Abduction of a Highland Rose: Historical Scottish Romance Novel

by Fiona Faris

  Andrew gazed at her and was mesmerized by her eyes as blue as the brightest loch in the Highlands. In an to comfort her, he leaned in for a kiss, but Freya turned her head and shunned him. He was rather surprised by it.

  Instead, she held his hands, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Anither time, my love. Please, jist hold me in yer arms tonight. We shall rekindle oor love soon enough.”

  He climbed into the cot with her, and she leaned her head against his broad chest. He kissed her on her forehead and the two lovers embraced throughout the cold night.

  “Yer body feels so wonderful, Andrew. Ne’er hae I felt with onyone close tae what I feel with ye. I love ye, Andrew!”

  Andrew smiled. “I love ye tae, Freya! My bonnie Freya!”

  The two lovers conversed for hours on the events that brought them together and what the future would hold for their clans. They desired a long, happy life together and they wanted the same for each of their clans. They both feared the lasting impact of the recent brutal conflict, but they were relieved the times of war were over.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Three weeks later

  Andrew and Freya were amazed at how well the women were recovering after their ordeal. Many of them had made a full physical recovery as well. Freya spent quality time with them to reconnect with the girls of her clan.

  However, it was most difficult to enlighten them on the news of what transpired at Kellie Castle. They were all heartbroken and driven to tears when Freya described in detail what happened to so many of their loved ones. All eight girls had family among the dead.

  There was a sixteen-year-old lass who had lost more loved ones than anyone. Her mother, father, two brothers, sister, grandfather, and all of her cousins, except for one, had all been killed at Kellie Castle or at the neighboring village.

  In the midst of the men helping the young women, a couple of budding romances had blossomed. Even though Andrew instructed the Murrays not to try anything with the girls, he welcomed the young loves as an example of the times changing for each clan.

  “Afore ye know it, there will be mony loves like oors runnin’ ‘round these parts,” Andrew joked with Freya one day as he compared the young Murray-Erskine romances to their own.

  “We might as well combine the two clans together at this rate.” Freya laughed as she held Andrew’s hand while they lay in bed. “That reminds me, Andrew, we need tae hae a talk aboot somethin’. It is very important.”

  A look of curiosity was etched on Andrew’s face.

  “Ye an’ I are goin’ tae hae a child, Andrew,” Freya said with the biggest grin on her face.

  Andrew was elated by Freya’s news, and he celebrated with a dram of his best whiskey. He could not help but stare at Freya’s belly and caress it knowing his lad or lass was inside her.

  “I honestly cannae remember the last time I hae been this excited in my life. It is a’ because o’ ye, my bonnie Freya,” Andrew said as he drank the whiskey. “I ne’er got the opportunity tae become a father in my first marriage, but I am thankful I hae anither chance with ye, Freya.”

  Freya and Andrew embraced each other as they reminisced on the previous whirlwind of events, which would now lead to the birth of their first child together. The couple had experienced conflict, war, and tragedy throughout their lives and their primary desire was to prevent their child from experiencing the same misfortunes. They planned to marry each other before Freya’s belly was noticeable. Their marriage would signify the alliance of the Murray and Erskine clans, and that is how they both wanted it.

  The Murray chief and his Erskine wife planned to give birth to as many children as possible to ensure the longevity of each clan. Between disease and war, their two clans had drastically declined in numbers during Andrew and Freya’s lifetime. Their goal was to repopulate the clans with plentiful numbers of offspring, and they planned to have as many children as possible.

  Andrew desired to spread his vision to not only the Murray and Erskine clans but to other clans in the surrounding regions. He yearned for peace in all regions of the land and planned to advocate such a lifestyle to others.

  “Listen, lads, yer job is tae find as mony clans as ye can an’ inform them o’ oor meeting. Tell ‘em we are invitin’ ony clan we can contact an’ this will change the lives o’ everyone who can make it,” Andrew instructed four of his clan members.

  Several days later, Andrew escorted Freya outside to the gathering of the neighboring clans as a representation of the peaceful relations he wished for all clans. He was stunned at the mass turnout and never in his wildest dreams thought so many interested clan leaders would listen to what he had to say.

  A nervous Andrew panned the crowd outside the castle and cleared his throat to speak:

  “Attention a’ clan chiefs, leaders, ranking officials, an’ whoever else decided tae make the journey tae Blair Castle. I hae called this meetin’ as a peace gatherin’ fer ony clan that wants one thing, an’ that is tae coexist with ither clans in a peaceful manner. Fer tae long, there hae been wars an’ suffering due tae foolish disputes. I called ye a’ here today tae offer a peace treaty amang a’ clans afore me today.”

  The crowd was intrigued by his comments about establishing a treaty amongst all of them. Freya was captivated by Andrew’s vision and was more in love with him now than ever.

  “Tae give ye a’ an example, my soon-tae-be wife, Freya, is o’ the Erskine clan an’ I mysel’ am o’ the Murray clan. We are due tae hae a bairn together in the comin’ months an’ could no’ be more thrilled tae bring the lad oor lass intae the world. Oor hope is fer a’ clans tae welcome this kind o’ peace an’ prosperity fer everyone tae coexist together,” Andrew stated.

