Captured by his Highland Kiss

by Eloise Madigan

  “I cannae bear the thought of ye leavin’,” he told her, three days before her and her family were due to leave the MacConnair castle.

  The two of them were huddled in the lee of an old granary, out of which a fine young pine had decided to sprout from a crack in the stonework. They were both huddled in cloaks, partly to disguise themselves but also because the weather had turned foul and the Highland rain was coming down.

  “I know,” Delilah said. “I don’t want to leave, either, but there’s nothing to be done at this stage. I won’t have you sully either of our family’s names, though it burns my heart to say it.” She moved in closer to him, as the wind blew a gust of rain into their little shelter.

  “I daenae ken how tae make this right, lass. It’s just as knotty a problem as I’ve ever faced. A pact between clans is a sacred bargain. Nigh on unbreakable.”

  “Well, Marcus Malloch,” Delilah said to him, “You better sleep on it tonight and find a way. As for now, I have another use for you, whilst we’re unobserved.”

  “Is that right?” Marcus said, with a wry grin. “Well, as me guest, I’m obliged tae make meself useful in any way required…”

  The rain came down harder. The two lovers molded into one shape in the gloom, hands touching tenderly, lips exploring. Marcus ran his fingertips down the side of Delilah’s neck, traced the line of her collarbone down to the swell of breast. His other hand held her by the waist, pressing her towards him, whilst Delilah’s own hand ran over the hard muscles of his chest and stomach under his shirt.

  However, as careful and discreet as they had been, it proved that they had not been as clever or stealthy as they had supposed. As they made their tryst, they were watched by a pair of inquisitive and jealous green eyes from the shadows that pooled like ink under the castle walls.

  In the dark, a quill, held in the hand of the cloaked spectator, scribbled inexpertly, making a scratching sound that heralded future misery.

  Chapter 7

  On the morning that the Earl of Glimouth and his family were scheduled to depart, a pageboy scurried into the stables where Marcus was just cinching the saddle girth of the horse he planned to take out on his morning ride.

  “Marcus,” the boy said.

  “Aye?”

  “The Laird requests yer presence in his chambers immediately.”

  “Does the me faither ken that I’m about tae go huntin’?”

  “He daes, sir. He told me tae tell ye that ye’ll stop what ye’re doin’ and attend him immediately.”

  Marcus cocked an eyebrow at this. The last time his father had sent for him with such haste, he had been packed off to war the very next day. He prayed that this was not something along the same lines.

  “All right, lad, ye unsaddle me horse fer me then, and I’ll go and see the Laird.”

  He strode into his father’s private chambers not long afterwards. His father stood in very much the same attitude as he had adopted four years previously. Now, though, he was alone, though he had the same grim expression on his face now as he had worn then.

  “Faither, is everythin’ all right?” Marcus asked.

  In response, Callum pulled a small scroll from his coat and slammed it down on his table, nearly upsetting the expensive silver inkwell.

  “Cast yer eye over this here letter, lad,” he said, barely contained fury coloring every syllable. “Read this missive and tell me whether ye think everythin’ is fine.”

  Mystified, Marcus walked slowly over to the desk, picked up the letter and began to read:

  To Callum Malloch,

  Laird o’ the MacConnair Clan,

  As ye ken, I’m nae a man tae mince his words. Keepin’ that in mind, I’ll tell ye that I’m writin’ tae ye this early because of a communication I received late last night; a communication that’s had me up all night ponderin’ the best course o’ action tae take.

  Tae understand the nature of’ me predicament, I should tell ye about the contents o’ this letter I received. It was a missive containin’ information—in great detail, detail as make me believe in the veracity of the information—about how yer son, Marcus, has been makin’ a mockery o’ the pact made betwixt himself and me daughter, Elspeth.

  The nameless author o’ this letter names places, times and particulars where yer son met in secret tryst wi’ the daughter o’ none other than the Earl o’ Glimouth. An English nobleman!

