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

by Eloise Madigan

  “How can ye ken that?” she said, on impulse rather than thought. Her heart was punching against her ribs in tune with the rumbles of thunder. “He’s out there, god kens where, all alone for days now and I —” she swallowed then shook her head. Her fingers clutched at the sheet while pure, untainted despair had her soul sinking. “—I cannae but worry. How can I nae? He’s the one I love.”

  Then, as she had expected a comforting word or an affirming answer to her declaration, the most unexpected thing came from the man’s mouth, “Are ye sure he feels the same?”

  Her head darted up and surprise painted her features, “I am, why?”

  “Seems to me a man who loves his woman would be with her than otherwise out in yonder,” Mister MacFerson came to sit near her and the look in his eyes—one decidedly not calm or kind—had her stomach roiling. “Daenae ye ken so?”

  His words were rational but the trepidation she felt in her chest began to ice itself into fear. “I…er…mayhap.”

  “And are ye sure ye want to be with him?” He asked. “He is a little boy after all with hardly any experience in life.”

  She began to edge away from the man. “I’m sure he has had enough. He did go to school in Edina, after all.”

  “Aye,” he replied, “But it pales in comparison with one who has traveled the world and seen places most only dream about.” He shot a look to the bed, and a scornful twist came to his lips. “He’s as simple-minded as his father. They both have little forsight to break the traditional norms and strategize a way to forge this humble territory into a great empire.”

  Sickened, she stood and moved away, “I—I ken it’s time for ye to leave.”

  “Are ye sure, lass?” he said coming closer, “The boy doesnae deserve ye with yer wisdom and beauty. Ye’re better off with a man who kens what he’s doing to gain wealth. Ye’ve proven yerself time after time, and I ken ye want better in life than to plod along with a simplistic boy.”

  “If ye willnae go, I will,” Violet said, rushing to the door only to get grabbed by his unrelenting grip.

  She cried out in pain but the grip got tighter, “Is that a nay, lass?”

  “O-of course, it is,” she gasped. “I’ll be with nay one but Ethan. What had come over ye?” He came close so she could see the glint of cold malice in his eyes and she shivered, “Ye’re possessed.”

  “One might ken so but nae,” and his unfailing calm tone made ice enclose her chest. “What I am is a patient man who recognizes talents. I’m here offering ye to join with me to forge a massive empire, but since ye nay cooperating—” he dragged her out of the room and called for a guard.

  Since they were soldiers stationed at every hall, one came running. He spotted her and Mister MacFerson only to skid to a halt with confusion etched in his face. “Sir?”

  “I caught her sewing poisonous leaves into Ethan’s clothing,” Mister MacFerson said calmly.

  Gasping in horror, Violet exclaimed, “I did nay such thing!”

  “I ken me brother might have brought murderers into the castle instead of finding one. Take her to the dungeons and keep her there. I ken Balgair made a mistake carrying them here, now I’ll have to undae what he did. I’m in charge of this castle now, soldier, and whatever I say, ye must dae.” Handing Violet off to the man as if she was a pile of filthy rags, he said. “Keep her there until I find a fitting punishment for her.”

  “I’m innocent!” She cried, “I love Ethan, I would never hurt him.”

  “And where is yer faither with me brother, hm?” Mister MacFerson asked, “He’s probably killed him already. Take her.”

  “But Sir,” the man blanched. “It’s a tempest outside.”

  “Then ye better nay drown,” Mister MacFerson said coldly. “Away with her.”

  As she was dragged off, Violet briefly met the eyes of her old guard, Mister MacTyre, a man whom she had been kind to and who had been kind to her in return, quickly sink into the shadows with a cold look on his face. She felt despair. If he thought she was guilty, who would not believe it?

  When the soldier kicked the door open and the whirling wind and rain nearly blinded her, she was forced into the yard and instantly was drenched. Water assaulted her eyes and she could barely see three feet in front of her as she was resolutely marched towards a bailey. Her feet slipped in thick mud and she nearly capsized into the filth but she was hauled into the building, nevertheless.

  Freezing and hacking up water, she was pushed down a stairwell where soon enough she had to feel her way through the darkness. When she emerged through an open door, she found herself in a circular room. It was rather small and made of stone, with dry rushes on the floor and a tiny square of a window above—it was the dungeon and her knees gave way.

  Crumbling into a ball, she clutched at the wet dress and began to shiver. It was dark, she was soaking wet and the chances of her living to see the next few days was slim if cold came in and met her wet skin. She’d die of consumption.

  As the man moved off, she begged, “Help me, please, I-I’m innocent. Naything ye were t-told was t-t-true.” Grabbing at her clothes she asked, “Can ye g-give me a dry dress, a b-blanket…a sheet, something. I-I’ll die here if I’m to stay with this cold.”

  The man paused and she could see conflict twist his face. Then, he nodded, undid his belt and tugged his red tunic off to hand it to her. “Here. Use this for tonight. I’ll see what I can dae for ye on the morrow, or if I’m nay stationed to ye, I’ll tell whoever is, what is to be done.”

  “Y-ye believe me then?” She asked with trembling hope while taking the thick tunic.

