Highlander’s Phantom Lass: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance

by Ann Marie Scott

  Her face was plain enough, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her eyes the color of a blue summer sky. Breta tugged on the laces at her chest, frowning as she cinched them tightly. At least Ferra had gotten her a billowing tunic. That should be enough to hide her bosom.

  Sliding her feet back into her scuffed and worn boots, Breta drew in a breath. She would have to pack light and hope that her sister nor her father would recognize her during the games, though she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to hide her disappearance from her mother.

  That night, Breta sat at the table with her family, picking at the chicken on her plate. “I think that after I come back, we should have a gathering ourselves,” her father said, picking up his ale. “Tae show off our daughters.”

  Breta’s head snapped up. “For wot? Are we tae do tricks?”

  The entire table nearly choked on their food. “Nay, lass,” their mother stated, reaching over to touch Ferra’s hand. “They will be coming tae woo ye.”

  “I dinnae want tae be wooed,” Ferra grumbled.

  “Neither do I,” Breta announced, pushing her plate away. “I dinnae want tae be displayed around like a prized mare.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted, but to have others staring at her—wanting her because she was a laird’s daughter and could strengthen an alliance—was not how she wished to find a husband.

  The laird’s eyes narrowed. “How else do ye plan tae find a husband, Breta? Is there someone in the clan ye favor?”

  Breta pushed her chair back, the wood scraping across the rushes. “Nay. I dinnae have a suitor. I wish tae go with ye, Da. Tae the games.” She would try once more to get him to allow her to go. “There are plenty of suitors there.”

  He banged his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “I already told ye, nay lass. Dinnae go against mah word on this! The games are no place for a lass.”

  It was the same thing that her mother had told them.

  “Tell me ye wilnae leave this keep,” he growled, as if he could read her mind somehow. “Tell me ye will follow mah orders, Breta.”

  Breta didn’t want to lie to him. She respected him, wanting him to trust in her and that she would be making the right decisions in her life.

  “Of course she won’t,” her mother said before Breta could answer, cutting her eyes at her daughter. “We will be waiting on yer safe return.”

  He grunted and turned his attention back to his meal, but Breta had lost her appetite. She walked away from the table and headed outside, where the guards were roaming the wall around the keep; the torches that always remained lit blowing in the breeze. Breta inhaled the smoky scent, with a hint of rain in the air. She didn’t want to lie to her father, but she also didn’t want to wait while he decided her fate. If she was to be displayed around when he returned, then she was going to have one last adventure before she did so.

  She was going to the games, and if her father found her, then she would have to incur his wrath. It would be a small price to pay to have what her sister was calling an adventure.

  Breta wrapped her arms around her waist, gazing up at the night sky. She was really going to do this.

  4

  Will parried with his sword, the steel clashing together in a flurry of sparks. His opponent immediately broke apart and twirled his sword in his hand, a grin on his face.

  “Is that the best ye can do?”

  Stepping back, Will palmed the hilt of his sword. “Nay. I’m just taking it easy on ye. I dinnae want yer wife coming after me with a sword.”

  Trevor grinned as they danced in a circle, the dust stirred by their boots. Their breath fogged in the morning air. Will rolled his shoulders, trying to work out an ache in one of them from sleeping wrong.

  “She wilnae use a sword,” Trevor said. “Garia is much better with a dagger.”

  “Well, I prefer tae stay out of her way!”

  Trevor charged at his former warrior. Will met his thrust, sliding his blade back until the men were crossed at the hilts. “Ye move like an old Scot,” Will grunted, pushing his old mentor away to break the hold.

  Trevor easily found his footing and dodged a thrust from Will, blocking it with an easy swipe. “And I see that ye havenae learned yer lesson.”

  Will grinned. “I kept mah side blocked.”

  Trevor shook his head. “Ye forgot about yer sword fighting, though. Yer sword would be in the dirt over there.”

  Will placed the point of his sword in the dirt. “I’d like tae see ye try.”

  His old mentor just shook his head, sliding his well-worn sword back into its scabbard. “Perhaps another time. Tell me about the recruits.”

  Picking up his sword, Will sheathed it. “They are young whelps but show promise.”

  “Aye,” Trevor replied. “It will serve ye well tae get them trained quickly.”

  Will knew what he was talking about. The games were upon them, and with each passing day, Will started to grow more anxious. There was so much to do still, so much to check.

  If he didn’t ensure the safety of the clan and the keep, it would leave them open to attack. He couldn’t allow that.

  “Tell me ye aren’t still worried aboot the games,” Trevor stated as they walked toward the barracks. “Ye know there isnae much ye can do now.”

  Will sighed. He had very little time until the land was overrun with other clans that might be plotting over the demise of the McDougal clan.

  “It doesnae matter,” he stated as they walked into the cool interior of the thatched hut. “Ye taught me tae always be on mah guard.”

  Trevor just shook his head. “But not at the part of where ye dinnae do anything else, Will.” He clasped his shoulder, squeezing it. “Ye know I used tae be ye until I met Garia.”

