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

  “Please stand, and witness, approach. Do you declare with surety these parties be married?”

  “I declare for Miss Isabella Dellendine,” her aunt said. “Happily.”

  “And I declare for Duncan Goreidh, the Laird Brynkirk,” Ewan said. “With honor.”

  Nodding in acceptance, the priest said, “Then, ye may exchange yer vows.”

  They stood and with his hands covering her from the top and bottom they faced each other, and vowed to love each other for richer or poorer, through sickness and health, for better or worse, and promising that only death would part them.

  “I now pronounce ye man and wife,” the priest declared, “Ye may kiss.”

  His kiss was gentle. With both hands framing her face, he caressed her cheekbone with his thumbs before placing his lips on her. Her lips met his with longing, and his tongue caressed hers with tenderness even as he deepened the kiss. His hand slipped under her neck to thread in the soft hairs there and suckling at her lips before pulling away.

  “Ye are stunning, Lady Byrnkirk,” he said. “Are ye ready to rule by me side?”

  “I’d like nothing more,” she said, taking his hand and after kissing her aunt’s cheek, left into welcoming sunlight and cheers of the people around her who were throwing flowers. She firmed her grip with Duncan’s. “Nothing more.”

  The End?

  Extended Epilogue

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  1

  Harlington, England, 1670

  Forgive me God, but this man is…repugnant. Is this truthfully the man my parents want me to marry? He’s almost three times my age!

  Mary Thompson’s sapphire eyes were fixed on James Darby, the Viscount of Blackmore, with dismay. Seated across from him on the dinner table in her father’s house, Mary had to force her face to keep neutral.

  The man, aged over fifty years, was touted to be as pious as her parents but how was he so odious? What part did piety have with gluttony? The man had two-and-a-half chins, for God’s sake, and was built like the carriage he had come in.

  This was the third time she had been with the lord, and without fail, he had not done a thing to impress her. On his first visit, he had spoken endlessly about the misdeeds of King Charles the Second. She had pretended to pay attention, but his droning voice had almost put her to sleep.

  Then, on his second, they had taken a walk but merely twenty steps in the man had begun wheezing. He couldn’t even coordinate walking and talking. Now, she was seeing another side of him that moved her impression of him from dismay to pure repulsion.

  Her appetite had vanished after she had seen the lord pile five portions of roasted fowl on his plate. He sloshed wine down his chin when he guzzled his drink and did not refuse the polite offers for a second helping.

  The man was a glutton. How could her parents not see that? She looked over her father, Oliver Thompson, the Baron of Harlington, begging him with her eyes to see what she saw in James.

  Her father was not looking at her, instead, he was staring impassively at James from the head of the table. Her mother, Rebecca, was quoting something from the Old Testament that Mary could not follow because she had not heard what had come before it. Her attention was trapped with James.

  “Isn’t that right, Mary?”

  Calmly shifting her gaze to her mother who had asked the question, she nodded, “Yes, Mother, it is.”

  Truthfully, she had not the faintest idea what her mother had said, but she had learned a long time ago to just nod and say yes in these instances.

  She forced herself to pick the fork back up and spear a chunk of meat. Chewing it was a chore, but she managed to get it down. She began to ache to get out of this room, away from this man, and away from her parents. Did they not want her to enjoy her life? How could she be with this man?

  “Cromwell did a service to this country,” Lord Blackmore said while dabbing his chin. Well, one of them anyway. “If only the people could have seen that.”

  Her father, Oliver Thompson, the Lord of Harlington, nodded and took his drink, “I agree. Even now, the Anglican Church needs to be purified of the influence of the Catholic heresies.”

  Sighing into her food, Mary tried to remember the inside of a church but could not. The last time she believed she had set foot into an Anglican church had been over fifteen years ago when she was eight.

  One morning, her father told them that he’d been given a vision from God who told him to separate himself and his family from the Anglican church. They had become puritans that same day and held worship at home. They prayed three times a day, and she was banned from being in the presence of boys until she was sixteen. The only respite she had was that they had allowed her to know how to ride.

  Mary had been young and impressionable at that age, but as she grew, she began to despise her life. The few friends she had, she had met at church and with her father separating them from the one place where she could go to socialize with other girls her age, she’d been cut off. Slowly, she began to pray for freedom from this repression. She had hoped a good, handsome, kind husband would save her, but now…this man was far from what she had envisioned.

  Closing her utensils, she hoped her drink would be somewhat palatable. She knew the wine was sweet but it felt bitter to her taste. She had to tell her parents that this man would not be her husband, that she would spend the rest of her life in an abbey if it came to that, but she was not going to marry this man.

  Her father called for a servant to clear the plates away and put before them slices of pudding as their dessert. The small sweet cake with figs and molasses was her favorite, but she could not even summon the appetite to bite into it.

  “Dear?” her mother asked, “Aren’t you hungry? This is your favorite pudding.”