  He did not reply to her question, “Just remember what I said.”

  With that, he was gone. Violet did quick work of her sodding dress and smock, using them to dry off the water on her body and hair before placing them underneath her. Swiftly, she donned the open-armed tunic and sighed in somewhat a relief. At least she would not die of consumption.

  But then, in the cold darkness and hearing the loud rumbles of thunder rattle the stones, she began to wonder how things had taken such an ugly turn. How did Mister MacFerson, the calm, quiet, usually jovial man she thought she had known, turned into the beast she had nearly been overpowered by?

  What had happened between being at peace with the man, then being thrown into a dungeon? What had caused him to try to lure her into bed with him? What had made him turn from calling Ethan his ‘nephew’ to ‘boy’? And why did he not show the smallest sign of worry for his brother or his newly missing nephew?

  As the thoughts tumbled in and around her head, she tried to piece it all together but did not get far. Then, she remembered how her father had said—and kept insisting—that the villain might be closer to them than any of them could believe. A thought that was quickly followed by the boy from the village describing the man who had paid him to write the note as thin and slender, and had to grab at her chest in cold, icy, horror.

  “Dear God,” she uttered in cold disbelief with a disturbed shake of her head, “Can anyone but the Devil himself be so cruel!”

  23

  Gazing at the arching ridge of the mountain before him, Ethan felt insignificant. Rubbing the ears of the antsy horse, to soothe it, he looked around for the pass that would take him to the cave. The storm last evening had stalled his movement for hours past dawn. It was not just the rain that had stopped him but also the swollen rivers and streams he had to pass through, causing him to have stalled for almost three-quarters of a day.

  He quickly spotted the pass and stirred his horse towards it. With every trot of his horse, he prayed that his hunch was right about where he and Violet’s fathers were. If not, he still had to apologize to Violet but had to make up for it more if he did not come back with the men. Circling a heap of rocks that were camouflaged to the hidden entrance to the cave, he paused as doubt ramped up inside him.

  Please, let me be right.

  He spotted a single large lattice made of wooden slats that was l
aid on the rock wall like discarded trash, but he knew that behind it was the hideaway. Sliding from the saddle, he went to it and grasped the damp boards and called out before lifting them out of the way.

  “Dinnae be alarmed, it’s me, Ethan,” he said loudly.

  With a quick heave, he had the lattice to the side, against scrub brush, and ducked under the low-hanging rock ledge. He did not have to move much further, as his father barreled out from an adjoint cave and gave him a tight hug.

  “I kent ye’d figure it out,” his father said, rumbly voice with heavy pride. His eyes, however, were tired and his face a mass of embedded lines. Ethan shifted to see Mister O’Cain join them.

  He sagged in relief, “Why…” he shot a look between the two, “…did ye run? Was it to draw the murderer away from the castle?”

  “Aye,” his father nodded. “We’ve set the soldiers to look for anyone who would be out of place or who suddenly went missing from the castle. That person, or god forbid, persons, would be taken immediately. Then when a notice was sent to us by the Commander, we’d come back.”

  Rubbing his face, Ethan sighed, “A good plan and all, but it failed. Uncle called me and Violet back the second-day ye two went missing. I ken he kent ye were taken by the murderer and I’d be next. I wasnae sure ye would be here, so I left without a word to Violet, an act I’ll be paying for when I get back.”

  “Paying for?” The Laird shot him a narrowed-eyed look. “Why?

  “I dinnae ken it is a smart move for a man to suddenly disappear on the lady he asked to marry him,” Ethan said dryly, then faced Mister O’Cain. “I was fixing to ask ye but by the time I was sure, we werenae exactly in yer vicinity. With that said, Mister O’Cain, may I have yer daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  The investigator chuckled, “Nay worries, Master MacFerson, I approve, and even if I dinnae, she’d had chosen ye anyway.”

  Warmth bloomed in his chest as he turned to his father, and said, “Faither, I ken its best fer ye to come back with me to calm Uncle’s worries. I ken he’s getting frantic with yer absence.”

  Snorting, the Laird huffed, “Callum hasnae the disposition to keep calm in times like this. He has all that book-smarts and can strategize expeditions to lands undiscovered, but he cannae hold himself together when times of crises come about. He kens he is so brilliant and all, but when it comes to practical things, he had nay fortitude for it. Me brother cannae even stomach the sight of blood, like ye when ye were younger.”

  Tempted to laugh, Ethan shook his head, “I ken it runs in the family.”

  “Ye grew out of it,” his father harrumphed. “Killed yer first rabbit at eleven and grew from there. Me brother, however, is a lost cause.” Turning to the investigator, he asked, “Well, what dae ye ken, O’Cain? Are we leaving or nae?”

  The sleuth’s shrewd eyes shifted from the father to the son, “We will leave, but I daenae ken ye, Laird, should we go to the castle? Ye should stay away until I come up with another plan to flush the killer out. Is there anywhere ye can stay for a while without word getting out?

  Stroking his chin in contemplation, his father replied, “Aye, I’ll stay as the same hunting cabin ye and Miss O’Cain were. I dinnae ken anyone who saw ye come from there would ken anyone else would be there.”

