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

  “Pardon me, sir,” a voice came from the doorway.

  He tugged his hand away, and spotted a woman at the doorway, holding a tray with a bowl of what smelled like stew and hunks of bread beside it. Bracing his injured arm on his chest, he sat up and looked at her. “Will you be able to eat on your own?”

  The lass was dark haired, with the dullness of mud, not the shine of Isabella’s mahogany tresses. Her eyes were a piercing blue but her face was expressionless. He nodded and as he was about to speak, remembered that Isabella had lied for him, so he gestured for her to come in.

  The woman, dressed plainly like a servant, came forward and settled the tray on his knees. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  She curtsied and left, but at the door nearly bumped into Aunt Matilda. Duncan would have preferred to have a title to call her by but he only knew of her forename.

  “Agnes?” Aunt Matilda said, “You finished the stew already?”

  “Yes, Miss, I have,” Agnes said while nodding. “Miss Isabella and your meals are ready as well.”

  “We will be there shortly, thank you,” Aunt Matilda said as her eyes were stuck on Duncan. “I’ll just have a talk with our guest for a moment.”

  Duncan did not move his eyes from the older woman as she sat. The stew’s aroma was filling his nose but he did not dip his eyes to see it. The woman’s face was not inviting but it was not off-putting either. She folded her hands on her skirt.

  “I am Madeline Dellendine, I own this house,” she began. “My niece is Isabella Dellendine and she was the one who found you. I will not ask you for anything because you are still recovering but one thing I need you to do while being here is for you to behave around my niece with the uttermost respect as she is only here to prepare for her upcoming wedding...”

  An upcoming wedding?

  “I mean that when she is near you, you are not to touch her and when you recover your ability to speak, address her as she is to be addressed, which is Miss Dellendine,” the older woman added strictly. “I don’t expect her to be here for much longer as her brother will be arranging her marriage shortly to a Baron near their home.”

  The delicious aroma from the stew was suddenly tuning his stomach but he did not dare show it. Isabella was going to be married off. Why it rankled him to know that the lass was going to have a husband should not make sense but logic did not stop the displeasure from tying his chest into knots.

  “Do you agree?” Miss Dellendine asked as she stood, holding out her hand.

  Duncan took care to balance the bowl on his lap before reaching out his hand to shake hers. Miss Dellendine gave him another deeply probing look, her green-blue eyes wary and cautious before her suspicion lightened.

  “Please, finish your dinner,” Miss Dellendine nodded and left the room.

  When she closed the door, Duncan broke his bread into smaller chunks and scooped some of the soup. He bit into it and though the warm, lightly spiced flavor was decent, he had no appetite for it. He ate out of duty to Isabella’s aunt and his convalescing body but his hunger was gone. He finished off the last morsel of bread and stared into the empty bowl.

  He knew why he was disheartened about Isabella’s marriage. He wanted her for himself. He wanted to see that long, lustrous hair blowing free in the Highland wind of his home. He wanted to see those golden eyes shimmer under the silver rays of the full moon, he wanted to see her in a dress made from his homespun plaid. Duncan wanted the young lass for himself but sadly, another was going to have her.

  The man might be an uncultured swine, who would never ken or appreciate Isabella.

  “To be honest, I don’t ken her either,” Duncan muttered under his breath.

  There was a knock at the door and the same lass with the blue eyes came in. Her eyes dipped to his bowl and showed light surprise. “You ate it all?”

  He nodded and she came forward to take the tray, he glimpsed a calculating look in her eyes before it was gone. She took the tray and bowed her head. “Would you like some water?”

  Duncan nodded and she left, he decided that he needed to start talking soon. It would look strange for the army to hire a dumb soldier, and if he did forget about his sudden “inability” to speak and was caught off guard uttering words, he would be in deep trouble.

  His best option was to fake an English accent and hope that they didn’t realize he was fabricating the accent. He knew Isabella did not have any animosity toward Scots but he did not know if these people shared the same mindset. He had heard some animosity when Matilda had spoken about his people.

  If, in fact she did hate Scots, and he spoke with his true accent, he might have well had just signed his death warrant. But if not and he could pull off this act convincingly he would be buying himself time to make a plan. Still, the indecision had him debating strongly within him. Was it worth it?

  When the woman came back, he decided it had to be now. It would be too suspicious to keep quiet for a longer time, so he cleared his throat and reached for the goblet with a quiet, “Thank you.”

  She nearly dropped the goblet in shock while he was containing his. With the forged accent, his voice sounded completely strange to his own ears. The maid rushed out, to her mistress, he assumed and, in a few moments later he was proven right. Miss Dellendine came in, her face cautionary. Duncan was beginning to suspect the lady had only two expressions, wary and authoritative.

  “I’m told you can speak now,” Miss Dellendine said. “Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Duncan said. He knew the best way to not slip up was to keep his words short and to the point.

