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

by Eloise Madigan

  Marcus nodded, pulled off his fouled boots, and bounded up the stairs. He passed Mallory as he went, leaving her rooted to the spot as he brushed past, leaving only the manly smells of earth and blood and heather in his wake.

  * * *

  The carriage pulled up outside the imposing estate of the MacConnair clan and Delilah disembarked behind her father and mother. She heard her father give an audible groan of relief at being freed of the cramped confines of the carriage, and Lady Glimouth hiss, “Henry, comport yourself!” in an undertone.

  The castle was even more impressive from up close. It was a huge edifice that looked as if it had been carved out of the bones of the hills rather than erected.

  “Henry, me dear fellow!” came a booming voice from under the lintel of the enormous oaken front door.

  Delilah cast her eyes down from the stone walls that loomed over her, and saw a tall, thick-set man with a red and ruddy face framed with auburn whiskers, striding towards the three Glimouths. Behind him, a slightly less tall woman, dressed in a gorgeous green gown trimmed in silver, glided.

  “Laird MacConnair,” the Earl of Glimouth replied, clapping his hands and walking out to meet the burly Scotsman.

  “Bah, dinnae worry yerself with all that laird business,” MacConnair said, waving a huge hand—one of the fingers of which Delilah noticed was missing.

  Lord Glimouth beamed. “Just as you say,” he said. “May I introduce my wife, Mary, Lady Glimouth? Mary, this is Callum, Laird of Clan MacConnair, and his wife Griselda, Lady MacConnair.”

  “A pleasure to finally make yer acquaintance, me lady,” Callum said, taking Lady Glimouth’s small, smooth hand in his large callused one and kissing it. “I’ve heard nothin’ but praise about ye from yer husband.”

  “Thank you so much for having us, Laird,” Delilah’s mother replied with a charming smile.

  “This,” the Laird said, indicating the woman behind him, “is me wife, Griselda. Clan leader in all but title,” he joked. He swept the three Glimouths with a roguish grin as Lord Glimouth bent to kiss Griselda’s hand.

  “And ye must be the daughter,” Griselda said, her shrewd eyes swiveling towards Delilah and pinning her to the spot.

  Delilah curtsied. “Lady Delilah Jefferson, My Lady,” she said, attempting to meet the older woman’s gaze. It was not easy. Very much, she imagined, like trying to stare down a she-wolf. It was not that the woman struck her as mean or spiteful, but it was clear to Delilah that here was a woman whom it would be hard to fool and dangerous to try.

  “Ye are the bonniest lass we’ve had tae stay in some time,” Griselda said, a warm smile blooming across intelligent features.

  “That’s very kind of you to say, My Lady,” Delilah said, returning the smile. Her eyes flicked over the MacConnair’s shoulders.

  Where is the son?

  She’d expected to see a slight, well-dressed young man somewhere. Pampered and groomed and reserved in character, as all the noble young men she knew were.

  There was the sound of hurried footsteps scuffing across stone flags, a crash—as of someone knocking over a chair in their haste—and then a young man stepped out from the shadows of the hall.

  “Sluggish as he is,” the Laird said, his smile taking on a slightly fixed expression, “may I introduce Marcus Malloch, me son.”

  Delilah felt her lips part in astonishment.

  Marcus Malloch was as far removed from the usual pale, slightly-built, young nobles she was used to meeting as it was possible to be.

  The young Scot was almost as tall as the Laird, though where his father was a successful man settling comfortably into middle-age, Marcus was clearly only just entering his prime. His dark eyes gleamed with energy in his slightly tanned face and a ready smile played across his full lips. The outline of his muscular arms and shoulders and chest were clearly defined through his fresh linen shirt. His legs were as sturdy and strong-looking as a couple of saplings.

  To her mortification, her eyes darted over the young man as if he was a horse she was thinking of asking her father to buy.

  Her usually pin-sharp mind had gone blank. Butterflies seemed to have set up a thriving home inside her stomach and were fluttering madly. A hot blush crept up her cheeks.