  “He’s right,” Ethan mused. “It’s the safest place, and nearby too.”

  “I ken that’s acceptable,” Mister O’Cain nodded. “But it’s dark now. We’d better be on our way at dawn.”

  Ethan felt his insides curl with remorse that he would be leaving Violet alone for almost three days, but it could not be helped. Mister O’Cain was right, it was dark, and it only made sense to leave at daylight. It was not wise to leave the shelter, travel a little and then have to make camp so quickly.

  “Aye,” he nodded. “Just let me find somewhere to hide me horse and and then I’ll be with ye.”

  His father gave him some concise instructions where to hide his horse, in another forested nook where their horses languished in the shade. As he loosely tethered his, he shot a look to the darkening sky and sighed out an apology to Violet. He took the sack of food from the saddlebags and hurried back.

  Back in the cave, he closed the hole with the lattice and slipped further inside. His father and Mister O’Cain had made makeshift beds from bedrolls and wooden slats. A corner had a circle of stone and blackened coal, with a copper pot resting on some other stones. There was a tiny opening into the wall were air streamed in and possibly gave light in the daytime. Now, as it was dark, they could only get light from the fire.

  His father peeled a few sheets from his makeshift bed while O’Cain handed him a dark woolen blanket. Perched on his stripped makeshift bed, his father asked, “So, what else is there back home?”

  Fixing his offered sheets into a cot, Ethan shrugged, “I cannae tell ye. I was there for less than a day before I left to find ye. I dae suspect that Uncle is admirably holding the fort in yer stead.”

  “Let’s see how that goes,” his father grunted. “Boy better stick to books and roaming the earth than trying to negotiate the amount of lumber to barter for sheep wool, or God forbid, who to send off to war.”

  Mister O’Cain was stroking the fire and the smell of stew slowly permeated the air. “Would ye like something to eat, Master MacFerson?”

  “Oh,” he shook his head, “I have me own, but thank ye and…” he paused. “And I rather ye nay call me Master anymore, Ethan would be fine.”

  A soft chuckle from the older man had his lips twitching, “I ken I’m nay ready to call ye son either so Ethan it is.” Ladling the stew into a bowl, Mister O’Cain handed it over to his father while Ethan tugged out bread and cheese from his sack, “We’d better get some rest, after. We are leaving out the dawn.”

  “God forbid another storm rolls in,” his father mentioned.

  Shifting on the soft sandy floor he could feel through the sheets, Ethan pondered, “Faither…what would be the best way to call ye while yer in the cabin on a sudden notice?”

  Pausing to swallow, his father’s bushy brow contracted, “And why would ye need to summon me on a sudden notice?”

  There were no words to explain his feeling but he uttered the same confusing sentiment. “I cannea tell ye why as its nay something I believe is imperative now. I just ken it’s something we should decide on now, if on the chance that it’ll be needed.”

  “He’s right, Me Laird,” Mister O’Cain put in. “There might be a situation where we might have to take ye out of hiding.”

  Ruminating, his father suggested, “I ken ye won’t be able to send a messenger out, ye can send me a messenger-bird or sound the distress horn from the bailey. If it's loud enough to reach Clan Hofte, I should hear it.”

  “That’s settled,” Ethan nodded and went back to his food, trying not to ignore how his eyes flickered to the tiny crack in the wall, back to the other two, and back.

  I’ll be home as soon as I can, love.

  * * *

  The sight of the castle looming over the trees had relief flooding through Ethan. Nearly three days on the road had his worry clogging his throat. A few hours before he and Mister O’Cain had to bypass the direct road to see his father to the hunting cabin before doubling back and taking the road to the drawbridge.

  Trotting over it with Mister O’Cain at his side, Ethan barely got off his mount before rushing into the castle and darting up to his room to find Violet with his apology on the tip of his tongue—but the room was empty. His pride had him visualizing Violet in his room, puttering around, starting to putting her woman’s touch into the plain, utilitarian decor.

  Spinning, he headed off to her room, only to find her door closed. Perhaps she was sleeping and he did not want to disturb her. Disappointed, he traipsed back to the main rooms to ask anyone who he could come across if they had seen her. Which proved another issue. It seemed that the number of servants they had usually hurrying through a hall to clean a room or two was surprisin
gly…absent. Had his uncle sent their servants away?

  He traipsed back to the main hall to see it also mostly empty. A few servants were wiping down the tables, and pushing himself into the kitchens, he saw a few cooks manning the stoves. The issue—he did not know any of them. Had his uncle sent all his familiar servants away and brought in new ones?

  Why?

  Approaching the new cook, he asked, “Pardon me, who are ye?”

  “Ginna Fraiser, and ye must be Master MacFerson,” she dropped her ladle and wiped her hand in her apron. “Please to meet ye, Master MacFerson.”

  “Ye too, Miss Fraiser,” he said. “Perchance, would ye tell me where Miss Bertha is?”

  “I can answer that for ye, nephew,” his uncle’s light tone cut through his heavy confusion. “Back to yer work, Miss Fraiser.”