  If the slight on me daughter was nae enough, Malloch, yer lad couldn’ae have chosen a more reviled and inappropriate object fer his wayward affections! After all we went through these past three years, yer son has the gall tae take up wi’ some English doxy!

  Ye can consider the betrothal annulled in the eyes o’ my clan. If ye’ve any honor at all ye’ll make recompense fer the offence given by that lad o’ yers.

  Steward Ewan

  Laird o’ the Allerdice Clan

  Marcus set down the letter. His mouth was dry.

  “Faither, I—” he started.

  The Laird of the MacConnair clan cut him off with a look like a sword thrust.

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  “Faither—”

  “Is it true, lad?”

  Marcus looked at his father, a man he loved, a man he respected above all others. He squared his shoulders, prepared to face the wrath of the storm head on.

  “Aye,” the young Highlander said, “tis true.”

  The Laird seemed to deflate like a punctured sheep’s bladder.

  “What were ye thinkin’, lad? Why?”

  “Because I love her, Faither.”

  Callum looked at him sternly, though there was a slight glimmer—or so Marcus liked to think—of understanding in his dark eyes.

  “Well,” the Laird said, “ye will nae hear me chastise ye fer fallin’ in love, lad, ‘specially nae wi’ such a bonnie lass—and the daughter o’ me friend, tae boot. Why ye couldn’ae spoken up b’fore we settled the pact wi’ clan Allerdice, though…”

  This comment invited detailed explanation or silence, and Marcus was not sure he had the time to explain to his father all about the mystery of the wayward letters and the resulting quarrel and subsequent making up between he and Delilah. He elected to keep his mouth shut.

  No matter what he said now, the fact was that his actions had precipitated a rift between the clans MacConnair and Allerdice. It would be up to his father how he wished to go about bridging it.

  He watched his father’s face as the older man thought. After a while, his face settled into the cool and stony mask that Marcus recognized as his Laird’s face. When he spoke, it was in a voice that brooked no argument. As hard and implacable as granite.

  “Lad, ye may’ve followed yer heart in as far as this lass was concerned, but ye forgot a crucial thing when ye did so. Ye forgot that, before ye’re yer own man, ye’re my son; heir tae the seat of clan MacConnair. Yer first duty is nae tae yerself, but tae the people o’ this land who look tae ye fer protection and guidance.”

  At these words Marcus hung his head, for he felt them to be true.

  “Ye’ve tarnished the clan’s name, lad,” his father continued, “and it’s goin’ tae take some mighty heavy spade work tae dig it out o’ the mire.”

  Marcus, blinking back tears of self-reproach and guilt, asked in a firm voice, “What d’ye require me tae do tae try and make amends fer what I’ve done, Faither?”

  The Laird regarded him grimly from under his craggy brows.

  “I’m sendin’ ye away, son.”

  Marcus swallowed. “But, Faither—”

  “Daenae interrupt me, boy!” the Laird roared, spit spraying from his bearded lips, the sudden outburst almost sending Marcus scurrying for the door as it used to when he was a little lad. “Ye stand there and ask me what ye can do tae help clear up the mess that yer actions have landed us in, and then have the gall to say, ‘but’!”

  Marcus shut his mouth with a snap.

  “Ye’ll go huntin’ fer a week,” the Laird sai
d, his voice still thick with suppressed rage. “Winter’s never far away in these parts and ye’ll do yer part in stockin’ the game larder fer the harsh times ahead.”

  In the face of commonsense, Marcus interjected quickly, “Faither, may I at least say farewell tae—”

  His father raised his hand to silence him. “God knows ye’re tryin’ me, lad,” he said in a voice of venomous calm now. “Ye’ll shut yer trap until I finish or ye’ll find yerself on the business end of a wallopin’ the likes as ye’ve never head.”

  Marcus shut his mouth again.

  “Ye’ll leave us soon as we’re done talkin’ here,” his father said. “Ye’ll be escorted tae yer chambers by one o’ my personal guards and ye’ll pack a bag, choose a nag, and ride out. There’ll be nae sayin’ farewell to anyone but yer mither. That is all, lad. Now, get out o’ me sight.”

