The Highland Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  “Nay, you are as graceful as a swan.” Ciar swiped away the blood across her brow. “Mark me, I will have a word with the serving staff before this day ends. There is no excuse for the careless way your crates and portmanteaus were strewn about.”

  Emma gripped his wrist. “I ken they were afraid to touch my things for the fear of it.”

  “Balderdash.” Ciar finished his work and rocked back. She’d most likely have two black eyes, but he’d ensure not a soul uttered a damned word about it. “They’re MacDougalls, and if anyone speaks of superstition, I will personally escort them out the door.”

  Sighing, Emma did not appear convinced. “Mayhap we’ll end up with no servants whatsoever.”

  “Nonsense.” He softly chuckled to put her at ease. “You’ll have Betty. I’ll have Livingstone…and Cook thinks the world of you already.”

  Thank heavens Emma smiled, even if it wasn’t quite as radiant as usual. “What else do we need?”

  “Only our happiness.” Breathing a sigh of relief, he tossed the cloth on the bedside table and moved his hand to her knee. “Are your legs still in working order?”

  She flexed her feet. “Aye.”

  He swung her knees over the side of the mattress and took her hands. “Well then, there’s an entire keep with which you must acquaint yourself.”

  She groaned. “’Tis all so overwhelming.”

  “Now that the footmen have moved your trunks where they belong, we shall start with this chamber, and I’m going to count every damned pace with you. I swear, my love, within a month you will be as familiar with Dunollie as you are with Moriston Hall.”

  “A month?” She cringed as he put the cane in her hand and pulled Albert off the bed. “I cannot possibly.”

  “Hmm. I for one would never bet against you. Look how you took to Achnacarry and then to Gylen. You needn’t have a fear.”

  * * *

  Emma sat in her solar, practicing her Celtic harp with Albert at her feet. She’d only been at Dunollie a day and had already memorized several chambers in the keep, including her very own solar. Ciar had gone to speak to the servants, which made her nervous, though focusing on the music helped to ease her discomfort.

  She prayed he was right, and the people here would grow fond of her—or at least not fear her. As Ciar had patiently helped her count paces, she realized she could accomplish and endure anything with him at her side. She was Lady Dunollie now. She had broken into a fortress and freed an innocent man. She had hidden in the cellars of a ruined castle and learned exactly what it was to love. She had endured the stocks and faced the ire of her brother. And through it all her feelings for Ciar had never faltered.

  With her husband beside her, she must hold her chin high—have the courage to show the clansmen and women that she was worthy of her station.

  Emma stopped playing as Albert growled and leaned against her.

  “Beg your pardon, m’lady,” said a young man from the doorway. “I’m Bram, and this is Tavish.”

  She uprighted her harp. “Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she heard a smack—not a hard one, but these two lads were obviously nervous. “Go on,” said another, seemingly Tavish.

  “We came to apologize for leaving your things askew,” said Bram.

  “Uh…” Tavish seemed to be a bit tongue-tied. “We didn’t intend for you to fall.”

  “Aye, and cause those awful bruises—”

  “Enough,” Ciar boomed from behind the lads as if he might be ready to give them each a hiding.

  Emma smiled. Had he been in the corridor since the boys stepped inside? And what was it about the bruises? Her husband had insisted the marks were scarcely noticeable, but by the tenderness of her nose and beneath her eyes, they were probably worse than he let on. “I thank you for your apology.”

  “Your music is bonny,” said Bram.

  “It surely is,” Tavish agreed.

  “Would you like to hear more of it?” asked Ciar in a much more civil tone.

  The two lads agreed with resounding ayes, and Emma reached for the harp, readying her hands.

  “Well then. I do believe ’tis time to celebrate our nuptials with Clan MacDougall.” Ciar stepped so near, his spiciness swirled about her. “Let us feast on the morrow, and Her Ladyship will play for you.”

  “Oh, no.” Emma shoved the harp back. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hmm, just like your reluctance to perform at Achnacarry?”

