Ravished By The Iron Highlander (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Read online

  It was an innocent question and she did not feel anything underlying or suspect about his question, so she replied. “My mother passed when I was young and my father just a few years ago,” she looked around while thinking of the best way to phrase her next words. “My brother is not the kindest person and I decided that if he was not going to protect me, I had to learn how to protect myself.”

  She knew she had shocked him but faced him with a wry smile. “It’s not the story I think you hear a lot, isn’t it?”

  “For a Sassenach, aye,” he said. “But nay for a Scotswoman.”

  “A…Sassenach?” Isabella pronounced the word carefully.

  He winced, “Sorry, it’s nay a good term…it means outsider.”

  “Oh,” she blinked and shrugged lightly. “I can see that. But, is it normal for Scotswomen to fight?”

  “Some,” Ewan said, “Nay the nobles but some women do fight. When the men are off at war, they do it to protect their children and lands. Some hunt too. When I was eleven, me mother took down a stag deer with an arrow between its eyes and skinned it too.”

  She grinned. “I can shoot arrows too, but I have not killed anything but wooden targets.”

  “Another reason ye should enroll in the ranks,” Ewan grinned, “Would ye like me to show ye the stables where the warhorses are, and would ye teach me to fling daggers?”

  “Warhorses, and yes, I’d be delighted to teach you,” Isabella smiled.

  He took her to the stables, and lifted the heavy latch to let her in. The stables smelled of horseflesh, sawdust, leather, and hay. A long walkway centered twenty cubicles on each side. The majestic heads of the warhorses railed up, their dark eyes peered at her and large velvety noses snorted before the heads dipped.

  Ewan took her down the line, showing her the oldest of the group to the newest. “Every four years or so, an emissary from a lowland clan comes and trades with us to get the newest breeds. The oldest ones go to pasture or to stud and we try to keep our numbers up because they are our most precious resource.”

  While reaching up to scratch a bay horse’s ear, she asked, “Do you mine your own steel for your weapons or do you trade those too?”

  “Oh, nay,” Ewan shook his head. “The mountains are full of iron ore for those. We mine our own weapons, make our own houses and food is nay an issue as the woods are full of game and the loch is teeming with fish, but we trade our prime wood for cloth and medicine every harvest.”

  “My father was a trader,” Isabella added. “He knew how to find the finest things and sell them fairly. He sourced things for the poorest of our people so no matter what class one is, one could always find something from him.”

  “That’s the mark of a man with a conscience,” Ewan said just before the stable’s door was pulled open and more men came in. She did not know them but apparently, they knew her.

  “Oh, is warrior goddess herself,” one grinned. “Heard ye trumped some of our soldiers, me Lady.”

  She warmed and the heat spread to her cheeks, “Thank you for the lovely compliment, but I don’t think I was born with a shield and sword in my hand. I’m just a normal woman.”

  “Ye are the farthest thing from normal,” Duncan’s voice cut through the air and the men parted to let their Laird in. “I ken all of us can see that.”

  Isabella looked away from him, feeling guilty that she had left the castle without a word to him then cleared her throat and asked as lightly as she could. “Am I needed back at the castle?”

  He shook his head, “Nay, I was coming to ask ye to come see the village with me. Will ye come?”

  “Of course,” she spun around and paled. “These horses though, they’re huge.”

  “And the Laird isnae?” someone snickered good-naturedly.

  “Morton,” Duncan said easily, “Ye can share with Callum in mucking out the stables. Ewan, use yer discretion with the steeds and saddle a horse for Miss Isabella.”

  * * *

  The village, just like Ewan had said, was made mainly of wood, and was enchanting. The small cottages were quaint, some wood of the homes were darkened with age, and others had the shining golden hue of new timber. The snow was thick and heavy on the dirt roads causing the white fluff to change into mottled mud.

  Isabella's dark-spotted gelding was walking near Duncan’s taller palfrey. She tried to see the village when it was in the high of spring, replacing the barren trees and scruffy patches of scrub grass with tall, green trees swaying in the wind and thick grass that would feel like a carpet under her toes. The village was large and sparkling, even though hemmed in with the banks of the lochs.

  The streets were empty but there was dark smoke of burning steel coming from a squat smithy’s shop that Duncan pointed out to her, and a line of washing flitting in the breeze. A dog was barking at a snarling arch-backed tabby cat perched on a stump, and dark-feathered birds gabbled at each other on a rooftop.

  For a split moment, Isabella saw fire-blackened stone walls of the cottages and the singed remains of their thatched roofs, jutting stark against a bloody sky. The village left desolate in the wake of a band of men who rode into the village in the middle of the night, brandishing swords and torches, slaying anything that moved.

  It was the image that might come if Ralf did find out where she was. God forbid that she would bring destruction to this peaceful place. Swallowing, she blinked the harrowing image away and shook her head to clear it out completely.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “A seamstress,” he said, “I need to get ye more dresses…” he grinned, “and if ye are set on sparring with me men, a few trews and shirts and then, we’re going to find ye some footwear.”