  “Whit kind o’ treaty dae ye hae in mind?” someone yelled from the crowd.

  “Whit I propose is nae war under ony circumstances. All disputes must be resolved in a diplomatic manner. We a’ can travel freely amang each ither’s lands. Any disputes must be handled by a non-biased court. Inter-clan marriages shall also no’ be frowned upon but welcomed.”

  The last component of the treaty is what Andrew feared the most since he knew some clans were extremely picky about marriages staying within the clan.

  The chiefs of all the clans who gathered for his meeting deliberated to decide on the treaty he proposed. In all, there were fifteen clan chiefs.

  After a lengthy wait, every chief’s vote had been tallied, and Andrew was anxious to know the outcome. In all, there was only one clan chief who voted no to joining the treaty. Andrew was perplexed why this one chief refused to sign, but to receive the support of the other fourteen clan chiefs was uplifting for him. It was the first breakthrough step toward establishing peace in the region.

  After everyone dispersed from Blair Castle to return to their homes, Andrew and Freya sat outside together on the front lawn of Blair Castle. The couple stared into each other’s eyes, and they envisioned their future together with several young children. For once, there was a positive outlook on life for both of them – since so many clans were in discussion of peaceful terms amongst one another.

  The next phase of Andrew’s plan was to rebuild Kellie Castle and its adjacent village for all the surviving Erskine clan.

  Extended Epilogue

  Eager to learn what happened to Rory?

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  Afterword

  Thank you for reading my novel, Abduction of a Highland Rose. I really hope you enjoyed it! If you did, could you please be so kind to write a review HERE?

  It is very important for me to read your thoughts about my book, in order to get better at writing.

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  Do you want more Historical Scottish Romance?

  Turn on the next page to read the first chapters of my latest best-selling no
vel: Highlander's Forbidden Love

  It’s the story of a scarred young lady that found her redemption in the most unexpected place…

  Highlander's Forbidden Love

  Chapter One

  Cruden Bay

  The noise was tremendous. Its din filled the broad crescent sweep of Cruden Bay between its two towering headlands.

  Elizabeth Bryce pressed her hands to her ears to dampen the explosion of the waves on the beach and the thunder of the wind against the cliffs. The sheer power of the elements frightened her, but it was a good kind of fright that stirred a nervous involuntary giggle in her chest. She loved the wildness of the sea, its vastness; it was still so strange and new to her. She was used to the moorland storms of her native land of Tweeddale, which were wild enough, but even their fierce potency paled alongside the immensity of the sea as it raged and threw itself against the land.

  She staggered against the buffeting gusts of the gale, her hair and the ribbands she had woven into it streaming out behind her as she turned her face into the wind, its eddies whipping her long red tresses across her lightly freckled cheeks and brow, releasing the scent of the rosemary with which she had rinsed it that morning. The wind tugged violently at her robes as if it wanted to rip them from her limbs, strip her of the accoutrements of civilization that separated her from her naked animal self, and reclaim her to the wild. Their violence thrilled her; she tipped her head up and closed her eyes to relish in the ravages of the clawing fingers.

  When she opened them again, she could see her new home, Slains Castle, rise imposingly from the southern headland against the stormy gray sky, its towers and battlements gazing down, stern and defiant, on anyone who had a mind to meddle with it. Its arrogant grandeur contrasted starkly with the humble fisherman’s cottage that cowered away to her right, in a neuk of the rocks not far above the high-water mark with its black line of rotting seaweed. Once again, she wondered at the fate that had brought her there, to that place so far from her calving ground in Tweeddale, and to a station in life that so far exceeded the one into which she had been born.

  She was startled out of her reverie by the piercing cry of a gull. She looked up to her left, through the drizzle that was being driven in squalls against her face, and saw the bird struggling to hold its position above the heaving swell of the sea.

  She really should be getting back to the castle, she reflected; the tide was coming in, the storm was intensifying, and her mistress, Lady Margaret, Countess of Errol, would, in any case, be expecting Elizabeth for her French lesson. But she did so love the fury of the gale, the delicious chill of its breath on her brow and cheeks.

  A little way along the beach, between her and the path that zigzagged up the headland from the boat landing to the castle, a large outcrop of rock rose from the sand. She knew, from her previous sojourns to the bay, that it contained numerous rock pools teeming with strange creatures, so different from the furred and feathered fauna she had grown up with in the countryside around Peebles, which lay as far from the sea as one could get in Scotland. She resolved to tarry by the pools for a brief moment before taking the long steep climb up the precipitous cliff path. It would not make her all that late, she reflected, and she so loved the exotic colors and soft textures of the peculiar lifeforms.

  She increased her pace, occasionally slipping on the sludgy give of the wet sand beneath her feet, her vermillion cloak flapping and snapping around her slight frame.

