Red Skye at Night
A Totally Bound Publication
Red Skye at Night
ISBN #
978-1-78430-387-7
©Copyright Ashe Barker 2015
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright January 2015
Edited by Sarah Smeaton
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing,
Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Totally Melting
and a
Sexometer
of
3.
RED SKYE AT NIGHT
Ashe Barker
Two strangers, one outrageous proposal, and the journey of a lifetime.
How far would you go? To Skye and back?
A random accident as a teenager wrecked Hope Shepherd’s aspirations to be an international athlete. Now working as a taxi driver, Hope is unsettled by a sexy Canadian she picks up at the airport. With his good looks and easy charm, he’s just the sort of man she can do without. But can she afford to turn down his offer?
He offers her a small fortune to drive him to Scotland, where he hopes to discover his ancestral roots. And not just anywhere in Scotland. Harry McLeod wants to go to the Highlands, to the Isle of Skye.
He is persistent, and Hope needs the cash. But what are the real terms of this outrageous deal?
Harry McLeod desires Hope, and the attraction is shared. If he can get her in his bed—or better still, tied to it—will she allow him to peel away her protective layers to release her inner submissive? Harry is stern, uncompromising, outrageously sexy and utterly irresistible. How will Hope respond to his dark brand of sensuality? Does he offer more than a generous fare and a few erotic encounters?
When they reach Skye, a feud spanning four generations challenges all that Hope thought she was coming to know about submission. Will it be enough to convince her that this could be a relationship to stand the test of time?
Dedication
This book is dedicated to John and Hannah, as ever.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Carlsberg: Carlsberg Group
Ford Focus: Ford Motor Company
Nike: Nike, Inc.
Midsomer Murders:
ITV plc.
Rado: Swatch Group Ltd.
iPad: Apple, Inc.
Hogwarts: J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter
: J.K. Rowling
Topshop: Arcadia Group Plc. and Leonard Green and Partners
Primark: Associated British Foods plc
Ann Summers: Ann Summers Ltd
Harvey Nicks: Dickson Concepts (International) Ltd.
Boots: Alliance Boots GmbH
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
RSPCA: Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
Jacuzzi: Apollo Global Management LLC
Portaloo: Portakabin Limited
Cheshire cat: Lewis Carroll
Audi: Audi AG; Volkswagen Aktiengesellschaft
Mini: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG
Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits:
Bang Records
Prologue
Kilmuir, Skye, Scotland,
June 1962
“Are ye mad? Are ye quite bloody senseless, lad?” Angus McLeod regarded his son, his expression nothing short of incredulous. “Ye’ve hardly even met the lass.”
“I’ve met her, Da’. I’ve met her plenty of times. I love her.”
Angus’ snort was one of pure derision. “Aye? Well, that’ll pass. The girl’s nae fer ye, lad. Ye’d never make a crofter out o’ that bloody sassenach.”
“Sarah’s Orcadian, Da’. Ye know that. From Orkney, like Mam’s kin.” Ritchie was careful to keep his tone even. He needed his father to see reason. He’d promised Sarah, and it was down to him to make that happen. He had to somehow manage to talk to the angry older man calmly, and keep talking until the stubborn auld bugger finally got it through his skull that the deed was done. Sarah was part of his future, his father’s too. The old man just had to accept it, though his belligerent attitude at the merest mention of Sarah’s name suggested it would be uphill work.
“Yer mother grew up not two miles from where yer standin’ noo, lad. Her da’ was from Kirkwall, I’ll grant ye that, but she’s a Uig lass. That’s the sort ye should be lookin’ to wed, to run this place with ye when me an’ yer mam’re gone, not some wee thing who thinks ye can drag a living from books an’ chalk.” Angus turned from his son to position the hefty wooden stake in the peat soil and reached for his mallet to drive it into the earth. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, the matter was closed.
“Sarah’s trainin’ to be a teacher. She’s good at it. It’s important work. Honest work. We need a decent school round here.”
