The Highlander's Captured Bride (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Eloise Madigan

  A shadow crossed over her father’s face. She held her breath, hoping he would change his mind, but he only sighed. “I would want to, aye, but I put that part of me life behind me.”

  “I ken, Faither, but please, let us help this man with his son,” she pleaded. “It sounds too distressing for us to pass off.”

  “But Violet—”

  “Ken of it from a faither’s standpoint,” she began to bargain. “if anything would have happened to me, ye would have moved heaven and earth to get answers, wouldnae ye?”

  A conflicted look passed over his face and she knew she had chipped into his defense, so she pressed on. “That man is only doing the same, and he called ye because he must have some faith in yer reputation for nae leaving any case unsolved.”

  Her father was wavering. She saw myriad emotions cross his face, but eventually, his shoulders sagged. “I suppose we can go. Get dressed and pack a few things. I do hope we won’t be there too long. And—” he paused to sniff the air, “—I ken our meal is ready. Is there enough to give the man a bowl?

  “I ken there is,” she smiled and kissed her father’s cheek. “Thank ye, Faither.”

  * * *

  It was not the drawbridge or the curtain wall, nor was it the men in dark leather armor crossing the walkways that took her breath away; it was the dual towers that seemed to extend to the heavens. She paused her horse just to gaze at them and wonder. Pennants flew above, dark blue flags with a roaring dragon stitched in the middle. Violet swallowed tightly.

  Looking over her shoulder at the way they had come, she marveled that such splendor was the highland of Argyll. The many travels she and her father had done over the years had never taken her this far in Scotland. The metallic scrape of the bridge being lowered caught her attention.

  She nudged her horse forward, not having the time to reflect on the verdant forest and large plains they had passed through to get to this castle. The wooden echo of their horses’ hooves on the bridge made her stomach tighten. They passed under an overpass and as they emerged into a rotunda, and her eyebrows shot to her hairline. The castle was before her, but it had…arms. She spun and saw that what they had passed under was a part of the castle. Those “arms” had connected to become that overpass.

  “Me God,” she whispered at the uniqueness of the construction.

  A burly man came out of the front doors; his thick chest and body covered with a gray and blue plaid with fringes. She noticed his dark brown hair was close-cut but his beard was heavy. He nodded to something—or someone—behind them and two tall youths—twins-- came to help them off their mounts.

  She easily alighted from her sidesaddle pose, and as her feet met the ground, she thanked him. Her father, now down on the ground, was fixing his coat when the man from the steps hurried to them. She sensed an air of power around him even though he was a good twenty feet away.

  Mayhap he is the Laird?

  She stepped behind her father as the man came closer and extended his hand, “Mister O’Cain, I take it? I’m Balgair MacFerson, Laird of the MacFerson Clan. Thank ye for coming on such short notice.”

  Her father shook the Laird’s hand. “Thank ye for having us, and I am sorry for yer loss.”

  Mister MacFerson looked over to her in surprise. “Yer daughter, I assume?”

  “Aye,” her father replied. “She was the one who convinced me to take this case, as I am retired from investigator work. But I am here and willing to help ye. What do ye need from me?”

  “If ye dinnae mind,” the Laird said, “I ken the journey was for a time and ye might be tired, but I —” the man’s face went tight and his voice was suddenly laden with grief, “—I found me son’s body today and I want ye to look at it before we move it, if it’s nay too much of a trouble.”

  “None at all,” her father said. “Just show us where he is.”

  “Us?” Mister MacFerson’s head swiveled between them. “Ye let yer daughter see such… macabre things?”

  Her father bestowed a fine look at her, “Violet has helped me a lot of times in solving me cases, either by discussing the facts with me after we are given one or assessing the murder herself on the spot. She’s done so since she was six-and-ten.”

  The Laird shook his head, as if the very notion of a woman helping her father with such things was the most mysterious concept he had ever come across. “If yer sure, please, follow me.”

  She was a step behind the two men, looking around as the Laird led them through a side gate and down a slope. She noted the forest line, the mountains beyond them, and the few stone walls that were far off. As they came around a corner, she saw five men there, two standing aside a covered body—evidenced by the booted feet sticking out from under the blanket.

  The Laird lifted his hand and the men bowed. “This is Mister O’Cain, the man I sent for. Please, take the blanket off.”

  Violet shifted to the side as the dark woolen cloth was taken off, and sucked in a breath. The man was handsome, but the gash across his neck and the dried blood staining his clothes overshadowed his handsomeness. She began to look around to see if the attacker had dropped the weapon he had used or if there were snatches of cloth on the nearby branches…when her eye landed on a man sitting in the shadows.

  Her breath was trapped in her throat. His blond hair, somewhat familiar to the dead man’s, though lighter and more flaxen, was hung over into his eyes, shielding his face and his arms were braced on his knees. She wanted to see him—and as if God granted her wish, he looked up and met her eyes with dulled green.