  She reached the rocks and scrambled onto them, heedful of their wet slippery smoothness. The pools sat in their sandy-bedded hollows, their mirror surfaces shimmering in the wind. She stepped unsteadily between them, trying not to let her shadow fall across their surface and alert the creatures that lodged in them. Green shore crabs scuttled for cover under the base of the rocks. She could also see young porcelain spider crabs, hermit crabs clinging jealously to their borrowed shells, and a solitary tiny squat lobster. Pink coral-colored starfish and brittle stars clung to the smaller rocks, while spiny sea urchins and florid anemones languidly waved their tentacles in the clear water.

  Transfixed and mesmerized by the forms and colors of the strange animals, Elizabeth could not resist dipping her small, slim hands into the pools and stroking their shells and polyps with her fingers, marveling at their textures and at how the anemones so quickly sucked their tentacles tight inside themselves as soon as she brushed them. She was soon lost in her fascination with the miniature undersea world before her.

  The loud booming clap and raining spray of a large wave against the outcrop brought her suddenly back to the surface. She straightened up and look around in alarm. While she had been transfixed by the jewels of the rock pools, the tide had raced in and was now swirling around the outcrop, sucking and churning the sand in a powerful vortex. Another wave crashed against the seaward side of the rocks, sending a sheet of spray over her back and shoulders. She pulled up the hem of her gown to her knees and began picking her way carefully back down the slippery rocks to where the beach had been. She slipped and slithered, lost her footing, and slid down the rocks into what was rapidly becoming a heaving maelstrom. The water came up to her thighs, soaking the bottom half of her cloak and gown and threatening to drag her away from the rocks.

  The power of the undertow shocked her. She staggered and dug her toes into the sand to try and stay upright. She spun around and threw herself at the nearest rock, wrapping her arms around it, pressing her fingers as tightly as she could against the smooth sea-slick stone. With a great effort, she hauled herself gradually back up onto the outcrop, against the powerful hands that were dragging at her robes and trying to haul her back below the seething frothy surface. The wind had suddenly intensified and seemed to be conspiring with the water to dislodge her from the rocks. The clash of the waves and the boom of the wind thundered in her ears. She pressed her frail body into the rocks as the blustering gale whistled above her, carrying ever heavier falls of sea spray that drenched her and the already greasy handholds to which she desperately clung. She began to cough and choke as the saltwater parched her throat and stung her nostrils. She sobbed, but her sobs were immediately torn away and cast into the air by the biting wind.

  She did not know what to do. The incoming tide would soon overwhelm the outcrop, washing her into the sea and leaving her at the mercy of its powerful waves and undertows. She considered slipping back down into the water and trying again to wade towards the shore. But, having already felt the irresistible strength of the tide, she knew she would immediately be dragged under and swept away like a wisp of straw.

  She froze like a limpet to the rocks, chilled to the bone by both the relentless cold sea and the paralyzing fear that gripped her.

  Mairi Cullen heard the wind rise and drive a smatter of raindrops against the cottage door. The sweet and pleasant gale that had been drying her husband’s nets was brewing into a storm, and she knew that she should take the nets down before the storm took them away. If they were damaged, it could cost them their suppers for several days to come.

  She pulled her shawl up over her head and stepped out onto the shingle. She looked towards the sea as she straightened up from the low door and her blood ran cold.

  “Maister! Maister Duncan!” she cried. “There is a lass caught in the run o’ the tide. The sea is about to take her.”

  Duncan Comyn ducked through the door to stand beside her.

  “There, maister.” Mairi pointed into the wind. “Out on the skerrie.”

  Duncan screwed up his eyes and peered out over the white racing horses. Sure enough, about a hundred yards from where they stood, a small dark figure was clinging desperately to the rocks, the occasional rise and fall of her head her only movement.

  The tide was rising fast. It would not be long until the skerrie was completely submerged and the lassie drowned or else dashed from the rocks by the crashing waves to the same effect.

  Duncan cast off his outer robe, jumped over the line of rotting seaweed at the high-wat
er line, and began sprinting down the beach to where the breakers slammed themselves onto the sand. The first wave he encountered knocked him over, but he scrambled back onto his feet and plunged again into the surf. The next wave cast him back up onto the beach, sprawling him onto his back. He stood up again and plowed into the surf, wading in strong, forceful strides, pushing the water aside with his palms.

  Suddenly, the suck of the receding wave pulled the legs from under him, and he disappeared beneath the seething eddy. Mairi screamed, then threw her face heavenward in a silent prayer of thanks when Duncan shot up onto his feet again, the water pouring like a silver cloak from his powerful shoulders. He coughed and spluttered, spitting the saltwater from his lungs and shaking the wet hair from his eyes. Almost immediately, another wave slammed into his chest, and he staggered backward under the blow before the undertow grabbed at his legs and hips again and dragged him into the sea’s smothering embrace. He fought to stay afloat, his arms wind-milling backward against the potentially fatal tug of the water, his feet scrambling for purchase against the shifting sand of what had once been firm beach and was now the seabed. He steadied himself and retreated quickly back into the shallows.