The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

He moved closer, looming above her. “No?”

  “No. I shall stay.”

  “Yer brother might have somethin’ to say about that.”

  “Yes, let’s discuss my brother. The man who arranged for your release the first time round. The man who ensured your family’s distillery was granted a license. The man who saved your life. You owe him a great deal, do you not?”

  “Him, not ye.”

  Couldn’t he see this was necessary? Couldn’t he see she was trying to save him—and herself? Kate’s belly shook and shook. Her skin flashed cold and hot, writhing with shivery sensations as she took the most daring step she’d ever attempted.

  She would not return to England. She would not go back to the marriage mart. She would stay here. And she would marry this monstrously large, scarred, beastly Highlander, whether he liked it or not.

  “All I must do is walk a hundred feet outside this castle,” she said. “Munro will find me. He will insist I answer his questions.” She shrugged. “I fear I am simply too weak to continue resisting.”

  “That’s pure shite,” he rasped. Black fury radiated from him, pulsing the vein near his temple. “Ye wouldnae do that to Annie.”

  “Do you wish to take that chance?”

  For a dreadfully long minute, he looked ready to kill. Then, he straightened, released a sneering huff, and replied, “Have it yer way, lass. Dinnae say I never warned ye.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  One week after Kenneth disappeared from the Inverness jail, Sabella Lockhart watched a wagon draw to a halt behind the garden of her rented house. Half of her had prayed her brother would never return. The other half remembered the boy who had huddled over her in the freezing rain, whispering a bitter promise that she would never again be cold, never again be without shelter. Kenneth had vowed he would rebuild the fortune their father had lost and save them both from the poorhouse.

  That boy had succeeded. But he’d become something dark and terrible in the process.

  For Sabella, the changes had been easy to ignore. She’d been comfortable. Safe. Even now, as she stood at the rain-battered kitchen window of the rented house in Inverness, she wanted to believe he was the brother who’d cared so dearly for her comfort that he’d gone without a coat and nearly lost his fingers to frostbite.

  She wanted to remember the day he’d shown her the house he’d purchased in Charlotte Square, one of the most fashionable areas of Edinburgh. “It is ours, Sabella,” he’d announced, holding the umbrella carefully above her head and ensuring not a drop of rain landed upon her skirts. He’d beamed down at her with pride in every handsome line. “Ours. Let them try to take it from me, now.”

  Aye, she wanted to remember that Kenneth. Not the monster who’d orchestrated the torture and imprisonment of an innocent man. Nor even the tyrant who forbade her from wearing red or taking sugar in her tea or waltzing with a suitor.

  That Kenneth made her want to flee Inverness. Flee far away from him. And sometimes, in her worst moments, flee this world altogether.

  She watched the old merchant climb down from the covered wagon and help a huddled figure to the scullery door. A knock sounded. She closed her eyes. Inside, she felt cold. Sick. Another knock.

  She went to the scullery and opened the door.

  “Evenin’, miss.” The merchant nodded, bracing the huddled figure with a wary expression. “I was told ye’d have a shillin’ or two for my trouble.”

  Sabella nodded, retrieving two shillings from the reticule around her wrist and handing them to the merchant. She offered a third but held it back. “If anybody comes asking, tell them naught of this delivery.”

  She knew it might not be enough, but she was unaccustomed to such transactions. Kenneth had always handled these matters.

  The merchant nodded, accepted the extra shilling, and departed. Sabella took the arm of the huddled figure wearing a horse blanket as a cowled plaid and guided him to a chair near the kitchen hearth.

  “Rest, now,” she murmured. She retrieved the kettle from over the fire and poured a bit of tea into a chipped cup. “Drink.”

  He grunted harshly. Slammed a palm upon the table.

  She flinched at the show of temper.

  With pained motions, he drew back the cowl. She felt her gorge rise. His face was … hideous. His jaw was thrice the size it had been, his eyes mere slits amidst the swelling. Dried blood sealed gashes along his cheeks and brows and lips.

  He made a writing motion with his hand.

  She gave a jerky nod and retrieved a quill pen and paper from her sitting room. With unsteady hands, she placed them on the table and quickly retreated. He seized her wrist, twisting and painfully grinding her skin against her bones.