  Emma’s chest tightened. “Please, not the morrow. I need time to settle in—a sennight, a fortnight?”

  “Very well, if that is what you wish.” He removed his hand. “Off to the wood heap with you lads.”

  “I’m sorry.” After the door closed, she gripped his wrist. “I cannot perform with these awful bruises. I’d prefer to wait for them to fade.”

  He lightly pinched her chin and moved her head left then right. “Your bruises are nothing Betty cannot hide with a wee bit of powder. And mark me, the sooner you demonstrate your indisputable qualifications to be the lady of this house, the sooner you’ll earn your due respect.”

  Emma plucked a high E. “I have a meeting this afternoon with Cook to review the menu. At that time I will discuss the feast. Mark me, we will plan a meal like no other.”

  “In a week,” he said as if it were decided. “And I shall ensure the excitement builds among the clan. By the time the day comes, people will be champing at the bit to file into the hall.”

  She kissed his hand. Oh, how she loved this man. “See? With a wee bit of planning it will be marvelous.”

  Giving her a squeeze, he chuckled. “Ye ken you can charm the grumpiest troll in Christendom with your music. I vow, by the end of the evening every last one of them will fall in love with you.”

  * * *

  It took no time at all for a sennight to pass, thank God. And though his wife had her reservations about playing, Ciar felt it was best to astound the clan with a demonstration of Emma’s brilliance. He would have preferred it sooner, but he understood, and the bruising on her face had faded markedly. In truth, when they’d first arrived, he’d also heard the whispers and seen the stunned looks from the servants, and the most fitting time to show them the extent of his wife’s charm was now.

  The crowd grew quiet as he took his place on the dais. “What say you?” he asked. “Did Cook not prepare the most delicious feast you have ever enjoyed?”

  “Aye!” they responded with raucous applause.

  “Indeed, our bellies are full, which, in part, is due to Lady Dunollie’s particular attention to this evening’s menu.”

  Again came applause, though somewhat more reserved.

  Ciar clasped his hands behind his back. “Let me share with you a wee morsel about Her Ladyship. I have known Emma since I was a lad. And I think I fell in love with her the first time we met. She was about seven years of age at the time, and full of happiness and laughter. In fact, I challenge each of you not to smile when you find yourself in her presence.”

  He paced a bit. “Born early, she was not given the gift of sight which most of us take for granted. But she sees so much more of the world than any of us can imagine.” Ciar thrust his hand toward his wife, who waited along the east wall with Betty. “She taught me more about honeysuckle and flowers than I ever learned from my tutors. In a mere week, her keen mind has already conjured a detailed diagram of every chamber and every piece of furniture in this keep. And if it weren’t for her courage, I might have swung from Fort William’s gallows as an innocent man.”

  As gasps and murmurs resounded, Ciar held up his hands. “Without further ado, please join me in welcoming Lady Dunollie, my wife. And if you are not thoroughly enchanted by her music, then I say there is no hope for you.”

  He took his seat while Emma confidently climbed the stairs and situated herself with her Celtic harp. She’d chosen a series of Highland folk songs fa
miliar to everyone. Ciar closed his eyes and thoroughly enjoyed the first two pieces, but on the third, he glanced over his shoulder.

  No one moved. All eyes focused on her. Each face had a smile or an expression of utter awe. His heart soared. By God’s grace, she would be happy here. And by the applause at the end of the performance, she had earned the admiration of young and old alike.

  Ciar climbed the dais, pulled Emma into his arms, and kissed her. “You were astonishing, as always.”

  She patted her chest. “I hope they liked it,” she said as the applause continued.

  “They’re standing for you. If that’s not a fine display of appreciation, I do not know what is.”

  Cook met them on the dais with a plate in his hand. “As a surprise for Her Ladyship and to show our appreciation, I have made a trifle smothered with elderberry syrup. ’Tis my understanding elderberries are your favorite, m’laird.”

  Grinning, Emma drew her fingers over her lips. “I told him we are quite fond of elderberry jam.”