  With her breath still hitched in her lungs, Violet felt that she could not turn away from his spellbinding orbs. When his head canted to the side and a small smile was gifted to her, she felt air begin to flow into her chest again.

  Her attention was called when her father spoke. “What are the circumstances that led him to be here?”

  “I can tell ye that.” The man from the shadows came forward. “I am Ethan, and me brother, Finley, had gone hunting and came back with the kills. He then went to a tavern and left with a woman—” he massaged his forehead, “—that we just cannae seem to find anywhere, and came back late and alone. We suspect that was when he was attacked.”

  Tearing herself away from the other man, she went to her father's side and looked at the body, where her eyes landed on something curious. “Faither… do ye see something amiss, here?”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Amiss?”

  “I mean, do ye nay see something here that should be seen?” she clarified. “There are nay bruises on his body, his knuckles are nay marked, which means he dinnae fight back.”

  “Aye,” her father agreed. “I saw that as well, but assumed he was drunk. There is a wineskin in his hand.”

  “Even so,” Ethan shook his head and moved by her side, “me brother would nay let an attacker get off scot-free, he would fight back, drunk or nay. May I?” he asked, gesturing to the wineskin while looking at Violet’s father.

  With a nod of permission, Ethan knelt and pried the wineskin from his brother’s grip and put it to his mouth. Instantly, he spat it out with a grimace. “This is nay wine, Faither…” he tipped the wineskin over and dark murky liquid spilled out. “This is sleeping draught… I ken it is because I’ve tasted it too many times. This is made from our healers.”

  2

  How the lass had seen the absence of injuries on Finley’s body amazed Ethan. She had seen something that had flown over his head, and all those around him. He had not been able to think about his dead brother, much less look at him.

  The wound that had lanced through his heart sank deeper and deeper, carving into his soul. To know that he would never see his brother again, to never feel his playful nudge on his head or Finley’s constant teasing remark that he should move out and live with the horses instead of in a house, made his heart feel slashed in half.

  After their futile mission of finding the woman Finley had left with, he had come back to mere feet
away from his brother, but those feet felt like miles. An invisible bolder had rested on his shoulders, dragging him down so heavily that lifting his head felt like he was breaking his neck.

  But then…the lass. In her brown dress, she looked merged with the wood around her, but her mass of curls cascading around her neck and shoulders set her apart from her surroundings. Her bright eyes, dark like her tresses, were inquisitive but had a hint of shyness. But that bashfulness disappeared when she had examined his brother’s body.

  Her words were so clear and concise, he began to wonder, are there two sides to the lass…or more.

  Staring at the ground where he had spit out the drought, he stood and let the wineskin fall from his fingers, “This is why they were able…” he grimaced, “to kill him without trouble. He was asleep.”

  The lass turned to him and gave a sympathetic smile; her eyes were brimming with compassion. Briefly, he wondered if she had ever faced something like this before. “Are our healers a part of this?”

  “That is…” her father stopped, “…rather despicable.”

  Laird MacFerson rubbed his beard and sighed heavily. “That is nay good news; now we have thirteen healers to question. That draught isnae able to keep storage, so it must have been brewed last night.”

  “May I see his quarters?” Mister O’Cain asked. “Mayhap there might be some leads there.”

  Ethan looked at his father, and the lines in the man’s face were deeper than he had ever seen them. “Why nay? If time passes, ye are welcome to stay the night.”

  His eyes slid to the lass—Violet, was it?— and watched her. She did not move, but looked impassive while facing her father. He prayed time would spin past so she could stay. In the dimness of the forest’s cover, he had not seen her face but wanted to see her clearly.

  “Faither?” she asked.

  “Let’s see the room first,” Mister O’Cain said, tugging his coat off and folding it over his arm. “Violet, ye dinnae need to come with me—” Her mouth opened but his warning look had her closing it, “—Laird MacFerson, can ye give me daughter some food? We barely ate before coming.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Ethan, take the lass to the kitchens and have them give her our finest roast.”

  He walked closer to the lass and they stepped out from under the cover of the forest trees. Under the cooling sunlight, Miss O’Cain’s heart-shaped face came into focus and her dark lustrous locks, curling around the graceful curve of her neck, shimmered in the sunlight.

  She had a pert nose, softly flushed cheeks and her full, lips—that she was nibbling at one corner—sent an unaccounted-for warmth of attraction thrumming through his veins but he could not jerk his gaze away. The brown traveling frock she wore was a bit shapeless, but still displayed her delicate bosom and nipped-in waist.

  “Aye, Faither,” he said and extended his arm to her. “Please, come with me.”

  Her hand rested on his softly. He guided her up the slope, through the side gate, past the rotunda, and finally into the castle. He felt the pride of his home fill him when her wide eyes traced over the three stories and the towers. He loved how she suddenly swung from shrewd to childlike.