  The aunt’s lips flattened and she sat. “May I know the name of the man I’m speaking with?”

  “Duncan,” he replied. “Duncan…Gordon.”

  “And do you remember how you got here?” he was asked.

  His eyes quickly flit to the doorway to see if Isabella had come but it was empty. “I nearly died so I ran for my life.”

  That was absolutely true; she did not need to know the enemy he was speaking about were her people. His answer seemed to mollify her because she nodded, “And where do you come from, Mr. Gordon?”

  “Northumberland,” he said.

  “And how did you come by the corps?” Miss Dellendine asked. “As far as I am aware, they did not recruit that far away.”

  Like a dog with a bone, eh?

  “I was traveling when they found me,” Duncan said, fabricating the story as he went. Thankfully, he had gone to Northumberland a few years ago and knew what to base his lie off, “I left to find a better life. I was not fit for farming and coal mining, so I left.”

  “Did you leave any family behind, a wife, mother, children? Anyone we can send to help you go home?” Miss Dellendine asked.

  “No,” Duncan said, hoping and praying the woman would let the matter drop. “I don’t have anyone.”

  “I see,” Miss Dellendine nodded even though her doubtful expression had not left. “I am happy that you are getting better but I hope you will stick to our agreement to be respectful to my niece.”

  “I will,” Duncan replied. “Thank you…” he paused because he swore he had heard ye coming from his mouth, “for your kindness.”

  “It is God’s commission to his people to be kind and show mercy to others. I am dutifully following His charge,” Miss Dellendine replied. “Please, take your rest and I will check up on you this evening.”

  She nodded and walked out the door, only to close it behind her. Duncan sank to the pillow, breathing hard through his nose. He had just lied through his teeth to the woman who was being so gracious to him. That was another thing that he despised, being deceitful.

  He had vowed to be respectful to Isabella, but thinking of her face, her arresting eyes, curved lips, and that graceful arch of her cheeks had his hand itching to reach out and touch her again. He did not know if he would ever see her again though, as the woman had said she was slated to be married but if God could give him one gift, it would be to
let him see her again.

  He would be respectful but he would give her the chance to build on the bond he knew had formed between them the moment his eyes had met hers. Would she even let him kiss her, to sample her, to feel her softness under his hand, to have her lips move with his?

  She is an angel and I would gladly die in her hands…but this heaven might become hell if I still keep lying. One day someone will see through it or I might slip up…all I know it that me time here is limited.

  5

  The trees outside her window had a subtle, mesmerizing sway to them. The more Isabella looked, the more she did not see them because her mind was wandering. Clad in a plain dress and a coat, she was sitting on her aunt’s second-story porch and breathing in the fresh, spicy scent of the pine trees.

  At nineteen, a young woman in her prime, Isabella knew she was sheltered but she was not foolish. Duncan called to a part of her she had not even known existed. His eyes seemed to slip past her outer shell and deep into her soul. He did not speak much but he did not need to. A connection had been made just by their locked gaze, she began to wonder what would happen if they touched.

  Two days had passed from the last time she had seen Duncan and under her aunt’s watchful eye, she had not dared to even pass by the corridor that took her to his room much less go inside it.

  “Who are you really, Mr. Duncan Gordon…” she whispered to the air.

  Down below, she spied her aunt down in her vegetable garden, yanking out the weeds that threatened to choke her herbs. Her aunt had a set schedule for every day. She followed the Book of Hours without fail. Every day at this time, an hour after her prayers, she went to her garden.

  Isabella did not know if she was praying down there because there were times when she spotted her aunt’s lips moving. There were other times when she saw her aunt looking up and facing the Scotland Mountains with a pained look on her face. Isabella had to ask herself twice if what she saw in those times was real. Why would her aunt look so hurt gazing at those mountains?

  Her eyes slipped from her aunt to the direction of her home, Sunderland. There was no word from Ralf yet but she was not going to fool herself, her brother would not keep quiet for long.

  Isabella’s right hand was fiddling with her braid that was draped over her shoulder. She sagged back and her gaze went to the mountains afar off.

  “I wish I could paint…” she murmured “those hills need to be immortalized on paper.”

  She saw Agnes come into the garden and speak with her aunt. Being so high up, Isabella did not hear what the conversation was about but she could guess. It was either what to prepare for dinner or what to give Duncan.

  The maid was a quiet one, almost unnoticeable if one was not looking for her. Most maids were that respectful and Isabella liked that. Some maids were nosy and busied themselves too much with their employers’ business. Isabella did not know how her aunt was paying her, if she was paying her at all, but she respected the woman for being so good to her aunt.

  Her mind strayed back to her brother and then to Lord Lofter, the Baron who was three times her age and had women who mysteriously disappeared with children he supposedly did not have. If those were true, did her brother know about that and if he did, did he even care that she might disappear like those women?