  * * *

  Marcus watched as a flush crept up the neck of the young woman opposite him. He’d swaggered out, full of his usual confidence and good cheer, and found himself struck dumb by the blonde girl facing him.

  She was extraordinarily pretty. Blonde haired—where the majority of lasses in his parts were raven or red-headed—and blue eyed. Her skin was pale and perfect as milk. Her features were delicate, but Marcus got the impression that there was a toughness underneath. It was like seeing an exquisitely crafted flower made of steel. Her eyes seemed to have struck the words from his mouth when she’d looked up at his approach.

  Bonnie is too weak a word to describe this creature, he thought dazedly.

  He held out his hand, his manners taking over, and the girl took it.

  A year or so younger perhaps, he mused.

  “And what might yer name be, me lady?” he asked.

  “Lady Delilah,” the girl replied. “Lady Delilah Jefferson.”

  And Marcus felt the name engrave itself upon his heart.

  “Would ye care to take a walk around the grounds wi’ me, Lady Delilah?” he asked.

  2

  Delilah was amazed at how relaxed her parents had become all of a sudden. When it came to walking around with a relatively unknown young man, she’d always been chaperoned—either by one of her own maids, or else by a man from the young man’s household. However, this convention seemed to have been thrown to the bracing Highland winds for, all of a sudden, she found herself hurrying to keep up with the long strides of Marcus Malloch.

  Her mother had looked as if she was going to voice some sort of protest at the two young people going off together, but by that point, her father was deep in conversation with the Laird and had been steered inside. Servants were rushing about, taking care of the Glimouth’s baggage, whilst their armed escort had been directed by one of the Laird’s men to the stables and barracks.

  “So,” Marcus’s pleasant voice spoke, startling her from her thoughts, “where would ye like me to take ye?”

  “I—well—perhaps, it might make sense for your lordship to ponder what a young Englishwoman new to this area might find most engrossing,” she said, trying to hide how flustered she was feeling. She suddenly felt younger than she had in a long time.

  The young Scotsman laughed at this, a rich, full laugh that pulled Delilah’s own mouth up at the corners.

  “Aye, aye, true words and prettily spoken,” he said. “Me apologies for bein’ a lummox and nae thinkin’ that, o’ course, ye wouldnae ken what there is to see in these parts.” He glanced at her, noticing that she was struggling to match the pace he was setting.

  “Man alive, look at me stridin’ out and causin’ ye to run to catch me up!” He gestured at his legs. “It’s these long shanks o’ mine. I apologize.”

  “No apology necessary, sir.”

  “And, please, ye’re free to call me Marcus if it pleases ye. May I call ye Delilah?”

  Delilah blushed again and nodded.

  Marcus looked please at this. He smiled down at her, and she noticed that there was a slight darkening around his jaw where a beard was on the verge of setting in. She thought he would quite likely suit one, even though they were in fashion in English noble society.

  “D’ye ken how to handle a horse, Delilah?” Marcus asked her after they’d walked awhile in silence.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Can ye ride?”

  “Oh, um, yes, yes I can ride,” Delilah said. She plucked at her gown. “Though I fear that I’m ill-attired for horseback.”

  Marcus stopped and turned and cast his eye over her gown. He looked thoughtfully into her face.

  Delilah had never given much thought to romance, being
only fifteen, but she couldn’t deny the unfamiliar fluttering that Marcus sent through her stomach when he looked at her.

  “Hm,” he said, holding her bright blue eyes with his dark brown ones and giving her another one of those infectious smiles of his. “I think we’ll be able to work somethin’ out, if ye’re willing.”

  It was an ambiguous statement, but Delilah couldn’t help trusting the self-possessed Highlander. Something about the young Scotsman inspired courage, made her want to show him that she wasn’t the helpless little daughter of an English noble that he doubtless thought her.

  She tilted her chin and set her jaw.

  “I’m willing,” she said.

  * * *

  A short time later Marcus was leading the daughter of the English Earl into the warm fustiness of the MacConnair stables. He led her along the rows of stalls, looking for a mare that he thought would suit her best.