  She gritted her teeth, her eyes watering. He pulled her to the chair beside him and forced her to sit. When she did, he loosened his pressure but didn’t release her. If experience was any guide, she’d have to wear long sleeves and gloves to cover the bruises for a while. He didn’t like to see the marks he left upon her.

  Breathing harshly, he began writing: Laudanum.

  She nodded and tried to rise. His hand tightened again, making her gasp. “Ye must release me, Kenneth. The laudanum is in the larder.”

  Gradually, he let her go. Hurry, he wrote.

  After retrieving the laudanum and adding it to his tea, she poured herself a cup and added a few drops to her own. Her wrist throbbed badly enough to make her eyes water.

  His hand slammed the table again, jolting her heart into her throat. She turned. He slid his paper closer to her. Pack everything. Must return to Edinburgh.

  “D-don’t you wish to contact yer solicitors first? The charges against ye haven’t yet been dismissed.”

  This time, he grasped her arm, yanking her close enough to smell the rancid, putrid stench of him. The green of his eyes was barely discernible, but inside, she saw what her brother had become.

  There was nothing left of the boy who had nearly frozen to death so that she could be warm, or the young man who had often walked around with a wet shoulder so that her skirts could stay dry.

  No, this was the Kenneth she’d refused to see for too long. Malignant. Poisonous. Possessive.

  He shook her. Shoved her. Sent her stumbling backward until her lower back struck the corner of the table. Then, he wrote furiously for a long minute. Tapped the paper with a demand.

  Insides quaking with sickening dread, she inched closer and read what he’d written.

  The magistrate’s sympathies were lost with my “escape.” Huxley’s doing. Anne Huxley and her bairn will be the first to die. You are the reason. I have no use for a sister who would betray me to a supposed “friend.”

  Sabella’s stomach cramped. She feared she might vomit. How did he know? And, dear God, how did she protect Annie? “I—I didn’t betray you, Kenneth,” she lied. “I wouldn’t.”

  More writing.

  MacPherson knew of my plans. The only way he could have known was that you told her, and she warned him. Now, she’ll suffer. That is your punishment.

  She shook her head, panic rising like boiling water. “No. Please, Kenneth. I never said anything to her. Perhaps yer man Gordon or one of the solicitors—”

  His fist slammed the table. He pointed at her then pointed to the word betray.

  Her breath shook inside her chest. “Please. Please do not hurt her.”

  He pointed to Edinburgh.

  “Aye, we’ll return to Edinburgh. I’ll help ye recover. Ye must be in dreadful pain, brother. Let me take care of ye the way I did when ye were ill. Remember when ye were a young lad? Remember the fever?” She tried to swallow but nearly choked. “If ye leave her be, I’ll do anything ye ask.”

  He stared at her for a long while, the green slits of his eyes burning with hatred. Then, he took a slow, wincing drink of the tea she’d prepared for him, set down the cup, and resumed writing.

  Aye, you will. Gordon is dead. But th
ere is another. Before our return to Edinburgh, you will take him a message. And if you ever betray me again, Sabella, be assured your friend’s life will not be the one you’re begging to save.

  The day Katherine Ann Huxley married Broderick MacPherson, the Scottish sun beamed from a sky as blue as Annie’s eyes. Unfortunately, that was the only joyful thing about it.

  The wedding took place inside the ruins of an old church near the castle on All Hallow’s Eve. The banns had been read thrice. The wispy-haired minister spoke words of sacredness and unions. Kate and Broderick dutifully repeated what they must. But everyone looked miserable.

  Especially Broderick. Until the very moment she stepped up into the church’s roofless interior, she’d wondered if he would refuse to attend. But there he stood beside the old, crumbled altar, his nearly-black hair thick and shining in the sun, his massive shoulders encased in dark wool, and his lower half dressed in MacPherson tartan. The patch over his eye formed a dark slash across his face. His other eye glinted searing fury.

  Feeling scorched from head to toe as he looked her over, she had to steady herself on John’s arm before continuing forward.