  “I’m rather full, Mother,” she lied. Disgusted really. “Please, pardon me.”

  Again, they paused to bless this meal, and over the rim of her goblet, she watched her parents and Lord Blackmore eat. She knew that when this meal was over, her parents would give her and Lord Blackmore time to talk. She knew she had to beg off from that. She heard the tines of the fork clink on the plates with dread inside her.

  She then pressed a hand to her head and sighed, looking up with deep sorrow in her eyes she said, “Father, I am not feeling well, may I be excused?”

  Her mother’s sharp eyes shot to her with suspicion while her father’s had more pity. “Are you sure, Mary? We wanted you to speak with Lord Blackmore for a bit.”

  “I suppose, I can try and hold out for a little while, but I really have a headache,” she said, while mentally begging God to forgive her for lying. She set her goblet down and smiled faintly.

  “I won’t take much of your time, Miss Thompson,” the lord said while wiping his mouth. “I just need to tell you a few things. Where shall we go to, Harlington?”

  Her father stood with a slight scrape of his chair, “The drawing room I think is best.”

  Standing, she followed in step with her father and her soon-to-be husband. She must do something to stop this. She hoped her father had not given the man a definite yes on her hand.

  They came to the drawing room that had a very austere look with simple chairs, a single carpet under the coffee table and a single piece of artwork on the wall, that of the Virgin Mary. Lord Blackmore sat on a curlicue chair, and Mary sat on the adjacent o
ne with a carefully crafted notch resting between her chestnut brows.

  Mary folded her hands on her blue dress as her father briefly rested his hand on her shoulder before he took his seat to supervise. It would have galled any other woman to be under such scrutiny, but Mary had grown immune to it. Her father was silent between this meeting but she felt his eyes on the back of her neck.

  “Lord Blackmore?” she asked quietly. “Is something wrong?”

  The man plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his face that was beading with sweat “I must say that I am overjoyed about this engagement, but though, I am eager to have your hand, I am told I must journey to London. Our wedding was to be in three days…”

  Mary snapped her head to her father, her eyes wide and full of disbelief. How could her father do this? Was he going to wait until the very day to tell her she was going to be married? She sat quietly, but inside she was bristling. It was a miracle her hair was not standing up on end like wet cat’s. She kept her eyes from narrowing and her shoulders from stiffening but kept her eyes on the lord.

  “…but I must be absent. Please pardon me for those few days.”

  Mary bit her tongue and nodded, “You are pardoned, My Lord.”

  Lord Blackmore dabbed his face once more, his dark beady eyes holding a tinge of nervousness. “And when we are wed…we will be moving to Chelmsford.”

  Her eyes did pop at that time. Chelmsford! Halfway across England? This did not feel right.

  “H…how long will you be gone?” she asked trying to cover the tremble in her voice.

  “A week or possibly more depending on how it goes with parliament and the King,” the Lord replied. “Never fear, when we are married you will be free to accompany me. I happen to know where in the countryside the queen consort of England, Catherine of Braganza, goes for her favorite pastimes. I am assured I can get you an audience with her.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw her father’s jaw stiffen and for good reason—the Queen was devoutly Catholic and they were puritans. Her father would not like it if she mixed with those who they termed heretics.

  “I’ll…consider that,” Mary said cautiously with her eye on her father. “so, I suppose the only thing I can tell you is safe travels.”

  She stood as the lord did and took his hand. “Send me word on your safe arrival.”

  His chin jiggled when he shook her hand and plopped his hat on his head. “I will see you soon, Miss Thompson, and you have my regards, Lord Harlington.”

  Stepping aside to let a footman usher the lord to the door, she waited until he came back with the report that Lord Blackmore was in his carriage and was off.

  When he was dismissed, she turned to her father and said, “When were you going to tell me about the marriage day, Father? I believed we had much more time than this.”

  “That was my doing,” Lady Harlington said from the doorway. “I thought it best to have you married quickly.” The lady came in, the skirts of her dark dress brushing on the carpet. “You’re young, Mary, I think there is little time for you to bear a child with this man.”

  Bear a child? God forbid!

  “Mother…” Mary said quietly, “I will not marry this man.”

  Her mother stared at her then calmly said. “Pardon?”

  Nerves began trembling her spine at her mother’s calm tone, but she carried on, “I will not marry that man. He is odious and has a bland personality. I will suffocate if I marry him.”

  Her mother came closer and gently took Mary’s chin. Her smile was soft, “You are so young, Mary. I understand your fear, but no one is better for you. He is safe, has a good income, and you will have an easy life.”

  “An easy life? Mother!” Mary exclaimed. “What about a life I would want to live; one I can be happy with a man I love?”

  “Love?” Lady Harlington’s tone dipped to a warning and hint of scorn, “This has nothing to do with love, dear. This is about your future, your life, and your well-being.”