“What we need round here, lad, is a decent summer and not to get knocked sideways by the bloody wind come winter. The school can shift fer itsel’. Hand me another post, will ye, and cease thi ditherin’.”
Ritchie picked up one of the stout lumps of pine the pair of them had dragged uphill across nearly two miles of heather and stood it upright, pointed end poking into the firm ground at his feet. He took the mallet from his father and waited until the man had steadied the stake before heaving the lump hammer over his head in one long arc. He hit the stake solidly and was satisfied to see it plunge a good six inches into the solid earth. Ritchie’s eye caught his father’s, and the older man nodded his approval. Ritchie swung the mallet again, this time driving the stake a further eight or nine inches downwards.
“It’s gettin’ there, lad. Another couple o’ swings, I reckon.”
Ritchie duly obliged, sinking the fencepost securely into the peat before turning to hoist another into position. This time Angus took the sledgehammer and did the grunt work. The two of them continued to labor in near silence for a further hour, sharing the work evenly. They had done this, or similar back-breaking tasks, so many times before that conversation was unnecessary, a waste of precious energy. Each knew his role, his job, they relied on each other. It was a system that worked. Would always work. Or so Angus seemed to think.
“Sarah’s pregnant.” Ritchie delivered the killer blow as they neared their croft in the dwindling daylight, striding down from the hillside in search of a good hot meal and cozy fireside. Even in the height of summer the evenings here on the Isle of Skye, perched on the west coast of Scotland, were chilly. A bowl of hot lamb broth would offer a welcome end to a satisfying day’s work.
Angus shrugged, didn’t even break stride. “Aye, well that doesna surprise me. Whose is it then? Does she ken?”
“For fuck’s sake, Da’, it’s mine.” Ritchie usually managed not to swear at his father, but his temper had been simmering dangerously below the surface the whole afternoon, despite his outwardly cool demeanor. He had hoped to be able to reason with Angus, even knowing his father’s determination to dislike Sarah Harrison. Angus’ single-minded loathing of Sarah had not wavered one iota since he’d first set eyes on her at the kirk down in Uig the previous autumn. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Matters were coming to a head. They had been for weeks—months even. The baby was just hurrying things along. “Sarah’s havin’ my baby. Your grandbaby. Ye’ll need to make her welcome, Da’. She’ll be my wife.”
“Welcome? Ye expect me to welcome some sassenach bitch wi’ a belly full o’ arms and legs into my home? Me father’s home and his before him? To share ye mam’s kitchen? Your bed? Oh no, it’s not happenin’, lad. She may ha’ fooled ye but not me. No bastard brat’s getting free bed ‘n’ board at my expense. I havena worked me whole life to see some English brat at me table.”
Exasperated, Ritchie whirled round to plant himself in front of his father. “D’ye ever stop to listen to yersel’, Da’? Yer talking crap. This is the twentieth century, not the bloody Middle Ages, and Sarah’s a teacher, not some kept woman. She works hard for a livin’, like the rest of us. I’ve been seeing her for months and you know it—or you would if you weren’t so stubborn. She’s pregnant, and the baby’s mine. We’re gettin’ wed and there’s an end to it. Get over yersel’.”
This latest onslaught did cause the older man to slow, just enough to step around Ritchie, but not to stop.
Angus ignored the comment about being stubborn—it would have been hard to deny the truth of it in any case. He preferred to think of himself as tenacious, and over the years he’d found it to be a helpful trait when it came to dragging a reluctant living from a hostile, ungenerous environment. It was a quality that would serve him well now since someone needed to set this matter to rights and it would fall to him, as ever.
“Ye canna be serious. Ye’re dafter than ye look if ye’ve fallen for that old trick. Forget it. Tell the sassenach to find some other meal ticket, some other fool to take her and her bastard in.”
“Sarah won’t need takin’ in. She’ll be my wife and she’ll live with us. Mam’ll love having her here.”
