With Love from the Highlands
A Highlander Lovestory Duet One
Suzan Tisdale
Cover design by Suzan Tisdale
Copyright © 2020 Suzan Tisdale
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Contents
With Love from the Highlands
Also by Suzan Tisdale
Section One
The Duet
Introduction
The Legend
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Section 2
Introduction
The Legend
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Prologue to Black Richard’s Heart
About the Author
Also by Suzan Tisdale
With Love from the Highlands
Also by Suzan Tisdale
The Clan MacDougall Series
Laiden’s Daughter
Findley’s Lass
Wee William’s Woman
McKenna’s Honor
The Clan MacDougall Boxed Set
The Clan Graham Series
Rowan’s Lady
Frederick’s Queen
The Mackintoshes and McLarens Series
Ian’s Rose
The Bowie Bride
Rodrick the Bold
Brogan’s Promise
The MacCulloughs
Black Richard’s Heart
Lachlan’s Heart Arriving January 2021
The Clan McDunnah Series
A Murmur of Providence
A Whisper of Fate
A Breath of Promise
The Clan McDunnah Boxed Set
Moirra’s Heart Series
Stealing Moirra’s Heart
Saving Moirra’s Heart
Stand Alone Novels
Isle of the Blessed
Forever Her Champion
The Edge of Forever
In the Echo of a Kiss
The MacAllens and Randalls Series:
Secrets of the Heart
The Daughters of Moirra Dundotter Series:
Mariote
Esa
Muriale
Orabilis
The Brides of the Clan MacDougall
(A Sweet Series)
Aishlinn
Maggy
Nora
Section One
Isle of the Blessed
The Duet
This is a duet collection of two of my previously released novellas,
Isle of the Blessed and Wager of the Heart.
There is no new content, no added bonus scenes. This is simply a book of convenience for those who haven’t previously purchased either of the novellas.
Suzan
Introduction
The Legend of the Theodosia Sword was the brainchild of USA Today Bestselling author Kathryn Le Veque.
More than a year ago, she approached me, along with Cynthia Wright, Christi Caldwell, Eliza Knight, and Eva Devon, with an idea to write an anthology surrounding this legend. Each of us took an era and wrote a story about the Theodosia Sword, from its creation to current day. Thus, the USA Today Bestseller, With Dreams Only Of You anotholgy, was born.
My contribution to that anthology was Isle of the Blessed. In it, readers were introduced to the Clan MacAulay and our hero and heroine, Graeme and Josephine. Much to my delight many readers reached out letting me know how much they enjoyed Graeme and Josephine’s story. They also wanted to know about Albert and Laurin.
In the pages that follow, you will find the original story of Graeme and Josephine. You will also find out what happened to Albert and Laurin.
Now on to the Legend….
The Legend
One family. One Legend. One chance to reverse the tides of fortune. Written by Kathryn LeVeque.
124 A.D.
Vallum Aelium (Hadrian’s Wall) Milecastle 9
Legio vigesima Valeria Victrix (Twentieth Victorious Valerian Legion) Written by Author Kathryn Le Veque
The colors of sunset splashed across the deepening sky as if an angry god had slashed the heavens with great, violent brush strokes. Diabolus alarum, a sky like this was called. Devil’s wings. If one looked hard enough at the shades of purple, pink, and orange, one might have seen demons gazing back at them, an audience to witness their impending destruction. Certainly, the sky had that feel this night as death loomed.
The Otadini tribe, the vast tribe of the north, had the contubernium surrounded, bottled up in their milecastle like trapped animals. The Otadini, the native tribe to the north of the great wall that bisected the island, had watched the Romans as they built their mighty wall and mighty milecastles, miniature military encampments, some with dozens of Roman soldiers. But this milecastle was a smaller one; there were only eight men and a commander, comprising the contubernium. The commander of this squad of men, a decanus named Euricus Lollius Pompeius, was the very young son of a great Roman senator and sincerely had no business commanding such a fine collection of infantry, one of the elite squadrons of legionaries from the Valeria Victrix.
This boy, this spoilt man-child, commanded eight seasoned warriors and had not the slightest hint of military acumen. He was a fool. As the milecastle had been constructed in the midst of hostile territory, the man-child had taken command based on his political connections. The Otadini, with their violent leaders and vast numbers of men, hadn’t waited a nominal length of time before surrounding the milecastle and laying siege. The structure had barely been completed a month before the harassment began in earnest.
