbarians, a danger to the civility of Englishman to the south, a threat to be countered, and he hated my father.

  “Open the gates, man, what are you waiting for?” he cried to the guard, who hurried to do his master’s bidding, “and what is this, a peasant girl begging, be gone now.”

  But Lena knelt before him and begged to be given somewhere to rest.

  “Please, sir, I have nothin’ and have been banished by my mistress, I was in service, but my master mistreated me.”

  Sir Percy waved his hand at her in dismissal, but what she said next caused him to turn with surprise, a smile playing across his face.

  “It was Alistair, Laird of the Elliott’s, who used me so badly, sir, I bore his child, but he would have nothin’ to dae with the bairn, which has now been snatched from me. I am beggin’ ye, sir, please help me,” Lena said, kneeling in the mud of the castle gateway.

  “Alistair Elliott, you say. What a terrible thing to do, and doesn’t this prove just how cruel these vicious Scots can be,” Sir Percy said, turning to his men, who nodded. “Very well, girl, you shall have your bed, and you may work too, though you shall work hard. But you shall also tell me everything you know about Alistair Elliott and everything you know about that clan. Do you hear me?”

  Lena nodded, relieved to simply have found a place to lay her head, and Sir Percy had her taken in. His own wife had just given birth to a son named Howard, and Lena was given the responsibility for caring for him as nursemaid. It was a poor substitute for her own wee Fraser, but Lena did her best, watching the child grow big and strong.

  There was little she could tell Sir Percy about my father. Only that he was a man hardened by war who would not yield easily to English advances. As the years went by, the two men fought skirmishes amidst the marshlands and mounted raids back and forth across the border. That was how I came to be my father’s daughter, in a manner of speaking, but it was that happy fact that also led to my encounter with Sir Percy and all that followed hence.

  In that place, there were no victors or valiant conquests. Only the slow drudgery of death and decay, as each side fought for a supremacy never forthcoming. All the while, Lena worked diligently in the home of Sir Percy Musgrave, watching Howard grow, and always wondering just what had become of her own dear Fraser, that bonnie lad, with a shock of black hair and the distinctive birthmark on his right hand.

  Chapter Two

  It had been cruel to separate Lena from the child, but my mother was embittered by the fact she had failed to conceive a healthy child, blinded from kindness by a desire for revenge on the woman who had so violated the sacred union she held with my father. But if Fraser had remained with his mother, it was unlikely that either would have survived, so harsh and unforgiving was the world which they inhabited.

  The old maid nursed the baby until he was strong enough to be sent away, and a family was found in a nearby village, who were desperate for a child of their own. The MacGinns were blacksmiths, peasants of a respectable sort who kept to themselves. They never ventured far from the little village of Lochrutton, which was nestled in a valley some miles from the castle at Kirklinton, a pretty place, though ever under threat of raid and pillage.

  My father did not even see the baby before he was sent away, and when the old maid told him of where she had taken him, he showed little interest. Fraser was better off being sent away; he had no love for the child — it was merely an inconvenience, a mistake from the past, which he had no desire to be reminded of. My mother, too, was pleased, and she told the old maid to see to it that the baby never knew of his true lineage.

  Thus, Fraser Elliott became Fraser MacGinn, and the peasant family was pleased that, at last, they had a child to call their own. He grew up strong and healthy, believing that the kindly man and woman who took care of him were the same as had conceived him, never knowing the truth of who he was. But what of my father’s desire for an heir? Wasn’t my mother barren? If so, however did I come to be her daughter?

  Chapter Three

  Both my parents desperately wanted a child, but as the years went by, such hope was dashed. My mother resigned herself to a childless existence, much to my father’s anger. War often came to the borderlands, and despite the truces which existed, a single spark could soon ignite the conflicts of the past. Thus, it was some two years after the birth of Fraser when the Elliotts had ridden out to war with the Armstrongs, a neighbor and the family of my birth. Sir Percy Musgrave had mounted a raid across the border, and several of the Armstrong farms were burning. The smoke rising over the countryside was a grim reminder of the lawless times in which they lived.

  The two clans charged across the marches, their swords drawn and cries of war coming from their lips. At their head was the man I call my father, Alistair Elliott, and his close friend Stewart Armstrong, who I suppose I should call my true father, brothers-in-arms, and determined to avenge themselves upon the Musgraves and deal them a bloody blow. But, as they came face to face with their foe, it was clear that they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered by the English, whose vastly superior forces would surely decimate them.

  The Musgraves charged them down and surrounded my father’s forces. From every side came English soldiers, who showed no mercy and above, atop a hill, seated on his steed, looking down in grim satisfaction, was Sir Percy Musgrave himself. He gave the order to rout their enemies and see to it that no man was left alive.

  Both my fathers fought bravely, but they could never hope to defeat the forces of the Musgraves, and in the battle, Stewart Armstrong was cruelly cut down, a man I have no memory of, except a name and a deed of valor. He had found himself surrounded, cut off from his men in a dell of trees, as his opponents felled him from his horse and saw to it that this would be his last breath, a sword driven through his heart by an English captain.

  My father did his best to rally the remaining men, but there was no hope, except to flee, and in the chaos of the battlefield, only a handful made it out alive. But Sir Percy Musgrave was determined to deal a lasting blow to the clans across the border, and he charged after the fleeing Scots, making for the Armstrongs’ home and laying waste to it.

  The fire could be seen burning for several days upon the horizon, and all inside perished, except for one, the daughter of Stewart Armstrong, a wee lass named Isla, the woman now telling you this tale. I had been hidden away from the danger by my nursemaid, and as the fires ravaged our home, I was all that was left of that once-proud clan.

  My father was devastated by the loss of his friend and by the routing of such a noble and ancient name as Armstrong. But what to do with me? I was without mother or father, alone in the world, except for my loyal nursemaid. The answer seemed simple, and in testimony to the friendship between the two lairds, my father and mother took me in, raising me as their own and it was only later I began to learn something of the truth about my lineage, setting my heart against the Musgraves and vowing to have my revenge.

  Chapter Four

  Scottish Border 1545

  Isla Armstrong was looking across the borders from her chambers at the top of the castle at Kirklinton, where she had lived since that fateful day all those years ago when her parents had been so cruelly cut down. It was a wild day; the rain having battered the borderlands these past three days, storm clouds sitting thick and foreboding above.

  Across the valley, the trees were swaying in the wind, and she could see the waterfall of the Beck, which cascaded into Lochrutton some miles across the marshes. It was a wild and lonely scene, and she shivered a little, turning back into the room and warming herself by t
he fire, which burned merrily in the grate — a contrast to the blackening skies outside.

  She had been looking for her father, who had ridden to one of the outlying crofts, where trouble had recently been reported. Isla was used to that word; it was one she often heard, the trouble with the English, the trouble with other clans. Trouble meant danger, and her life had been fraught with danger since its beginning.

  There was no sign of her father for the rest of the day, but he returned after nightfall, demanding food and a place by the fire. Isla sat in the hall of the castle, a large room with a heavy door and wide hearth, where many a tale had been told, victories celebrated, and defeats commiserated. It was there that she was often told to stay, while trouble brewed outside, or her father rode off to deal with yet another incursion or threat. Such was their way of life, and, as Alistair Elliott entered the room, he had a grave expression on his face.