  She’s got fire in her, this lass.

  He walked down towards the back of the quiet building.

  She has fire, but that doesnae mean that she kens one end of a horse from another necessarily.

  He stopped outside of a stall and clicked his tongue at the beautiful gray mare standing inside and champing contentedly at some hay that’d been strung up for her to nibble on. The horse looked up and stepped over to nuzzle at his outstretched hand.

  “This here’s Fannan,” he said to Delilah. “She’s a fine old nag. I’ve known her ever since she was foaled when I was a little lad.”

  Delilah came forward and held her hand out. Marcus was impressed that she waited for the horse to come to her, rather than force her touch on the beast.

  “What a lovely name you have,” the girl said to the horse, stroking the velvet nose.

  “Aye, it means ‘gentle breeze’ in Gaelic. Never has a horse suited her name more than this one.”

  Marcus and Delilah stood quietly, their eyes flicking up now and again over Fannan’s muzzle when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

  “She does seem a fine animal,” Delilah said to Marcus after a little while. “But as sweet a temperament as she may have, doesn’t change the fact that these long skirts aren’t really conducive to riding.”

  Marcus wrinkled his brow. “Conducive?” he asked.

  “I mean, they’re not really helpful for horse-riding. They’re too long.”

  “I’ve nae heard that word before,” Marcus admitted. “Ye must have some mighty clever tutors to teach ye such words.”

  Not only fair as a harebell in spring, but a sharp mind, too.

  “Ye dinnae have to worry about skirts and what nae,” he said, trying to instill his voice with a confidence that was fast fading. “We’ll tie yer skirts into breeches with this here twine and ye’ll be able to ride without a care.”

  The young woman blinked at him, and for a moment he feared he’d said something inappropriate.

  “But, you’ll, you’ll be able to see my ankles,” she said to him.

  Now it was Marcus’s turn to look puzzled. “Aye,” he said slowly.

  “Well, is that appropriate?”

  “Appropriate?”

  “Yes. Will people not think I’m rude?”

  Light finally dawned for Marcus. He snorted with relief more than mirth. “Ah, lass,” he said. “I forgot what me faither told us about yer English ways. I’ll tell ye this, it’s not the showin’ of a wee bit o’ ankle that excites comment in the Highlands, it’s more a bared arse that’ll get folk talkin’!”

  To his delight, Delilah burst out laughing, covering her mouth almost instantly with her hand.

  Marcus thought that seeing her shake with suppressed mirth might just have been the finest sight he’d ever seen.

  “Come on, Delilah,” he said. “Let’s saddle the nags and get ye on the back of Fannan here.”

  * * *

  Delilah could not believe what she had allowed herself to be talked into wearing.

  Marcus had fashioned her long billowing skirts into the loosest approximation of a pair of breeches that had probably ever been devised. It wasn’t just her ankles on show for the whole world, but practically both calves—in all their pale glory!

  The strapping young Highlander looked completely unabashed when he’d finished his rudimentary tailoring. He’d simply nodded to himself, tightened one of the pieces of twine, and then helped Delilah onto the back of Fannan. Then he had taken the reins of her horse, and the chestnut gelding that he’d selected to ride, and walked the two animals out into sporadic sunshine.

  “Afore I take ye on a tour of the country,” he said, squinting up at her, “I think it’d be wise o’ me to see how ye ride.”

  Delilah suddenly felt embarrassed and a little nervous. This Highland youth was clearly at home in the saddle. She rode fairly often, but it was practically always side-saddle. The fluttering feeling in her stomach seemed to grow, as she looked at the back of Marcus’s head as he led her to a fenced area that she recognized as the corral in which horses were broken.

  Marcus tied his own reins around a post, opened the gate, let go of her reins and let her trot the gray mare inside.

  “Right, Lady Delilah,” he said, “let’s take a wee look at how ye get on.”