Their small numbers had been no match against the Otadini. The very first night of bombardment, Euricus had suffered a terrible arrow wound to the neck. Quickly, the Otadini had successfully cut off their supply lines and the Valeria Victrix had not been able to send a message to the nearest Roman camp for assistance before all lines were severed. The nearest milecastle had tried to send help when they realized what had happened but had suffered heavy casualties in the process. Now, the men of Milecastle Nine were cut off from the rest of their cohorts by several thousand Otadini and hope had vanished as quickly as their food supplies and water had.
Now, five weeks after the initial bombardment, all remnants of survival were gone and their foolish commander, Euricus, languished in fevered misery. He had survived the initial attack but death was coming soon for him and he cried steadily, weeping for the comforts of his mother, as his men slowly starved to death around him. The spoilt son of a spoilt senator had led his troops straight into the snarling teeth of de
feat. No glory, no great praise; for young Euricus, all he would know was failure.
Deep in the barracks of the milecastle, the surviving five legionaries were hunkered down. There was no use in fighting anymore because they had run out of arrows or anything else with which to launch an offensive. The animals that hadn’t been burned on the first night when the stables had been set ablaze had been used for food, and all of that food was gone. Now, the legionaries were sucking on leather or digging up earthworms in an attempt to sate their hunger. The rains had come a few nights ago and had provided them with some water, but that reserve was quickly diminishing.
On this night of nights, An older legionary sat at the far end of the barracks alongside a younger cohort. The older man had stepped in to take charge when their foolish commander had been injured. Quintus Aquinus Falco was that man, also charged with tending the commander since the legion’s surgeon had been killed in the course of the fighting. As Quintus leaned back against the cold stone wall, his gaze on the young commander lying upon his rope bed, twitching and weeping, he spoke to his nearest cohort.
“The moon will be full this night,” he said softly. “It will be very bright when it finally rises.”
Those were ominous words, echoing gently in the dark, dank confines of the barracks. The man he spoke to was a younger man, handsome, and an excellent fighter. He was rarely without his sword in hand, his gladius, and in fact had been busily working on the blade for several days; using a very sharp chisel, one he’d taken from the smithy shack, he had evidently been writing something into the blade of the sword. It had occupied nearly his every waking moment.
When the young cohort didn’t reply immediately, Quintus turned his attention away from the dying commander to see what he was doing. Still, he was chiseling away at his blade. Whatever he was doing, he was quite determined to finish it.
“Lucius?” Quintus asked. “Did you hear me? The moon will be full tonight.”
Lucius Maximus Aentillius glanced up at his older friend. “I heard you.”
Quintus watched the man as he continued to etch on the forged steel blade. “It will be as bright as the sun,” he said, a hint of defeat in his tone. “They will come tonight, you know. They will finish the job.”
Lucius didn’t look up from his task. “Why would you say that?”
“Because if it was me, I would wait for the full moon so that I could see clearly as I overrun the fort.”
Lucius’ etching slowed as thoughts of a full moon and thousands of Otadini filled his brain. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said quietly. “But I wanted to hear your confirmation. There is nothing we can do other than defend until the death. And I would suggest remaining here in the barracks. If we spread out and try to defend the entire fort, they will pick us off one by one.”
Quintus was shaking his head even as his friend was speaking. He looked up at the roof of the barracks, the wooden and peat cover over their heads. “This place is indefensible,” he said. “They will try to light the roof on fire and burn it down over our heads.”
“Then what would you suggest?”
Quintus didn’t say anything and Lucius finally looked up at him. When their eyes met, Lucius could see the makings of surrender in the dark-circled eyes.
“Would you rather die by a savage’s axe or by my sword?” Quintus asked softly. “I can assure your death will be quick and relatively painless. The Otadini will make sport of you while you are still alive.”
Lucius knew that. He struggled with that sobering thought, turning his attention back to his gladius. He ran his fingers over the blade, now with words etched into it.
“I had hoped to see my wife again,” he whispered. “You have heard me speak of Theodosia.”
Quintus nodded. “I have.”
Lucius smiled faintly as he thought of the radiant beauty of titian-colored hair and deep blue eyes.
“I was going to send for her, you know,” he said. “I had hoped to be transferred to Londinium and I was going to have her join me there. I’ve not seen her in well over a year. We were only married a short time before I was sent here.”
Quintus could see that the thought of his wife was greatly weighing upon Lucius. The man was usually so even tempered, difficult to rile, but thoughts of his lovely wife had him bordering on sorrow. It was in his movements now, and in everything about him.
