Disciplined by the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Read online

  “Mrs. Briddle, must you bring the utterances of a silly child up time and time again?” she groaned, as the door to the chamber opened. Both women turned, their quarrel forgotten as Katharine Marston, Lady Dawaerton, come through the door. Her mantua of pale pink silk barely touched the floor as she walked across the room toward Emma with grace and purpose.

  Emma hurriedly dried away her tears. A lady did not cry in her mother’s presence, after all. Mrs. Briddle gave a quick curtsey, as Lady Dawaerton brushed past the woman and came to stand near her daughter. Emma allowed herself one small pleasure in seeing her lady’s maid cower in her mother’s wake.

  “Mother, surely you can see this betrothal is a horrible idea! And why did Father find it necessary to lie to me?” Emma skipped formal pleasantries and tried to appeal to her mother right away. She knew, in her heart, pleading with her mother would not change her fate, yet she could not help but try.

  “Emma, dear,” her mother replied, casually fingering the blue pleats of Emma’s day gown between two of her delicate fingers. “Your father did not lie. It truly is the young MacNair’s birthday celebration and what better timing to announce a fortuitous engagement?”

  “But Mother?” Emma knew she sounded like an unforgiving child, but her situation was dire. By evening’s end, she would no longer be able to plead her case. She would be truly betrothed.

  Her mother did not spare Emma a second glance before saying, “You know, as the daughter of an Earl, and a great ally to Laird MacNair, it is your duty to marry William. It will do you no good to cry and beg.”

  Emma looked down to her mother’s hand, fighting the urge to grab it into her own.

  “Mother, I do not know him! Surely, we could at least postpone the wedding until we have had a chance to meet? To speak with one another and see if we even suit?”

  “Mrs. Briddle, what is this rag my daughter is wearing?” Her mother turned to the maid, ignoring her daughter’s pleas.

  The gown was modest as well as comfortable. It was one of Emma’s favorites and she saw nothing amiss.

  “My Lady, I’ve tried to tell the young lady that she must dress in her finest gown to meet her betrothed, but you know how difficult she can be.”

  “Yes, well, since we are in Scotland, she can forgo the heavy powder on her face, as fashion matters not a whit here, as far as I can tell. But I would like to see her in the green silk. It plays up the beauty in her complexion, as well as the flecks of gold in her eyes.”

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  “I have two of the MacNair maids coming up to draw her a bath. See that she washes with the lavender soap. I had it packed in one of the trunks.”

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  “And please make sure her hair is tucked and pinned under her cap properly. It won’t do any good to have her curls sticking out every which way.”

  Emma subconsciously reached up and touched her hair. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her curls. Really, Emma thought her hair more gentle waves than curls, but over the years her mother had subjected her to endless treatments to tame the chestnut locks. All to no avail and Emma had learned to love the wild mass of her hair.

  She liked it loose, and when decorum dictated and she had to have it pinned, her preference was only half drawn up, so some of her hair could still be free. In this case, her mother clearly had other ideas.

  Emma was used to her mother and Mrs. Briddle discussing her as if she was not in the room, but this onslaught regarding her appearance and even worse, her scent, was more than usual.

  Lady Katharine made her move toward the door to leave the room, then she turned around and gave her daughter a curt nod. “Emma, dear, if you know what is best, you will not disappoint your father this night. It is an important alliance between our two families. I trust you understand your role.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Emma knew that she would have no help from her mother. Lady Katharine was in favor of this arranged marriage and Emma would have to come up with another way out of the wedding.

  Chapter 2

  “Is a marriage between ye an’ the English lass really necessary?” Finley asked William, as he cleaned his training sword against the side of his plaid. William groaned, taking a large drink from the barrel laid out by the field.

  He knew his responsibility to his clan was great, yet he had always hoped to marry a Scottish lass, a bonny thing with sweet blue eyes, and fire red hair to contrast his own dark mane and intense gray eyes. Finley knew that, and his friend meant well, but the last thing William wanted to think about at the moment was his upcoming wedding.

  “I dinna see that I hae a choice, Finley. Da has decreed it, and as I’m nae Laird yet, I’m honor bound to oblige.”

  “Tis matters such as these that make me glad I’m nae of fine blood,” Finley spat. “Is she bonny?”

  “Truth be told, friend, I dinnae ken. I remember the lass as a wee chit. She seemed playful enough then. I hae nae seen her or her kin in years thou’. I would nae recognize her on the streets of Edinburgh or London should we meet.”

  “There are bonny enough Scottish lassies that would be a damn sight better for ye to marry, than some poor, sodden English lady.”

  “That may be so, Finley, but they are not here, and the English lass is.”