  Ciar threw his head back and laughed. “Indeed, I believe it is my favorite and will be forevermore.”

  After the dessert was served with glasses of port wine, Ciar took his wife to his chamber, where they had been sharing his enormous four-poster bed, and Albert welcomed them with excited wags of his tail.

  Ciar gave the dog a scratch. “Did ye ken your lady is a musical genius?”

  Emma scoffed. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Taking both of her hands, he pulled her around in a circle. “I believe you are. You captured my heart with your playing for certain.”

  “Oh, ’twas my harp that won your heart?”

  “Nay, lass.” He wrapped his arms around her and gazed upon the bonniest face he’d ever seen. “Ye ken my heart was lost the first time I set eyes on you. It just took my stubborn head near fifteen years to realize it, is all.”

  Dipping his chin, he captured her bow-shaped lips, claiming them thoroughly and possessively.

  As he nuzzled her neck, Emma swayed in his arms. “I must also admit I’ve loved you since the first day you visited Moriston Hall.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye, but unlike you, I realized it straightaway. Since that day no other has made my heart flutter the way it does whenever you are near.”

  Epilogue

  Nine months later

  How can you be so bloody idle at a time like this?” Ciar paced in front of the hearth in his bedchamber while Livingstone had the gall to calmly sit at the table and nurse a dram of whisky.

  The man-at-arms poured a second glass. “Come join me. Only the Lord kens how much longer this will last.”

  Another shriek of complete and utter agony came from Emma’s adjoining chamber. Every time she cried out, Ciar wanted to kick in the door and grovel at her bedside while begging God to assail him with her pain.

  At his wit’s end, he marched across the floor and threw back a gulp of spirit. The amber liquid burned his gullet on the way down, though the rush spreading from his empty stomach did nothing to assuage his worry.

  His eyes watered. “What if she doesn’t survive?”

  Livingstone looked to the ceiling’s plaster relief. “If I ken anything about your wife, she’s as strong as they come. She will weather childbirth as she has everything else.”

  “Push, m’lady!” shouted Betty.

  Ciar hastened to the door and grabbed the latch.

  “You’d best not go in there until you’re summoned.” Livingstone cleaned his thumbnail with a dagger. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Blast!” Ciar cursed, dropping his hand.

  “’Tis nearly over,” cooed the midwife. “You’ll be holding your bairn in your arms in no time.”

  “Argh!” Emma cried. “It.…eeeee. Hurts!”

  Unable to withstand his wife’s screaming for a moment longer, he pulled open the door.

  “No!” Emma cried, hugging her knees.

  “Out!” shouted Betty, thrusting her finger at the door.

  “We’ll fetch you soon,” said the midwife. How she could remain calm was beyond him.

  Grumbling, Ciar marched back to the table and threw back the rest of his dram to the sound of Betty shouting, “Push, push, push!” like a sergeant at arms belting orders.

  Emma’s screeches grated akin to iron spikes running down Ciar’s back. “When will this torture be over?”

  As soon as the words escaped his lips, everything grew eerily silent.

  Ciar’s breath stopped.

  His heart stopped as well.

  Ice shot through his blood…

  Then came a smack and a shrill cry. A glorious, magical, blessed cry. He stood stunned until the door opened and the midwife appeared holding a bundle of swaddling. “You have a son, m’laird.”

  Tingles spread from the top of his head all the way down to his toes. “’Tis a lad?”

  “Aye.”

  Hardly stopping to look at the bairn, Ciar raced into the lady’s chamber, straight to Emma’s side. Grasping her hands, he fell to his knees. “Please forgive me. Please, please, please. I love you and can never, ever put you through this again.”

  Emma smoothed her hand over his head. “There is nothing to forgive, my love.”

  “He can see, m’lady,” said Betty, slowly moving a red ribbon in front of the babe’s face. “He’s tracking.”

  Ciar slowly pushed himself to his feet. “Truly?”

  With a reassuring smile, the midwife set the bairn in his arms. “The bairn’s eyes are not yet developed, but the maid is right. I’m certain he is not blind.”

