To Love a Highlander (35 page)

Stirling Castle is one of Scotland’s most shining tributes to an ancient and heroic past. Throughout the ages, the mighty fortress has commanded a bluff high above the plain of the River Forth, so guarding one of Scotland’s most strategic locations, a place where several vital sites converge: the Forth’s most navigable point, access through the hills to and from the Highlands, and important routes leading east and west. Not surprisingly, Stirling Castle was respectfully known as the “Key to the Kingdom.”

The castle explored by today’s tourist is not the stronghold as it would have appeared in the time period of this book. Modern-day visitors see a castle that has been built and rebuilt over many centuries. Much of this refurbishment was done by James V in the mid-1500s and also James VI later that same century.

Even so, glimpses of much older times remain if one looks closely. Although no archeological evidence exists, many believe the site’s occupation dates to the Iron Age. Certainly, ruins of ancient Celtic forts have been discovered. The great Roman general Agricola kept a garrison here. The
truth is there has been a fortress on Stirling’s bluff since days so distant the original defenders have long since faded into the mists of antiquity.

Therefore, I used my own explorations of Stirling Castle, my passion for Scottish medieval history, and my imagination to craft the setting as I believe Sorley and Mirabelle would have known the castle.

The chapel they visit was not the famous Chapel Royal known to today’s visitor. That chapel was built in 1594 by James VI. However, there are indications that the Chapel Royal incorporates parts of a much more ancient holy site. Indeed, the earliest recorded mention of a chapel at Stirling dates to 1124. There are foundations marked on the courtyard, near the north curtain wall, that may be this older chapel. If so, it could well have stood atop an even more ancient site of pagan worship.

The infamous secret love lair, the Rose Room, and the scriptorium are my creations. Even so, these chambers could have existed. Scriptoriums were common in great castles and strongholds, especially royal ones. Likewise, hidden rooms and passages are a staple in such proud edifices. Some can be enjoyed today, at the well-preserved properties of Historic Scotland and the National Trust for Scotland.

Sorley’s favorite view from the ramparts is real and can be appreciated by anyone who cares to climb up to the eastern side of the Stirling Castle battlements.

The ruins of the Abbey of St. Mary, with its wee village and wharf, were also real. More commonly known as Cambuskenneth Abbey, this important Augustinian site was built in 1140 at the request of Scotland’s King David I. Of tremendous importance because of its proximity to the castle and the river, the abbey held royal favor and was repeatedly ransacked by the English from the end of the 1200s and throughout the Scottish Wars of Independence. By the time this book takes place, the late 1300s, the once-majestic
abbey and its surrounding settlement and riverside wharf stood in complete ruin. I have visited Cambuskenneth and used my time there, and my imagination, to paint the ruin and its village as I believe Sorley and Mirabelle would’ve known it.

Cambuskenneth was restored in the early 1400s, but never retained the full glory it once enjoyed.

Munro’s fascination with the
Lilium Medicinae
could well have happened, as the much-famed text truly existed. “Flower (or Lily) of Medicine” in English, its origins are hazed by time, but the Gaelic work mentioned in this book refers to the version penned by Bernard de Gordon, a fourteenth-century Scottish physician.

The renowned Highland healers, the MacBeths (also known as Beatons), prized their copy so greatly that one of their most revered healers did indeed engage servants to carry the book by land when journeying. It was feared the priceless tome might be damaged by water.

Stirling Castle does have a pink lady ghost. She is the wife of a Scottish knight who died when England’s Edward I captured the castle in June 1304.

Mirabelle’s home, Knocking Tower, as well as Archibald MacNab’s Duncreag, exist solely in my imagination. They are, however, loosely modeled after similar strongholds I’ve explored in Scotland.

Clan MacKenzie’s holding, referred to as Eilean Creag Castle in the epilogue, first appeared in my debut title,
Devil in a Kilt
. The castle’s real name is Eilean Donan, and it is one of Scotland’s most well-loved and romantic castles. It stands in Kintail, near the beautiful Isle of Skye.

Devil in a Kilt

Knight in My Bed

Bride of the Beast

Master of the Highlands

Wedding for a Knight

Only for a Knight

Until the Knight Comes

Bride for a Knight

Seducing a Scottish Bride

A Highlander’s Temptation

Sins of a Highland Devil

Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel

Seduction of a Highland Warrior

Once Upon a Highland Christmas
(e-novella)

“Few writers can bring history to life like Sue-Ellen Welfonder! For anyone who loves historical fiction, the books in the Highland Warriors trilogy are a true treasure.”