  The dressmaker was a thin woman with a needle gaze and spindly fingers. She took her measurements with precise motions and with clipped tones asked what fabrics she preferred. “Cotton and wool,” she said, “perhaps leather, but no silks or satins. They chafe my skin.”

  Her comment earned her an appalled look from the seamstress that she shared with Duncan. “The softest fabrics…chafe you?” The way she spoke it made it sound as if a senseless person had uttered it.

  “Believe it or not, they do,” Isabella shrugged. “I’m a simple woman.”

  Again, the woman looked taken aback but then shook her head. “I dinnae ken it will take long, Me Laird, two weeks or so. I’ll send word when I’ve finished and the note for payment.”

  Nodding, Duncan thanked her and after Isabella also gave her thanks, they left. She expected him to take her back to the castle but he took her down to another spot where the loch washed up on makeshift docks. She spotted fishing nets and boats, bobbing with the tide, tied up to posts.

  “Are ye taking me on another boat ride?” she quipped.

  His eyes narrowed playfully but his lips were twitching, holding back his growing grin. “Nay, but look over there, westwards over the loch. Peer as far as ye can.”

  Narrowed eyed, she looked and spotted the faint spiral of a roof. “I see a…spiral? What is it?”

  “That is the home of Clan Dillian, me closest neighbor. Every year they host a massive spring festival. I’ll take ye there next year.”

  She nodded. “Next year.” If I’m here, that is.

  * * *

  Again, she found herself back in her room, alone and wondering if what she was doing was right. The room was so cold and barren, while she knew where she could feel heat and comfort—with Duncan.

  But resolutely, she had vowed not to go back to his bed until she could find common ground with the man’s mother but as the hours ticked by the bed felt even colder and the sheets scratched. Hugging herself did not give her the warmth she wanted and curling in did not make it any better.

  As the night went on, she warred within herself, knowing what she wanted but was fearful to go and get it. When the ache in her belly grew too hard to bear and her heart tight, she shrugged the sheets off, grabbed her thick wool blanket and left the room. br />
  Her footsteps echoed as she went to Duncan’s room, and even with her hand raised she hesitated in knocking.

  Is this right?

  She dropped her hand and was about to turn away when the door was yanked open, and Duncan stood there, his hair bedraggled and lips pressed thin. His chest was bare and heaving and she barely opened her mouth before he snaked out a hand, fisted her blanket and dragged her in for a kiss.

  Clinging to his firmness, Isabella allowed him free rein. She did not want to share his bed yet, but just touching him was satisfying. His hands were warm on her cold skin, but his mouth was hotter. Kissing him had eased the turmoil in her chest.

  His hand slipped to the small of her back while she pulled away. Resting her head on his chest, she sighed. “Did I wake you?”

  “Nay,” his voice rumbled. “I was awake kenning of ye. I was hopin’ ye’d come to see me but I wasnae going to go to ye. I dinnae want to disturb ye.”

  She warmed inside. Warmth flooded her heart, spreading through her chest, and all feelings for him seemed to double down in strength. Pressing close, she inhaled the river-water scent of his skin, but forced herself to pull away.

  She kissed his throat, “I just need some time to think.”

  “I ken,” he said dropping kisses on the side of her head. “I do, but that doesnae stop me from wanting ye all to meself.”

  That warmed her even more, but she pulled away even more. “Good night, Duncan. Dream of me.”

  “Oh,” he grinned, “I will. Goodnight, love.”

  23

  Twelve days later, when a messenger rushed up to him with the news that a visitor from England had arrived, Duncan had to flash to the sparring grounds, and the soldiers there, where Isabella spent most of her time.

  She was radiant, perched atop a stack of crates like a queen holding court while her subject, the soldiers, sat, entrapped with every word she was speaking. A thin sword was near her side and so were her daggers. He realized she must have just taken a break from sparring and teaching Ewan to fling them. He waved and she spotted him before pausing in her tale.

  A man spotted him and sighed. “I guess break time is over.”

  Rolling his eyes, he said, “Ye have visitors, Isabella.”

  She frowned, “Visitors…but I—” then her expression cleared. “It's them? They’ve arrived?”

  He nodded and she sprung from the top of the crates, landed like a cat on her feet and took off with the speed of a deer. He spun and chuckled when he spotted just the tip of her braid rounding a corner.

  “I’ve got to say me Laird,” Fergus said with a shake of his head, “Ye’ve got an interesting one there.”

  “She saved me life,” he said. “‘T’was only right for me to save hers.”

  The captain gave him an inquisitive look but he shrugged it off, “It’s a long story, I’ll tell ye soon.” Hurrying after Isabella, he got there just in time to see a woman stepping down from the horse and taking off the hood of her wooden cloak. It was Miss Dellendine and beside her was the maid from the house, Agnes, holding unto another horse’s reins.