  He froze where he stood while the warm bundle wriggled in his arms. The wee lad was so tiny; what if Ciar squeezed too tight or, God forbid, dropped the precious child? His child. His firstborn.

  With his next blink, the babe’s face turned bright red, followed by a hellacious wail. Every muscle in Ciar’s body tensed as he held the infant at arm’s length, thrusting it toward the midwife. “W-what’s wrong with him?”

  Chuckling, the woman urged him to draw the babe back into his chest. “Relax, m’laird. All he needs is a bit of affection.”

  He dumbly stared at the wailing lad. “Affection?”

  “Aye, give him a wee bounce and use a soothing voice.”

  Ciar took in a deep breath and willed the tension away. “Is this how you greet your father, with a mighty MacDougall wail?” he asked as softly as a man of his size could, moving toward the bed. With his movement the crying stopped. “That’s quite a bit better, son. You wouldn’t want to appear unhappy the first time you meet your mother, now would ye?”

  As Ciar leaned toward his wife, cradling his newborn son, Emma carefully swept her fingers across the lad’s face. The radiance of her smile lit up the entire chamber. “I see you, little man. And you are perfect.”

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  Author’s Note

  Hello and thank you for joining me for Ciar (pronounced Key-ar) and Emma’s story! I had originally planned something different for the MacDougall laird, but after Emma’s supporting role in The Highland Renegade, so many readers wrote in and asked for her happily ever after, I absolutely had to write it.

  I initially developed Emma’s character simply to add a new dynamic to Renegade and hadn’t planned for her to have her own story. But some things must come about by popular vote! Let me tell you, it was very difficult to write a blind heroine, and I copiously studied Helen Keller’s autobiography to help me work through it.

  Ciar was born John (Ian Ciar) MacDougall, 22nd Chief of Dunollie. In truth, he married Mary, daughter of William MacDonald of Sleat. He did, however, sail fourteen ships to the Isle of Skye to bring her to Dunollie. Ciar was renowned for his bravery and swordsmanship, and his man-at-arms, Livingstone, remained a staunch ally throughout Dunollie’s life.

 
Also of note, Gylen Castle on the Isle of Kerrera, built by Ciar’s ancestors in 1582, was razed by Cromwell forces in 1647 in the Wars of the Three Kingdoms. A detachment of Covenanters, drawn from Colonel James Montgomery’s Regiment of Foot, besieged the castle, eventually forcing the clansmen inside to surrender. The castle was then sacked and burned while Cromwell’s men massacred the MacDougalls save John, a child who happened to be the heir and the man who became Ciar’s grandfather. Unfortunately, Gylen does not have a labyrinth of cellars rebuilt as a hiding place, which would have been wise. After Queen Anne’s death, fifty-three Catholics were passed over in the succession to bring a protestant king to the throne, causing outrage among the Jacobites and thus the ensuing risings of 1715 and 1745. After Anne’s death, Ciar supported James Francis Edward Stuart and the fruitless attempts of the “Old Pretender” to claim the throne. Dunollie ended up spending twelve years in exile in Ireland before he was pardoned in 1727, at which time he returned to his ancestral home.

  About the Author

  Award-winning and Amazon All-Star author Amy Jarecki likes to grab life, latch on, and reach for the stars. She’s married to a mountain-biking pharmacist and has put four kids through college. She studies karate, ballet, and yoga, and often you’ll find her hiking Utah’s Santa Clara Hills. Reinventing herself a number of times, Amy sang and danced with the Follies, and was a ballet dancer, a plant manager, and an accountant for Arnott’s Biscuits in Australia. After earning her MBA from Heroit-Watt University in Scotland, she dove into the world of Scottish historical romance and hasn’t returned. Become a part of her world and learn more about Amy’s books at amyjarecki.com.

  Also by Amy Jarecki

  Lords of the Highlands series

  The Highland Duke

  The Highland Commander

  The Highland Guardian

  The Highland Chieftain