—Heather Graham,
New York Times
bestselling author

“[Welfonder] continues to weave magical tales of redemption, love, and loyalty in glorious, perilous mid-fourteenth-century Scotland.”

—Booklist

“With each book Welfonder reinforces her well-deserved reputation as one of the finest writers of Scot romances.”

—RT Book Reviews

“4½ stars! This is Welfonder at her finest. The well-paced, intricate plot brings life to a highly sensual and emotional romance populated by unforgettable characters. The romance is steeped in rich lore and legend, adding a fairy-tale dimension that will have readers sighing with happiness.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Sue-Ellen Welfonder takes the reader away from the mundane and gives her an emotional journey that floods the senses and makes the heart pound with both hope and fear… This one kept me up late and was worth every minute.

—LongandShortReviews.com

“4½ stars! Welfonder’s second installment in the Highland Warriors trilogy is even better than the first! This finely crafted, highly emotional romance is populated by heroes whose lives are defined by the concept of honor and strong-willed heroines who don’t accept surrender as a possibility.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Kendrew is quite the hero! Readers will love his rough ways, as much as they will love Isobel’s fire and spirit… an enchanting mix of romance, history, and the smallest bit of paranormal.”

—RomRevToday.com

“This series fulfills all of my Scottish historical romance requirements… fierce men with feisty women, magic everywhere, and the amazing landscape of Scotland. Ms. Welfonder is able to place the reader in Scotland with such accuracy you feel the mist upon your face and see the men in kilts standing on the hillside embracing the women they love.”

—TheReadingReviewer.com

“Sizzling… This story was magical… I look forward to reading the next book in the series.”

—SeducedByABook.com

“4½ stars! Top Pick! The first installment in Welfonder’s Highland Warriors trilogy continues a long tradition of well-written, highly emotional romances. This marvelous novel is rich in love and legend, populated by characters steeped in honor, to make for a sensual and emotional read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Sue-Ellen Welfonder has truly brought legends and love to life… I cannot wait for the next two.”

—FreshFiction.com

“A richly enjoyable story. Welfonder is a master storyteller.”

—ARomanceReview.com

“One of the finest books I’ve read in a long time. The characters are so rich and vibrant, and Sue-Ellen Welfonder writes the most realistic descriptions of Highland battles. I was transported to the Glen and could almost smell the forest and the peat fires in the castles… I’m looking forward to the next story in the series!”

—OnceUponARomance.net

“[Welfonder] continues to weave magical tales of redemption, love, and loyalty in glorious, perilous mid-fourteenth-century Scotland.”

—Booklist

“4 stars! A fascinating, intriguing story that will definitely stand the test of time.”

—RT Book Reviews

“4½ stars! Welfonder sweeps readers into a tale brimming with witty banter between a feisty heroine and a stalwart hero… The added paranormal elements and sensuality turn this into an intriguing page-turner that fans of Scottish romance will adore.”

—RT Book Reviews

“A great paranormal historical romance… Fans will read this in one delightful sitting so set aside the time.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Once again, Welfonder’s careful scholarship and attention to detail vividly re-create the lusty, brawling days of medieval Scotland with larger-than-life chivalrous heroes and the dainty but spirited maidens.”

—Booklist

“4½ stars! Enthralling… Welfonder brings the Highlands to life with her vibrant characters, impassioned stories, and vivid description.”

—RT Book Reviews

“A very romantic story… extremely sexy. I recommend this book to anyone who loves the era and Scotland.”

—TheBestReviews.com

“Welfonder does it again, bringing readers another powerful, emotional, highly romantic medieval that steals your heart and keeps you turning the pages.”

—RT Book Reviews

“A lovely gem of a book. Wonderful characters and a true sense of place make this a keeper.”

—Patricia Potter, author of
The Heart Queen

Laddie’s Isle

Spring 1400

L
ady Gillian MacGuire knew the moment the gods abandoned her.

They’d fled as soon as she’d set foot on this much-maligned island. Perhaps they’d deserted her earlier, not approving of her father’s plan to bring her here to await Donell MacDonnell’s arrival. Even her brothers had made the sign against evil as they’d climbed aboard their father’s ship. Good men didn’t sail these waters.

Not if they valued their lives.

The currents were too strong; the seas wild and rough. Unpredictable winds blew always, cutting as knives and colder than hell.

No one could blame her long-lost betrothed for leaving the place. Having lived here, Donell MacDonnell knew Laddie’s Isle better than most. Gillian shivered and drew her cloak tighter. She could almost believe the tales that the rocky little island was haunted. That it was cursed because of its dark and sad history.

Yet if the legend was true, shouldn’t the Old Ones have stayed at her side? Rallied to protect her?