“You will see her again,” Quintus said softly, with encouragement. “In the fields of Elysium. You will be waiting for her when she arrives, Lucius. There is no sorrow in that.”
Lucius gave him a weak smile. “What do I do in the meantime until she comes?” he wanted to know. “Shall we drink and gamble to pass the time? If Theo finds out, she will be very angry with me. She does not like gambling.”
Quintus laughed softly, as did Lucius. Women never liked anything that was fun. When Lucius turned back to his sword, using the chisel to clean up what he had already done, Quintus pointed at the sword.
“What have you been doing for weeks?” he asked. “You have worked on that sword constantly.”
Lucius blew on the few slivers of steel that he’d scraped up. Then, he held up the sword, trying to see his handiwork in the weak light of sunset.
“It is a message to my wife,” he said, running his hand along the inscription. “I will die, and this place will be destroyed, but this blade… it will last. It is my hope that those who come after us will find it and pass it along to my wife.”
Quintus held out his hand and Lucius passed the gladius to him. The older soldier carefully inspected the words, softly reading them back.
“My beloved Theodosia -
Crimson and embers, my love for thee,
For eternity will it bind us.
In Elysium will I wait, my heart of fragile stars,
With dreams only of you.”
When he was finished, his gaze lingered on the words as he murmured them over again, repeating them, savoring the beauty. Then, he glanced up at Lucius.
“You should have been a poet, my friend,” he said. “You have the soul of one.”
Lucius smiled faintly. “When my wife and I were courting, I constantly wrote her poems and love notes,” he said. “I always ended them ‘with dreams only of you’. When we were
married, those words were inscribed on a ring I gave to her. Therefore, when she is given this sword, she will know that my last thoughts were of her. It will bring her comfort.”
Quintus was touched by the sentiment. How wonderful to be young and so in love, but how terrible to see it all end this way. He handed the sword back to his friend, unwilling to say what he was thinking; a savage will find that sword and use it. It will never make it to your wife. Perhaps it was his cynical nature bringing those thoughts into his head. He did not want to take away Lucius’ only hope that his wife would someday receive that one last message, the final love poem in a short and sweet marriage that had been full of such things. Biting back his harsh words, he sighed faintly.
“I hope it indeed brings her comfort,” he said simply.
Lucius ran his hand over his sword, the smile fading from his lips. In fact, his expression seemed to slacken considerably, with shadows of sorrow again on his features. After a moment, he kissed the words on the sword softly, gently, as if delivering a kiss to the woman he would never see again.
In his own way, he was kissing her through his words. He knew she would feel his kiss when she read them. He wasn’t content with meeting her again in Elysium; he wanted to hold her one last time, to smell the flowers in her hair and to feel the texture of her skin. But the gods they had prayed to so fervently had denied them the hope they sought. After a moment’s reflection, on a life and love that would soon end, Lucius looked to Quintus.
“I must bury this sword,” he said. “It must be put someplace safe. I do not want the Otadini absconding with it.”
So he does know the reality of what will happen to such a weapon, Quintus thought. He was suddenly
seized with the desire to help the man, however futile their efforts might be.
Even if they were to die, perhaps something of them… of Lucius… would continue to live. Perhaps their story would be told, someday, and the legend of the sword with Theodosia’s name on it would survive. If it survived, in a sense, then they survived. Deep down, Quintus very much wanted to survive.
“Then let us bury it in the corner of the barracks, under the foundation,” he said. “I do not know how it will be found again but if this fort is ever re-built, they will more than likely discover it.”
Lucius nodded, rising weakly. He hadn’t eaten in days and his strength was nearly gone. “It will be rebuilt after we are gone,” he said confidently. “If we could only put the sword between the stones, they would find it more easily. I fear that if we bury it in the earth, it will be forever lost.”
Quintus rose, too, unsteady and wrought with hunger. “Let us hurry, then,” he said. “Our time is growing short.”
Together, they went to the northeast corner of the barracks. It was such a small structure and the others, overcome with hunger and defeat, watched with only mild curiosity as Quintus and Lucius began pulling at stones in the wall, trying to see if there were any stones loose enough to move, something that would create a big enough gap to hide a full-sized gladius. They pulled, grunted, shoved, and even kicked, and eventually they were able to remove four rather large stones from the wall, stones that had been carefully fitted together with clay to hold them together.
With Love from the Highlands : A Highlander Love Story Duet, One Page 1