  Kate’s own misery might be blamed on the oily, sickening sensation in her stomach, which might have started when she’d blackmailed a man into marriage, and might be guilt.

  John had been apoplectic at first. He’d refused to grant permission for them to marry. Kate had pointed out that she was of age and did not require anyone’s permission. He’d threatened to write Mama and Papa. She’d pointed out that in Scotland, marriages could be performed on a moment’s notice by a blacksmith, if need be, and that Mama and Papa could not possibly journey here from Nottinghamshire in time to prevent her nuptials. John had brought Annie into the argument, insisting she “talk some sense into my baby sister.” Annie had refused to intervene, other than giving Kate a penetrating stare and asking, “Are ye certain about this, Katie-lass?”

  Kate had nodded, and that had been that. The solicitor had recommended their wedding be performed by a clergyman with the full reading of banns in place, as the marriage was less likely to be challenged.

  Today, Kate wore her finest gown of creamy-gold silk embroidered with metallic-thread leaves in silver, bronze, and peach. She’d draped a luxuriously soft, woolen sash of MacPherson tartan—coppery red with accents of blue and green—across her body, pinning it with the brooch she’d purchased in Inverness. She breathed deeply of crisp Highland air. Screwed her courage to the sticking-place. Then, she traveled the grassy path to where a monstrously large Highlander waited in his MacPherson kilt.

  Sunlight passed through the ruined, broken arches of the old church, casting artful shadows across the weedy ground. Across his scarred, thunderous face.

  How he must hate her. The entire ceremony, he glared down from his great height, making her neck tingle. She was surprised her nosegay of white heather didn’t burst into flames.

  Afterward, his brothers and father surrounded her like a phalanx of giants, each offering his well wishes. First, iron-haired Angus bent down to kiss her cheek and declared, “Welcome to the clan, lass. I hope ye like whisky.”

  Next came Campbell, who was even bigger than Broderick—which should not be possible. He was less handsome than Rannoch and much quieter. But when he took her hand in his, he was gentle as could be. “Meal do naidheachd. Congratulations, lass.”

  Alexander’s features had a more sardonic edge, and his half-smile as he commented what a “bonnie bride” she made might have been sarcastic. Still, she thought his dark attractiveness was enough to make some women swoon.

  With a wide grin, Rannoch opened his arms and embraced her as he often did with Annie, lifting her onto her toes. “A new sister! This is grand, Lady Kate. Och, but can ye be both a Lady and a MacPherson?”

  She chuckled. “For you, Rannoch, ‘Kate’ will do.”

  “That’s a relief, I must tell ye. No more fashin’ about which fork to use around ye.” He laughed his deep, charming laugh, which made her laugh, in turn. Then, he followed Angus’s example and bent to kiss her cheek.

  Before his lips made contact, however, Broderick stepped between them, forcing his brother back several steps. “This isnae one of yer lasses, Rannoch. Do ye ken?”

  Grin vanishing, Rannoch raised a wary brow. “Aye, brother. She’s yer bride. I ken.”

  “Nah. Not my bride. She’ll have my name. But that’s all.”

  Angus came forward to lay his hand on Broderick’s shoulder, but it was swiftly shrugged away. “Son—”

  Broderick rounded on Kate, leaning in with menacing fire. “Ye’ll live at the castle, not with me. There’ll be no bairns. No visits. No allowance for yer frocks or demands for favors. In fact, ye’ll nae trouble me again. Ever. Do ye hear me?”

  Her insides shriveled. A cold wind rippled her silk skirts. She looked at his shirt, snowy white and paired with a fine, dark coat.

  With a long finger, he nudged beneath her chin. “Say ye understand, lass.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

  He let her go and stalked away, his hitching strides long and swift. The last she saw of her new husband was his MacPherson kilt disappearing through a ruined church entrance.

  Behind her, the priest awkwardly cleared his throat. Angus murmured a gruff condolence. John advised they should all return to the castle before the weather turned. Annie slid an arm through Kate’s and said, “It will all come right, Katie-lass. Ye’ll see.”