  “If Goraidh were here, he’d talk some sense intae ye.” Perhaps Finley was right, but William knew Goraidh would only serve to counsel the best decision possible for Scotland and their clan. He wondered if his friend would return in time for the feast. It had been almost a fortnight since he had been in the castle keep, and on such a day when a celebration was bound to be grand, not only for the betrothal but for William’s birthday, as his oldest and most reliable friend, Goraidh would not want to miss it.

  William looked across the bailey to where Thomas Marston stood with some of the Englishmen, all dressed in their coats. He knew there was a chill in the air. He and his lads, though, had just spent the better part of an hour practicing and conditioning, and they were warm in the rare March sun. He looked up, toward the blue of the Scottish sky. There was nowhere he loved more than the Highlands on the cusp of spring.

  “Ah! That’s her brother coming this way,” he said pointing. “He looks much like he did as a lad.”

  “He looks like a prim and proper man,” Finley said, barely disguising the disdain in his voice. “I doona see why we must make friendly with the English scum. It would do better if the Earl and his brats were wiped from our land, mayhap wiped from England.”

  William knew his friend had no love for the English. William shot him a look of warning as Thomas made his way over to where he and Finley were standing.

  “Ye should be more careful with yer words, friend. This marriage will secure the future of our two families, an’ possibly the future of relations between our two countries. Prim an’ proper as ye say ’tis not a bad thin’.”

  “For yer sake, I hope not. Looks like we hae company,” Finley said.

  William did not remember much of Thomas Marston from their youth, save for his arrogance, and a fight where the lad had been content to cheat his way to victory. In fact, if his wee betrothed had not called out from her hiding place in the brush, the lad could have easily taken William’s leg as well as the victory. William smiled at the thought of the wee lass. He wondered what kind of woman she had grown into. Would their match be a good one?

  If memory served him right, the young lord had fought with a real sword instead of the training sword that was customary at the time. And even though he didn’t trust Thomas Marston all those years ago, out of respect for his sister, and the arrangement they now found themselves in, he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps, he had grown out of whatever ailed him in his youth.

  “MacNair,” The English man extended his hand in greeting.

  “Me Lord, I trust ye find our arrangements to yer likin’?”

  “Indeed, quite comfortable for this far north. I didn’t expect the
MacNair keep to be so…” He looked around with a slight frown.

  William felt Finley bristle at his side. Stay well friend, he thought, hoping that the Highlander would not lose his temper with their guest so early on in the visit.

  William himself was quick to anger. MacNair Keep boasted some of the finest lands in all the Highlands. Stone walls of the bailey gave way to a medieval castle that was fortified against intruders.

  However, his father, the current Laird, had made the keep into a true marvel of comfort. The castle boasted no less than fifty separate rooms for guests, all impeccably decorated with every possible comfort by his mother, God bless her soul.

  There were two lochs that abutted the castle grounds. The family kept each stocked with an assortment of sporting fish each spring through early fall, which was rare for a Highland clan. Not to mention a stable filled with some of the finest beasties should anyone wish to ride along the paths and hills that surrounded the castle.

  The great hall itself was large enough that any in the clan who wished it, could take the evening meal with the Laird and his family.

  And the hearth in the great hall kept its fire going day and night. Two large tapestries hung above, one depicting current life in the Highlands, and the other a beautiful representation of a Pict warrior poised on the rocky sea, looking out to protect his land and his people. It was that tapestry that filled William with wonder as a lad and instilled in him the honor of keeping his clan, his people, and their way of life safe.

  William did not take kindly to any slight on his home, no matter how politely delivered, but he also realized that he needed Thomas Marston, and without backing down, simply gave the arrogant fool a slight nod and bow.

  “Please let me ken if ye’d be needin’ anythin’ specific to make yer stay more comfortable.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing a comely wench and some good ale couldn’t take care of,” Thomas replied, and his men gave a hearty laugh. “I’m sure you have good women around who are randy for sport, eh, MacNair?”

  “Nae, Marston. Our women are all to be treated with the highest respect, an’ nae for sport, as ye call it.” Finley put his hand on William’s arm, reminding him of his duty to remain calm and act like a generous host. Yet, Finley was allowed to be more forthcoming with their guests.

  William took a deep breath and tried to control his temper. He did not find the humor in the bawdy talk about women, especially the women of his clan. It did not speak well for Marston that he did.

  William did not think he was going to share the same cordial, friendly relationship with Thomas that his father kept with the current Earl when it came time for them to take their place as the leaders of their families.

  It doesnae seem Marston grew into any kind of different man than the lad he had been all those years ago.

  He reminded himself to discuss it with his father. The need for the marriage was becoming even more apparent to him in light of his conversation with the Marston heir. The Laird must have seen the potential for trouble and hoped a marriage between the two families would be the way to secure the future. Rarely was his father wrong.

  A small pit of trepidation formed in William’s middle. He disliked having choices about his future made for him, and hopefully, the sister wasn’t as arrogant and spoiled. Otherwise, it would be a long and lonely life for them both.