  He briefly wondered why she would take her maid with her then realized the journey was a perilous one. Anyone would travel with a companion. The older woman looked tired and he went to greet her but then his eyes slipped to the maid who was looking up at the castle with an awe-filled look on her face. He did not fault her; the castle was majestic.

  Isabella was hugging her aunt, who, while pulling away from her, did not look a bit surprised that her niece was dressed in men’s clothes.

  Coming up to the three he bowed, “Miss Dellendine and Miss Polver, I’m happy to see that ye’ve made it safely. Welcome to me home, Castle Goreidh.”

  Miss Dellendine slanted him a look, “Thank you. We’re happy, and relieved, to be here.”

  A swift look crossed Agnes’ face but he only caught it from the corner of his eye. Dismissing it, he gestured, “Let me take ye inside.”

  He looked at the castle through their eyes, seeing the dark stone and the entrance hall, the stairs and the doorway to the main hall. He paused, “Would ye like to rest first or have something to eat?”

  “I would rather rest first,” Miss Dellendine said and he could hear the weariness in her voice.

  “I’ll show ye to yer rooms then,” he said and took them to the visitor’s wing. His eyes flicked to the closed door where Lara and her children were in. From the day she had arrived, she had rarely been seen, sticking to her room mostly. He knew she was there grieving and had entrusted the servants to only carry the meals and bathing water to her at the appointed times.

  At the far end of the hall, he gave the aunt and the maid facing rooms, both fitting to one person. “I’ll leave ye to rest.”

  “Thank you,” Miss Dellendine said while pulling her coat off and revealing a dark blue dress. “Isabella, would you stay a moment?”

  Stepping away, his eyes met Isabella’s and her soft smile told him it was fine to leave them alone. Nodding, he said. “I’ll send up some refreshments in an hour.”

  Leaving, he had no illusions that he would be the topic of discussion when he left but he also knew that Isabella would not malign him. He took the stairs to the upper level, knowing that he had some explanations to give his mother.

  ***

  “Let me help you,” Isabella said, reaching out to help her aunt sit. “Is your knee hurting?”

  “Somewhat,” her aunt mumbled as she sat. Isabella was pleased to see the chair was padded. Reaching down to rub her knee, Aunt Matilda looked up, “Ralf came to see me, Isabella. He was angrier than a hound of hell.”

  Her happy mood plummeted. “What did he say?”

  “He did not say anything, he demanded,” her aunt clarified. “He demanded to know where you were and I told him I did not know. That I had been asleep and woke up to find you gone.”

  Knowing that her brother’s explosive temper did not take much to spark, she grimaced, “What did he do?”

  “Nearly ripped my kitchen up,” she said darkly. “He refused to accept that you had run off but accused me of helping you. He vowed to find you and—” she grimaced, looked up at Isabella with pity, “—drag you back to England by your hair.”

  It sounded improbable but Isabella knew her brother was not lying. He was cruel enough to do it.

  “No fear, Isabella,” her aunt straightened. “I had ordered my staff to be tight lipped about you and the Scotsman that had been with us. On your journey here, you did not go to any towns nearby, did you?”

  “No,” Isabella said, relieved that her intuition to stay away from the major villages and towns was seconded by her aunt. “Not until we were way past England and into Scotland. We tried to stick to the forest as much as possible and only went into the towns when we had to.”

  “Good,” Aunt Matilda nodded. “I know I could count on you to use prudence. Now…tell me the truth. Mr. Goreidh, is he treating you right?”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, a pleased smile sprung to her face, “He is, very much so. He took me to get some clothes the other day, and my closet is full of dresses but—”

  “You prefer to wear his,” her aunt cut in as her eyes dipped to her men’s trews. “I can see that.”

  Isabella was tempted to be ashamed but brushed it off, “His fighting men like me too. I spar with them daily, and it only makes sense to wear these, I cannot spar in dresses, can I?”

  “No, you cannot,” was her reply, then she was pinned with a searching look. “Do you think he loves you?”

  “He’s said it,” Isabella replied. “And I love him too but…” she sighed, wondering if it was right to put her rift with Duncan’s mother to her aunt, “it's taking me a while to adapt to this land and the people in it.”

  “It will,” Aunt Matilda commiserated. “have you shared his bed yet?”

  The blunt question felt like a mallet to Isabella’s face, but instead of her face flaming, her blood sank to her
feet. Her hands plucked at the fabric of her trews with bloodless fingers, “Aunt, I…I—”

  What could she say to her deeply religious, old-testament, marriage-first, aunt? Her aunt’s knowing stare had her cringing inside but though she knew that her aunt knew the answer, she was going to have to say it directly.

  “Yes…I have,” she swallowed tightly then rushed on, “but he treated me with the best care, Aunt. I promise you, there was nothing crass or insensitive about it. It was love in its truest sense.”

  Her eyes were down on her lap and her heart was pounding a riotous beat in her chest. When her aunt did not speak, she still did not have the heart to look up.