  Marcus made his way hurriedly to the door.

  “Marcus?” the Laird said.

  Marcus turned to look at his irate father. The older man was looking at him with a blend of sympathy and frustration.

  “Ye’ll learn that, as a Laird, sometimes the head must rule the heart, lad.”

  Delilah was in her parent’s chamber when the messenger came from the Laird asking her father for a private audience. The Earl smiled, bid his daughter and wife goodbye, and followed the page from the room.

  “I wonder what that could be about?” Lady Glimouth said, settling herself more comfortably in her chair by the fire and sipping from her cup of mulled cider. “It’s lucky, really, that your father was out of his robe at this time in the morning. He had the mind to take a morning constitutional around the grounds before breaking his fast.”

  Delilah did not answer. Her mind was full and happy with the thought of meeting Marcus later that morning. They had arranged to rendezvous in a copse next to a little stone bridge that crossed a stream nearby. Marcus had said that he wanted to show her a natural garden in which all sorts of wild herbs grew.

  The Earl of Glimouth returned a little while later. He was tailed by a serving man bearing a platter of food; fresh brown bread, butter, honey, cold chicken, and some salted herring.

  Delilah buttered a piece of bread with her knife and took a bite, thinking that her father looked unusually pensive.

  “Is everything all right, Father?” she asked, after the servant had departed with a courteous bow.

  Lord Glimouth looked up but did not answer. He gazed at Delilah with eyes that seemed to see right through her, all the way to the horizon.

  “You do seem in an odd mood, husband,” Delilah’s mother said. “Is all well with Laird MacConnair?”

  Lord Glimouth picked up a chicken breast, tore it in half and looked at it thoughtfully. Then he said, “I’m afraid that we must leave earlier today than planned, my dears—straight after we have broken our fast, in fact.”

  Delilah’s head shot up at this and she almost choked on her bread and butter.

  “What? Why?” she asked.

  Lord Glimouth had a mouthful of chicken and did not answer.

  “This is awfully abrupt, Henry,” his wife said. She took a mouthful of salted herring, closed her eyes in delight as she chewed. “I shall have to take a crate of these herring home with us, they’re simply divine!”

  “Father, why must we leave? Why so soon?” Delilah asked. Already her mind was reeling through the possibility of how she could eek out another day or so at the MacConnair castle. Another day or two with Marcus.

  The Earl subjected his daughter to a very penetrative, very knowing glance.

  “A matter of some urgency has arisen concerning Laird MacConnair and one of his neighbors, Laird Ewan.”

  The piece of bread that Delilah had been fiddling with dropped from her fingers.

  “This matter necessitates us leaving as soon as we are able. My friend feels he will be unable to provide us with the attention that he would like whilst he deals with this diplomatic issue.”

  Delilah’s palms had gone very damp. She swallowed, trying to hitch a look of mildly annoyed inconvenience onto her face.

  “Really, Father,” she said, “that’s most tiresome. I’d planned to take a walk around the countryside today. I—”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately, the world does not revolve around your diversions, Delilah,” the Earl snapped. “We must accommodate the Laird’s wishes in this. It’s for the good of his clan that he has made this request of me, and as his friend, I will oblige him. His son has already ridden away to do his part in repairing this little breech in inter-clan relations.”

  A breech between clans? With Laird Ewan… And Marcus is gone.

  The Earl had turned away and already started getting his things together.

  “I suggest you get dressed and start on your packing, my dears,” he said. “I have thanked the Laird and his wife on your behalves already. Men will be here for the baggage soon. I advise you to make all haste.”

  And so the Glimouth carriage rode out from the MacConnair castle. Delilah, though she had been told that Marcus had already been sent on an errand, peered hopefully out of the window of the carriage as it clattered through the village. Her eyes flicked over the rugged and windswept moorland, hoping for a sign of a horse and a rider.

  But all she saw was the wind in the grass.

  Chapter 8

  A few days after the Glimouths had returned to England, Delilah was sitting in one of the drawing rooms, doing some needlework in the bright sunshine that was coming in through one of the large windows.