  But Kate didn’t think so. She couldn’t lift her gaze from her hands, from the ring he’d placed on her finger. The design included a knot much like her brooch, but plainer. Older. The gold was dark and scarred. She wondered where he’d acquired it. Probably from a pawn shop for as little coin as possible.

  Chest painfully tight, she managed to survive the rest of her wedding day without incident, chiefly because all the guests departed immediately upon reaching the castle, giving her leave to retreat to her bedchamber. She did not see Broderick again that day or any of the next ten.

  She spent her first week as a wife hounding Annie to tell her more about Broderick—his favorite meals (eggs and smoked haddock, venison and onion gravy), his worst habit (working too much), her happiest memory of him (the day he’d presented Annie with a copper tea kettle and made her weep). She’d asked for more details about his ordeal in prison; Annie had struggled through her answers so dreadfully that Kate had swiftly changed the subject to inquire about his history with women. She’d changed the subject again when Annie’s answers made Kate’s throat burn.

  When her sister-in-law tired of her questions, Kate wrote letters until her hand was sore. To Francis and Clarissa, she poured out all the worry, hope, and self-recrimination that plagued her soul. To her sisters, she begged advice on mending a husband’s offended sensibilities. To Mama and Papa, she begged forgiveness for neglecting to inform them sooner.

  In the end, she gained no relief. This morning, ten days after promising herself to a man who hated her, she smoothed a hand over her unfinished manuscript as Janet arranged her hair into a coil with four small plaits.

  “How go the adventures of Sir Wallace, m’lady? Have ye decided how he’ll win the heart of the fair Fiona?”

  Kate glanced up and collided with her own reflection in the mirror. Dark smudges beneath her eyes were stark amidst her pallor. She hadn’t slept well for a fortnight. First, she’d been plagued by visions of Broderick killing a man, then visions of Broderick being tortured by Sergeant Munro. She’d awakened with her cheeks wet and her chest aching more than once.

  Now, she shook her head, unable to muster a smile for her maid. “No, I’m afraid not,” she murmured.

  “Shall I tell ye how Stuart captured my heart?” Janet’s dance lesson with the taciturn footman had gone well, evidently.

  “How is that?”

  Janet winked and chuckled. “After the cèilidh, we went down to see the fires in th
e village. I got a wee bit blootered, and … well, Stuart has a braw face, m’lady. Chin is a mite weak, aye, but he grows handsomer the more ye look upon him.” She shook her head with a secretive smile then waved the comb in the air. “Anyhow, I made an offer no other lad would decline, I’ll tell ye that one for certain. But he did. Purely flattened me.” The hand holding the comb settled on her bosom. Janet’s ordinarily sharp gaze softened into syrup. “Said he wanted no question of his intentions toward me. Can ye imagine, m’lady? I’ve had my share of kisses, some better than others. But his refusal told me right then and there he’d be my forever man.”

  Kate managed a faint smile. The mind infection had struck again. She supposed she was happy for Janet. Except that, from now on, the subject of Stuart MacDonnell would dominate every conversation. In the interest of variety, Kate said, “Let’s walk to the village today, hmm? I feel the need for ribbons.”

  An hour later, as they entered the square, Kate felt a strange prickle along her neck. She frowned, glancing around as Janet prattled on about Stuart’s rare talent with the pipes. Her gaze snagged on a dark figure dismounting a horse outside the second most popular tavern in Glenscannadoo. By the time she realized who it was, he’d started toward her.

  Pretending she hadn’t seen him, she tugged Janet toward the opposite end of the square.

  “Lady Katherine,” Sergeant Munro called from much too close behind them.

  Kate ignored him, dragging Janet, who twisted to see who was following.

  “Lady Katherine!” The constable’s shadow merged with theirs. He grasped her arm, halting her with a firm grip.

  She tried to free herself, but his grip held. Finally, she turned. “Release me,” she gritted, her anger at the constable’s incessant pursuit wiping away all fear. “You are within a hair’s breadth of losing your position, Mr. Munro.”

  His whiskers twitched. Hard eyes narrowed. “I hear ye’re a MacPherson now.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I also hear ye still reside in yer brother’s castle,” he continued. Somehow, Sergeant Munro made everything sound like an accusation.