  Or does he just care about the money and the arms he would get by selling me off?

  Lord Lofter. She did not know the ins and outs of what her brother had discussed with him but she did feel that none of them would align with what she really wanted. At best, she would be taken care of and given all she needed, and at worst she would be just an ornament on the man’s arm.

  A prize wife, somewhat like a winning race horse that the owner would trot out for acclaim. To let the less fortunate gaze at her or for those of Lofter’s status to envy her. She felt that no love, appreciation or even acknowledgment would be given to her.

  “I’d just be another woman in a long list—” she sighed.

  Looking back at her aunt, who was now alone in the garden, she knew Matilda was speaking sense when it came to her livelihood. Women of her class were not allowed to work and the only way out of it was to marry a man who could carry on the lifestyle she was used to. But it irked her to even think about Lofter himself, much less submitting herself to him.

  A sudden image of them consummating the marriage had her lurching for the banister and the contents of her stomach racing up her throat. She managed to control her emotions while banishing the mental image of the fat naked bastard from her mind.

  Pulling away from the banister, she saw her aunt looking up at her with concern. Trying to relieve her aunt’s worry, Isabella shook her head a little and waved, then went back to her seat. She pressed her hands to her mouth again and swallowed twice. Her throat was burning.

  If I get that repulsed at a mental image of him…there is no hope of me marrying him. But then…I already knew that.

  Why couldn’t Ralf have chosen another? Even if there were, he would have still chosen the Baron because he hates me. All along, she knew that her brother had a bit of envy and bitterness for her. Their father, Peter Dellendine, had pampered her and protected her from the day their mother had passed. That dark day their mother had died, she had been eight and Ralf was thirteen.

  While their father had a soft spot for her, he had been stricter and more demanding with Ralf. She knew her brother was resentful because her mistakes would be brushed over and ignored while the tiniest things Ralf did were overtaxed.

  She knew why their father had done it, why he had been so hard on Ralf. He had been teaching Ralf how to be a man and a leader, but she reasoned that perhaps her father had gone a bit too far.

  Ralf must really hate me to choose the worst man in existence to marry me off with.

  She stood and went to her room, trying hard to battle the disbelief that her blood brother had such hatred for her that he did not care if she lived or died. She took out her book on King Arthur and climbed into bed, determined to distract her mind.

  The more she read about chivalrous men and their daring acts to prove their love; the more she began to yearn for the same. Though she loved the deeds Arthur did perform and his love for his wife, she had a tender spot of pity for Lancelot, the poor man who had been tricked into killing his king. The man died alone and in sorrow, penitent to the day he died.

  A knock sounded on her door before it was pushed to reveal her aunt standing there, in a dress that had grass and mud stains on the hem. There were even splotches of dirt on her face. She tugged her gloves off too, “Isabella, are you feeling well? A moment ago, you looked as if you were going to be ill?”

  Closing the book, Isabella shook her head, “It was a passing thing, Aunt, brought on by a bad memory. It's nothing to worry about.”

  Aunt Matilda did not look convinced, and the frown line around her mouth went deeper, “Would you like something to eat be sent up? It is almost time for supper.”

  “No,” Isabella said while shaking her head. “No, no, I can come down to the dining room. I’ll be down for supper.”

  Her aunt leveled another doubtful look at her but nodded, “You’ll hear the bell when it is ready.”

  Debating the likelihood of getting rejected, Isabella barely looked up from her book and in her most casual voice asked, “How is Mr. Gordon doing?”

  Her aunt did not reply for a hesitant moment before she said, “He is healing.”

  Not looking up again, she nodded, “Good to hear.”

  “See you at supper then,” Aunt Matilda said while tucking her gloves into her hidden pocket.

  Isabella managed a smile. “I’ll be down soon.”

  She continued to read over half-memorized stories, while thinking of Duncan too. Isabella did not doubt her aunt, but she wanted to see for herself how he was faring. Had his wounds closed up? Had his bruises begun to fade?

  When she heard the bell ring, she closed the book, straightened her dress, and went dow
n to the kitchens where they ate as it was the warmest room in the house. Her aunt was not there yet but Agnes was. Her hair was in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and she had an apron around her middle as she tended to the fires.

  “Good evening, Agnes,” Isabella said pleasantly. “How are you?”

  She was treated to a quick look and a furtive smile, “Can’t complain, Miss, and you?”

  The kitchen was warm but that did not stop Isabella from tugging the lapels of her coat around her. “I’m not used to this chill. Back home, we had cool summers, and mild winters considering that they were in the shadow of the mountains. Are you used to it? Have you lived here long?”

  Agnes’s jaw firmed and an obstinate look flashed across her face before it was gone. “I am used to it, Miss, as I’ve been here long enough.”