  She enjoyed needlework. The careful stitching of the needle and thread, the delicate unpicking of mistakes, and the way that the design formed slowly and patiently in front of her eyes, all these facets of it leant her an aspect of control that she did not feel in her day-to-day life.

  She had been making a lot of mistakes on this particular piece of embroidery. This was due to the fact that, whilst her fingers moved clumsily about the fabric of their own accord, her mind was thinking of Marcus.

  Where is he, exactly?

  Is his business to do with Elspeth Ewan?

  When will he return and when should I write to him?

  These questions and more flitted around her head like colorful caged songbirds, twittering constantly, never ceasing in their movements.

  It occurred to her that she was a woman grown and could write to anyone she pleased, whenever she liked. However, it also occurred to her that writing to a betrothed man less than a week after she had seen him would definitely be construed as wanton behavior by her mother.

  Perhaps, even now, Marcus is being married to this Elspeth Ewan. Perhaps, even as you sit here, they are sealing the holiest of bonds.

  These traitorous thoughts crystalized in Delilah’s mind like frost. What would she do if the next thing she heard was that Marcus had taken a Highland bride? Chance and Fate all pointed towards that being the most likely outcome.

  Delilah had just set down her woeful piece of embroidery and was of the mind that she might take some refreshment, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Delilah said.

  The Earl walked in. He was back to his amiable self, now that they were at home. Delilah had endeavored to pry the specifics of the trouble between the MacConnair and Allerdice clans one evening after her father had had a couple of glasses of port. Her father, however, had kept his silence.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, darling,” he said, sitting himself down in a chair.

  “Not at all,” Delilah replied. “In fact, I was just about to ring for a little fruit and perhaps some blackcurrant leaf tea, if you’d care to join me?”

  “Thank you, no,” her father said. He gave her a strained smile. “Delilah, I wanted to have a brief discussion with you about your future.”

  Delilah’s hand paused by the bell. She sat back in her chair and clasped her hands in her lap.

  “What about it?” she asked.

  “Well, you are of an age to be marrie
d now.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” Delilah said. She tried to speak lightly, but a leaden feeling was settling in her stomach.

  Her father rubbed distractedly at his chin, his eyes moving about the room as if he might find words there that could help him express what was passing through his mind.

  “Yes, well, you see, dear, there is something that I must tell you. Something that may come as a bit of a shock to you.”

  “Yes,” Delilah said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Well, dear,” her father said, and Delilah got the definite sense that Lord Glimouth was steeling himself like a man walking out to the gallows, “the thing is that, well, a gentleman of exquisite lineage has come to me asking for your hand in marriage.”

  Delilah’s heart seemed to stall in her chest, her blood congealing in her veins.

  “And, well, I’ve agreed to the betrothal,” Lord Glimouth finished. He dabbed at a bead of perspiration that had sprung out on his forehead.

  Delilah sat like a stunned fish. She gaped silently. Her crystalline blue eyes felt as if they might bulge out of her head. She stammered incoherently for a moment or two and then said, “Who?”

  Her father let out a breath. Now that the actual breaking of the news had been done, he appeared to be a bit surer of himself. A man who was now standing on more solid ground.

  “He sounds a pleasant young man,” he said, smiling ingratiatingly at his pale-faced daughter. “He’s a Viscount, don’t you know. Viscount Keicester. As I say, he is young—only a few years older than you, I believe—and has done extremely well for himself. He lives in palatial splendor, if the stories are to be believed, so you will never need for anything.”

  Delilah simply did not know what to say. She felt as one who has been strolling along, mulling over a set of tribulations that she thinks quite troublesome, only to be snuck up and clobbered by a far greater and life-altering problem that she had no idea about.

  “Is that right?” she said, faintly.

  The Earl looked at his daughter with a sort of apprehensive relief. Delilah could tell that, because she was not crying or screaming hysterically, her father was allowing himself to believe that his daughter was quite all right with this hideous scheme that he had thrust on her.