  Will fought the urge to roll his eyes. He had heard this story far too many times, how she pulled him from the brink of his own demise. It was a nice story, and while Will was grateful that his mentor was happy, it was not meant to be his life.

  “I’m married tae mah sword,” he interrupted before the other Scot could start. “Ye know that.”

  Trevor arched a brow. “It must be a sight cold in the morning then.”

  Will punched him in the shoulder and they shared a laugh, giving Will a break from the constant worry in his mind. “Why dinnae ye come tae supper tonight?” Trevor suggested as they both took their drink of water from the barrel. “The bairns would like tae see ye.”

  “Nay. Another time,” Will replied. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind the children crawling all over him or the stories that he and Trevor would share over a nice meal. He just needed to focus on protecting the clan.

  Trevor shrugged. “’Tis yer loss then.”

  Trevor left shortly after, and Will spent the rest of his morning shining up the weapons in the armory, allowing the other warriors to train the new recruits. He then checked their supplies that would be going to the site, where he would set up a temporary shelter for the warriors that would be on guard there. They could ill afford any issues to happen out there, with no one monitoring the coming and goings of the clans—and they couldn’t let them get close to the village or the keep, for that matter. Having the games in the pasture allowed for the keep to remain untouched, but Will knew there would be those that would try to visit the tavern at night, looking for a willing body to keep them occupied. Warriors were a fickle lot. They desired violence first and then a wench to warm their beds second.

  Well, maybe a fine whiskey or ale second, but a wench was definitely third.

  That was where Will was headed, but not to find a wench. It was to strike a deal that would benefit them both.

  “Och, look who it is!” one of the wenches called out as he crossed the threshold of the tavern a few moments later. “’Tis the mighty William McDougal coming tae grace us with his presence!”

  “Ale,” Will told her, settling into one of the chairs at a table that was not already occupied.

  She huffed and
walked away, squealing when one of the other patrons pinched her behind. Will rubbed his forehead, chasing away the ache that was forming there. He didn’t like the tavern. It was too loud, filled with ruckus laughter and drunken Scots that had nothing better to do than to drink their days away. The wenches were willing, but it was the same faces every time.

  He would rather tug on his own cock than bury it in one of those lasses.

  “Wot are ye doin’ here?”

  Will looked up to find the formidable matron of the tavern. It was unheard of in most parts of Scotland to have a lass run a tavern, but Bertha McDougal had buried three husbands and was rumored to be on the hunt for the fourth. If he knew she would accept it, Will would have her as a warrior. A lass that went through as many changes as she had would be a welcome addition.

  “Bertha,” he said with a grin as she plunked his mug of ale before him. “’Tis good tae see ye.”

  The older woman snorted and fell into the chair across from him, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Ye never come in here unless ye want something. Just go on and spit it out so I can get back tae mah paying customers.”

  Will reached into the pouch at his waist and flipped a few coins on the table, far more than the mug of ale would cost him. Her eyes gleamed, and before he could take another breath, the coins had disappeared.

  “Wot would ye be wanting then, warrior?” she asked.

  He told her of his plan and when he was done, she burst into laughter. “Ye are wanting me tae ship mah girls tae the games? Wot am I going tae do here?”

  Will leaned forward. “Not have a wench for a night or two. Just think aboot the coin that will be floating around camp. It will be more than worth ye not having them here.”

  Bertha stroked her chin. “Aye, I could stand tae make a bit of coin.”

  Will knew he had her. The one thing that Bertha liked more than her husbands was the jingle of a fat pouch full of coins.

  “So ye will do it?”

  She sighed. “Aye, I will. But not for ye, Will. For mah lasses. Ye know, ye are getting up in the years. ’Tis time for ye tae be giving some lass bairns, isnae it?”

  Not her too.

  “Good doing business with ye, Bertha,” he said, standing.

  She winked at him. While she could be a hard lass, he did like her most of the time.

  “Ye too. If ye want one of mah girls, it’s on the house tonight.”

  He shot her a grin. “Next time.”

  The older woman laughed at that. He had never taken her up on her offer before. “Git out of here ye bastard.”

  Will drained his ale and walked out, breathing in the clean night air as he did so. His plan was now in motion, which meant he could keep the clans out of the village and bring the tavern to them.

  Sighing, he walked down to the village, past the huts that were aglow with evening light. He didn’t have a home; rather, the warrior ground was his home. He ate his meals there, sometimes choosing to wander to the keep if there was a need to do so. He knew that Cameron and Katherine would always welcome him at their table, and as their second-in-command, he had a room in the keep whenever he chose to sleep there.

  But it didn’t feel right to Will. He much preferred his solitude above all else.

  The training grounds were quiet as he walked through, wishing that he had taken up Trevor’s offer for a hot meal and some conversation. Before he had worked for the laird, Will had spent a lot of time alone, eating out of the gutter and trying to keep his father’s hut together. It was a failing mission, which was why he didn’t ever want to feel that failure again.