  “Well-being?” Mary said askance, “The man spoke for over an hour on the way silk is made. I’d die for boredom under his well-being!” Shooting a desperate look to her silent father, she said, “And why not love? You married father because you loved him? Why can’t I do the same?”

  “The situations where your Mother and I met were different,” her father finally interjected, his tone still and stern. “Our parents were dear friends and we were raised closely. We did fall in love along the way but we chose to raise you differently. We did not want you to be mingled with men folk too early.”

  “You mean not at all,” Mary said stiffly, “so, you felt comfortable with making me lose any contact with a man who might love me just because of your selfishness.”

  Her mother yanked her hand away and her face darkened, “Go to your room and get on your knees. Repent to God for your disrespect and beg his mercy. Do it now! You will not leave this house for three days. How can you be so insolent?”

  “Father?” Mary cried. “You must see my point.”

  “Your Mother is right,” her father said as he came to stand by her mother, “Go to your room and pray.”

  Looking between the two, she did not see any waiver in their gazes and so spun and hurried to her room. She did not want to disrespect her parents but could they not see that they were being unfair? She would die if her life was linked to that man. She needed what any other woman would want, the chance to meet the man who completed her and who she could love until the day he parted this life.

  Lord Blackmore could only offer her a life that slowly dwindled to the death of her soul. She got to the room and shut the door behind her forcefully. Looking around through tearful eyes, she decided with grief in her heart, if they won’t save me from that life…I will save myself.

  2

  Lenichton, Scotland

  The grim faces of those that hurried past by Leith Balloch, as he came into the great hall of his ancestral home, had him grimacing. He was already tired from days of tracking and overtaking the last set of thieves who had made away with his village’s goats and calves, but now he felt utterly drained.

  On the way back home, he had envisioned a calm night, a warm bath and some good food, but sadly he was not going to have that. He unlatched his sword and handed it off to a boy and instructed him to run to his rooms and place it there.

  He then took the stairs to his parents’ rooms but from the corridor, he could hear his father yelling. “Get away from me! I know ye, wench! Get ye me wife!”

  Leith could bet his last shilling that wench his father, Aaron Balloch, the Laird of Lenichton, was yelling to was his wife, but he did not recognize her. The sole son of the pair knew that his mother, Sarah Balloch, was nearing the end of her rope with his father. For the last six months, he was acting very bad tempered, suspicious and hostile accusing everyone within ten feet of him of being a traitor.

  His mother never raised her voice and was a thin wisp of a woman, looking more like a reed when compared to his father who was thick in all forms. Aaron Balloch had been confined to his rooms with two hefty guards, Dugald and Finlay, at his doors at all times, not only when the delusions took him and he was on a rampage, but when he was weak and bedridden.

  Dugald, who first saw him, nudged Finlay and then both bowed their heads to him. Leith raked a hand through his grimy hair and tiredly asked, “How long has he been this way?”

  “About a hoor-and-half, Sir,” Finlay said gruffly, his rough northern accent making his words heavy. “Me Lady went in just after he began.”

  “Thank ye for—”

  The splintering crash of something on the wall had Leith yanking the outside bolt from its lock, shoving the door open, and running in to see his mother sitting on the floor. Her thin face pale with fright and her trembling arms were braced behind her.

  It was clear that she had fallen backward and for good reason. On the wall behind her was the white stain of pease porridge dripping down and, on t
he floor, the remains of the pewter bowl lay shattered. He could see that she had ducked to save her life.

  He rushed to his mother and helped her up. Her thin, spindly hands were clutching to him with fright. He kissed her forehead and said, “Come, Mother, I’ll take care of Father.”

  She nodded speechlessly as he guided her to the door and ordered Dugald to take her to the kitchens to get some tea. He did not get to see her leave as he quickly shut the door behind her and went to his father who was pacing the room and muttering to himself.

  Leith watched him closely, “Faither.”

  Aaron still paced. “…spies…murderers…someone is after me, someone wants to hurt me…”

  Edging closer to his father, Leith reached out to him but drew back when the man brushed past him. He got closer, and when his father made a second round, he grabbed him and held him fast, expecting his father to react and react he did.

  His father tried to yank his arms out of Leith’s grip, but though the younger warrior was tired, he had the strength to hold his thrashing father until he calmed. “Faither, calm ye down, calm yerself. Nay one is here to hurt ye.”

  Aaron gave no reply but continued to pace and mutter under his breath. Leith tried again to tell his father that he was safe, and no one was going to harm him, but his words fell on deaf ears. He tried a third time, but his father continued to ignore him.

  Sagging into his seat, Leith watched with hopeless eyes the fall of a mighty man. Aaron Balloch was renowned in the highland of Badenoch. His power on the battlefield some thirty years ago had spawned tales that were still told to this day. Aaron was a master of tactics and strategy, going so far as to even advise England’s Lord Cromwell’s military governor in Scotland against the Dutch.