  The great hall was not filled yet, but it soon would be for supper, so he took her into the kitchen where he found a small table. The staff were bustling around them but did not stop to shoot them curious looks.

  He drew a chair and sat. “Is there anything ye dinnae eat?”

  “Pig meat,” she said wrinkling her little nose, “It tastes horrid to me.”

  “Good,” he attempted to grin, but his motion fell halfway, “We don’t eat pork either.” Calling a servant over, he asked if supper was ready but was told it was not. However, there was bread and cheese and warm milk if she wanted. Violet opted for the milk.

  He felt her eyes on him, but didn’t meet them, “Master MacFerson—”

  “Ethan, please,” he murmured, and she nodded.

  “Ethan then,” she amended, “and please, call me Violet. How close were ye and yer brother?”

  “Very.” His eyes were on the flickering fire, and he remembered a specific day. Finley was handing him his first steel sword at fourteen, after he had excelled in the wooden one. “He was me best friend and worst tormentor. He made sure to swim with me every mornin’ when we were bairns, but made sure to flip porridge in me face when we ate. As we grew, he helped me ride me first horse but prided himself in trouncing me at sword fighting.”

  “Sounds like he loved ye,” Violet mused. “A little violent but I suppose that is what brothers do.”

  A servant came forward and laid the food on the table. Violet looked down. “Arenae ye going to eat too?”

  “Nay,” he sighed. “I have nae appetite. Please, eat yer fill.”

  She reached for the warm milk and sipped it before looking at the cup clasped in her hands. “I ken what if feels like…” her sad tone had his eyes flicking to her and then down to her bottom lip that she was worrying. “When me mother died, I felt like a part of me had been ripped away, a corner of me heart shattered and would never be mended.”

  “When was that?” Ethan gently prodded. He did not want to rake up any bad memories, but he had a feeling that she had come to some peace with her mother’s death.

  “Sixteen years ago, when I was four,” she said with a wry smile. “Me Faither was devastated.”

  A quick adding up, he realized Violet was twenty, six years younger than he was. He watched her avoid eye contact with him and how she trailed her eyes down at her untasted food. Violet was a grown woman, but he could bet she was pure, and untouched.

  He tried to ignore the flash of warmth he had felt for her and began to fight his attraction for her, as it felt wrong.

  This is nay the time or place for this… me brother was just killed.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” His mind ran onto his mother who was very faint-hearted and prone to nervous hysterics at time. When they had found Finley dead, his father had made the mistake of telling her directly instead of spoon-feeding it to her. She had flown into hysteria and the healers had rushed to give her some sleeping tea and she was probably still asleep to this late hour.

  “I took on a lot of responsibilities then…” Violet’s tone was far away as if mired in her memories. “I learned to cook and clean while following him on his cases…” she laughed softly. “The things I’ve seen over the years…”

  His curiosity was prodded, “Like what?”

  The call came for supper and she postponed getting into the details. “We can speak after.”

  He stood to hold out her chair and she gifted him with a beautiful smile. He took her into the main hall, one that usually had a constant air of cheer inside and was now sober and saddened. As they neared the dais, he made sure to look at Miss Violet, whose face showed wonder, curiosity, and sympathy.

  The high table was spread with a blue cloth, and two thick tallow candles spaced at points where all who were eating could see. The fireplaces were bright and flickering and so were the candles, but the food was not coming out yet. He met inquisitive gazes as they sat but no one came forward. He took his place and trained his eyes on the doorway where his father was bound to come out from.

  “Who is that?” Violet murmured, and his eyes flicked to the direction she was looking in and saw a slender form winding slender form through the tables and people in the great hall.

  “‘Tis me uncle,” he said standing to greet him. Callum MacFerson stepped up and Ethan embraced him. “Welcome. ‘Tis sad to have ye come on such a sad situation.”

  Callum—thirteen years younger than his father of three-and-fifty years—was a traveler and a scholar. His dark blue eyes were similar to Balgair’s and his hair was lighter. His uncle was the voice of reason in his family, always calm and controlled, unlike his father, who was brusque and impulsive. They were the antithesis of each other but balanced enough that they could make the lairdship prosperous.

  When his brother�
��s wife had shown hysteria, Callum had voluntarily traveled to England—in the middle of a harsh winter—to source a revolutionary brew of sherry wine and Indian opium to calm her. The man had a heart of gold, and Ethan felt very fortunate to have him in their lives.

  “Uncle, I’m so happy to see ye,” he said. “Was the journey arduous?”

  “Nae at all.” Callum’s voice sounded like a more cultured English tone, but the rumbling highland brogue was still heard. “But the reason for it was distressing. Who is the lovely young lady? Nephew, are ye courting again?”

  Pulling away, Ethan laughed at the light tease. “Nay, Uncle, she is the daughter of Mister O’Cain, the investigator Faither brought in to help with this troubling situation. Miss Violet, this is me uncle, Callum MacFerson, Uncle, Miss Violet O’Cain.”