  Will walked into the barracks and found his bed, unstrapping his scabbard from his chest and placing it on the low shelf above his bed. His tunic and boots went next, but he left his breeks on, climbing under the musty-smelling blanket. There had been one time when he had slept naked, but a rogue raid party finding the keep in the middle of the night had broken him of that habit.

  Now he was on alert constantly; being a light sleeper kept him permanently exhausted.

  It was fine with Will. He didn’t need much sleep anyway.

  Stretching his arms behind his head, Will stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling, his thoughts going back to what Bertha had said about him having children. He didn’t want to put his own children in the same position that he had been as a young lad. He had nothing to offer a lass, as he wasn’t a Scot to stay in a hut and farm land. He much preferred to have a sword in his hand, the thrill of a good battle where he knew he was going to win.

  He even liked the blood every once and a while. It was a way to know that he had succeeded in his mission, a way to ensure that every move he learned, every hard day training on the warrior grounds, had come to fruition.

  But the battles came less and less with the peace treaties that were signed, and Will hadn’t found something to replace his time yet.

  Everyone else had.

  Trevor had liked the battles once. So had Cameron, yet they had found something rare and precious in their wives that kept them content.

  That wasn’t going to be his case. Trevor was right. The sword would be a mite cold in the morning, but it didn’t expect much out of him, and he didn’t expect much out of it—only to save his life every once in a while.

  That was all he wanted.

  Will let his eyes drift closed, his mind still whirling with thoughts about protecting his clan, his laird, his warriors. He would get through this next week and finish what he had already started. His clan would be safe and hopefully, they wouldn’t set another Highland games on McDougal land as long as he was in charge.

  5

  Breta looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. No one was ever going to believe she was a warrior, no matter how much padding Ferra shoved under her tunic.

  “There!” Ferra announced, stepping back with a wild gleam in her eyes. “’Tis more like his bulk, I think.”

  Breta turned to face her sister. “’Tis hopeless. I will never look like him.”

  Ferra threw the sheep’s wool on the bed before gathering her sister’s hands in hers. “Oh, come on, Breta! Ye cannae give up now! We are so close.”

  “We? Wot are ye getting out of this?”

  Ferra grinned. “The thrill, of course! Think of how we felt when Garia got away. It was unlike anything we had experienced before. And now ye are aboot tae embark on an epic journey that I can only dream aboot! Just think of wot ye will tell me.”

  Breta dropped her hands from Ferra’s. “’Tis much more than just a journey, Ferra. At least tae me.”

  The look on Ferra’s face told Breta she had hurt her sister’s feelings. “I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I didnae mean tae snap at ye.”

  Ferra waved a hand at her. “Ye’re right, of course. ’Tis much more tae ye, and I know ye will do just fine.”

  Breta reached under her tunic and removed the wool that was scratching her through her shift. “Let’s just take it all out. I will keep mah head down.”

  Ferra’s eyes widened. “Ye’re going?”

  Breta nodded. “Unless ye dinnae help me.” She had less than half an hour to get to the caravan.

  The sisters hurriedly removed the wool, and Breta draped the “borrowed” cloak over her shoulders, fastening it across her chest as she had seen her father’s warriors do.

  “Well?” she asked her sister. “Wot do ye think?”

  Ferra clasped her hands together. “Ye look like a warrior, Breta. A true warrior.”

  Breta gave herself one last look in the mirror, noting the way her cheeks were flushed with excitement. She was going to do this. She was going to leave her home and participate in the games on behalf of her clan.

  Of course, no one would know unless she didn’t win the games. Breta had already worked out in her mind whether or not she would reveal herself otherwise. Rather than face her father’s wrath, she wanted to wait until she won.

  If she won.

  Ferra handed her the sm
all pack she had put together. “Remember,” she said as Breta touched her tightly bound hair, “ye are a lad, not a lass. If they sleep in the dirt or piss off the side of a cliff, ye have tae do the same.”

  Breta laughed. “How the bloody hell am I tae piss off a cliff?”

  Ferra patted her shoulder. “I’m sure ye will figure it out.”

  Turning, Breta threw her arms around her sister. “I am going tae miss ye.”

  To her surprise, Ferra hugged her tightly. “Just come back in one piece, and unwed. I dinnae wish tae be left alone here.”

  Breta felt the prick of tears in her eyes, so she hurried out of the room and down the stairs, pulling the cloak up over her hair as she walked through the great hall. It was still early in the morning, so she was able to pass through relatively unscathed.

  Out in the courtyard, the buzz of activity was far different than the keep. Breta noted that the horses had already been readied for the warriors, and her father was standing in the midst of his warriors, giving his final words to them before they would all depart. Breta had heard his words before. Knowing that she was about to betray him made her turn away from his words.

  Instead, she found her horse that was waiting patiently off to the side. She swung up into the saddle, ensuring that her hood was still in place. No one noticed her as her father finished his speech, and his warriors mounted their horses, followed by the ones that would drive the wagon with the supplies to erect the tents in preparation for the laird.

  Breta nudged her horse in line with the rest of the warriors, keeping her head down as they moved past her father. Her heart was hammering away in her chest as she passed him, waiting for him to call her out and expose her ruse.