  Chapter 3

  The pins in her hair pulled as Emma walked along the darkened corridor of the keep. She longed to find herself in different grounds far away from her conventional world. She wanted to get away from Mrs. Briddle, her mother, and the curious glances of the MacNair maids that had been enlisted to help get her ready to meet her betrothed.

  The mood around her had been jovial; the ladies clacking, humming, and frequently telling her how lucky she was to be marrying the Laird’s son.

  Not luck ladies. No, this is the result of a carefully calculated and crafted machination of powerful men.

  She couldn’t share in the maids’ happy moods. She was headed toward her own demise. Not to mention the sheer exhaustion she felt after what seemed to be hours of pinching, pulling, poking, and prodding that made Emma want to scream. Now, it was nearly nightfall, and the feast was to begin soon, so Emma took these precious last moments of freedom for herself.

  Even in her despair, she couldn’t help but note how nicely appointed the keep was.

  Clearly, Laird MacNair’s deceased wife had a hand in this beauty.

  Emma ran her hand along the cold stone, admiring the candlelight as it played across the tapestries and portraits hung throughout. It made the scenes dance as if they were coming to life. If it had to be her funeral pyre, at least it was comfortable.

  She stopped in front of a scene depicting a lone Highlander looking out onto a crystal blue lake. Emma couldn’t believe how the colors came alive under the artist’s eye. It looked as if she could clasp the Highlander’s hand and walk into the water herself.

  “That one is a particular favorite of mine.” Emma startled and turned at the thick brogue behind her. “Och, I dinna mean to startle ye, lass.”

  He put his hands out with a shrug. His black hair was tied at his nape and he was dressed in a formal kilt. The metal of the sporran gleamed in the candlelight as if it has been recently shined. The fabric of his shirt sleeves pulled tight against his arms, revealing strength Emma knew she would find underneath.

  A pool of warmth hit Emma’s center followed quickly by apprehension as she stepped back. He was the same man she had spied from her chamber window earlier; the warrior in practice, only now standing in front of her he appeared to pull all the air from the corridor.

  This Highlander is handsome, too handsome to be safe. He was larger than life, and Emma wrestled with herself. There was nothing but him surrounding her senses. She was drawn to him, still also wanted to run.

  Why must all the men in my life be so imposing?

  She fought to find her voice. “I...um…excuse me.”

  She swore she saw a flicker of recognition cross his gray eyes, as she made to hurry away, but before she could name it, it was gone. He did stop her though.

  He lowered his head and gave her a crooked smile. “Ah English, ye must be part of our visitin’ party then? Naeone comes through this way often, were I nae passin’ through meself ye would’ve been alone, lass.”

  “I don’t wish to disturb you, sir.” She was flustered, yet for the life of herself could not tell why. She must simply be travel weary and nervous about her future. Clearly, she was safe within the keep walls, no matter who this rogue Highlander was, he was not going to harm her? Yet, there was something dangerous about him. The only problem was that she might not be right in speaking with him alone as she did not know who he was.

  “’Tis no trouble, lass, ye weren’t disturbin’ me at all. Tell me, what do ye think of this one?” he asked, pointing to a portrait of a young man on the opposite wall.

  The boy was tall, thin, and smiling, which was odd. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she saw a portrait of a person smiling. Most were of dour-faced aristocrats with firm grips on a cat or hound. This portrait was different, the boy was smiling and holding a duck. And by the look on his face, it was a duck he’d hunted and shot himself. He was wearing a short plaid, of the same color and pattern that the man in front of her wore, and Emma was struck by how familiar he looked. She couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips.

  “Is that you?” she asked. The man let out a chuckle. Emma liked the shine in his eyes as he smiled. Her guard slowly eased back. He must be a member of the family, else why would his portrait be on the wall? Back home in England, often cousins and other relatives would have their likenesses hanging in the manor house. Emma supposed Scotland wasn’t that different.

  “Aye, it ’tis, lass. Yer bonny an’ ye have a good eye.” Emma felt a blush creeping up her skin at the Highlander’s compliment. She knew bonny meant pretty. She had been called pretty only once before, an
d that was by her father in anger as he was ordering her to marry the Laird’s son. This man offered up the gentle word with no ulterior motive and Emma found she liked it.

  “I was right proud of that hunt,” he continued. “Couldn’t hae been more than nine or ten. I insisted the moment be put to canvas. The artist made me hold a log for days on end in place of the poor bird so that he could get the light right for the paint.”

  “What happened to the duck?”

  “The duck?” He smiled again and Emma found herself returning his smile. “Och, the bird was plucked and eaten for a meal the night of the hunt. Ye don’t let a fine specimen like that sit around to rot. I’ve shot a lot of fowl on MacNair lands, but that bird ’twas the best duck I’ve ever tasted, even to this day.”