  She trotted four times around the large pen, her back stiff and her eyes flicking periodically towards where Marcus stood leaning against the fence. His handsome face—and she realized that she most definitely thought that it was handsome—was inscrutable. She could feel Fannan between her legs. Despite what Marcus had told her about the mare, the animal felt skittish, nervous.

  Eventually, Marcus walked out into the corral. Fannan came to a halt in front of him without him saying a word.

  “I don’t know why, but I have the feeling that Fannan hasn’t taken to me quite like you thought she might,” she said.

  Marcus extended his hand to her.

  “Hop down, and I’ll show ye why she’s a wee bit skittish,” he said to her.

  Delilah dismounted and Marcus stood directly in front of her.

  “Now,” he said, looking straight into her eyes, “I’m going tae touch ye, with yer permission.”

  Delilah nodded, not looking away from the kind brown eyes.

  Marcus put his large hands around her waist.

  “This feels fine, does it not?” he said gently.

  “Um, yes,” Delilah said. As Marcus had touched her, a thrill had passed through her. If she was honest, it felt better than fine.

  “What about this?” Marcus asked, still looking right into her eyes. His grip tightened somewhat. Delilah’s lips parted.

  “Uncomfortable,” she said.

  “Aye. And this?”

  The grip in the strong hands tightened further, the muscles in his forearms—visible due to Marcus having rolled his shirt sleeves up—standing out slightly. Delilah gasped.

  “It feels like, if you wanted, you could hurt me.”

  The grip relaxed and Marcus grinned. “Aye, that’s right. Now, think o’ your legs doin’ that next time yer ridin’. Relax. Breathe. Trust Fannan. The lass can feel a single drop o’ rain on her back, so there’s no need to try and squeeze her in two! Trust her, let her ken ye trust her, and she’ll nae let ye fall.”

  * * *

  Marcus led Delilah across the moorland, on a lap of the loch, that had acted as a backdrop to the castle when she had viewed it from the road, and up into the rugged country on the other side.

  He showed her the crystal-clear creek that flowed out of the hills, leaping down rocky escarpments and wending its way down through the meadows of wildflowers until it fed the loch below. They even stopped so that she could taste an icy draught from the stream, as Marcus was adamant that it was the purest water to be found anywhere in the Highlands.

  They stumbled across a flock of hardy sheep being tailed by an old shepherd. Marcus exchanged a few words with the old fellow in Gaelic and the man doffed his shapeless bonnet from his head in a mark of respect to Delilah.
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  The two of them talked of inconsequential things, laughing and teasing one another, listening with rapt attention to stories from each other’s childhoods. Eventually, as the sun sank towards the westward horizon and dusk started to diffuse the sky, they made their way slowly back to the castle.

  “I really can’t believe how pretty it is out here,” Delilah said. “Even though we’re only a two-day ride from my home, it feels like a whole different world.”

  “Aye, tis a bonnie land, right enough,” Marcus replied. “Though as fair as it looks, things are a wee bit unsettled at the moment.”

  “They are?”

  “Aye.”

  “But, it all seems so calm.”

  “That’s as may be, but there’re rumors startin’ to swirl again that war is comin’. There have been skirmishes all along the border between our folk and yers—not MacConnair land, ye understand, but it won’t be long afore the fightin’ spreads.”

  As mature as Delilah was in many ways, when it came to matters of the Crown and politics, the world still seemed to her like a very large place with plenty of space in it for the sharing.

  “I don’t understand why we must fight so,” she said. “Why the King will not just let the Scots govern themselves if they like. Surely, we are not so different.”

  Marcus chuckled softly. It was a nice sound, deep and reassuring. “I’m nae so sure that the people—‘specially the Scottish people—come up too much in the King’s thinkin’.”

  “What do you mean?” Delilah asked.

  “Gold,” Marcus said simply. “Always, it boils down to gold in the end. It’s his coffers that the King cares most about, no’ the people. More land means more taxes for him.”

  The footfalls of the horses were silent on the springy turf. In the gathering gloaming, a shrill, happy barking sounded from somewhere out in the quiet of the hills. Delilah recognized the sound as young foxes playing.