Instead, they’d left her alone.

Disappearing as swiftly as mist before the sun, or at least as quickly as her father and brothers had strode away to seek out Donell’s ruinous hall.

Her father had declared it was necessary to ready the place for Donell’s return.

Her brothers agreed.

The gods had simply looked on, perhaps amused by her quandary.

Not pleased with any of them, Gillian stepped closer to the water’s edge. Behind her, sheer cliffs loomed high and black. Everywhere else, the sea boiled and churned, lashing against the jagged shore as if to scold each stone that’d dared to break the foaming, white-crested waves.

Gillian ignored the danger. She did take care not to slip on the wet and glistening rocks. The spray dampened her skirts and misted her skin. Above her, seabirds wheeled and cried, and the chill air smelled strongly of the sea. The salty tang quickened her pulse, stirring her Hebridean heart even as her world threatened to crash down around her.

How strange that the day was so glorious to behold. A light mist swirled above the water, luminous silver against the clouded sky. Wind whipped around her, and everywhere she looked, above or before her, she was awed.

Still…

The wild beauty rankled.

The day Donell MacDonnell returned to Laddie’s Isle should have dawned dark and gloomy, with sideways-slanting rain marring the magnificence.

And she would rather be anywhere but here, waiting to greet him.

Then again, when had life been fair?

Hers had certainly never been easy, if she cared to admit the truth. Yet she’d always fought against hardships, strife, and disappointments. Tears and pity weren’t for her,
a chieftain’s daughter. She preferred to stand tall, shoulders squared and chin high, always. A brave young woman with long centuries of noble blood in her veins, she prided herself on her strength.

She was equally proud of her by-name, the Spitfire of the Isles.

Secretly, she’d also believed she held the gods’ ears.

That they even favored her, looking on her kindly and guiding her in times of trouble.

Now she knew differently.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, Donell MacDonnell was beating his way home. Coming back after five years, to reclaim his remote and windswept corner of the Sea of the Hebrides, and—Gillian knew—to have the bride promised to him by her father only months before he’d disappeared.

Gillian didn’t blink as a wave broke over the rocks, the icy water sluicing her feet. She had other concerns of much greater importance.

She was the MacDonnell’s bespoken bride.

Yet wedding him was the last thing she wanted.

While not quite an ogre, he was many summers her elder. She doubted he’d ever washed his great black beard, which was bushy enough to house at least three nests of mice. His arms and legs were thicker than trees, his girth immeasurable. Worse, he suffered onion breath.

His meaty hands bore scars, something she’d admire and honor in most warrior chieftains.

After all, a leader unwilling to fight beside his men wasn’t worthy of his status as a commander. But Donell MacDonnell’s hands weren’t just marked by battle. The skin around and beneath his fingernails was black with grime. If his breath smelled of onions, his flesh reeked of things she didn’t want to name.

She shuddered, a chill sweeping her despite her determination to remain calm.

Despair and panic were emotions she refused to embrace.

Besides, she had hope of avoiding marital
un
bliss as Donell MacDonnell’s wife.

Where he’d gone was a mystery. He’d simply vanished, his men with him. He’d sailed away from Laddie’s Isle, leaving his already half-decayed tower to fall even further into ruin. No one had heard of him since, until a passing galley dropped anchor at her father’s island home, Castle Sway. The ship’s crew begged, and received, hospitality for the night. Plied with generous viands and free-flowing ale, and warmed by the hearth fire, the seamen spoke freely, sharing news from afar.

These tidings included their meeting with Donell at a well-visited seafarers’ tavern on the mainland coast.

Unaware that their words chilled Gillian’s blood, even upending her world, they claimed he was journeying back to his isle, that he’d vowed he was eager to resume his duties as chieftain of his watery domain.

His arrival was imminent. Or so Castle Sway’s friendly and loose-tongued guests had asserted.

Gillian fisted her hands, clutching the folds of her skirts. She welcomed the chill numbness of her fingers. Focusing on the bone-deep cold and the sharp needle pricks racing up her wrists and along her arms kept her from thinking how opportune it would be if Donell MacDonnell’s galley were to spring a leak, sinking into the sea.

She might not want to marry him, but she didn’t wish the man ill.

Even so…

She bit her lip, remembering how his big, dirty-nailed hand had gripped hers on the day of their betrothal. How he’d lifted her fingers to his lips, his greasy beard tickling her skin as he’d kissed her knuckles.

The hunger in his eyes as he’d done so, the way his gaze had swept her head to toe, was a memory she wished she didn’t have.

His slow smile, which revealed the yellowish stain of his teeth…

“Mother of all the gods.” Gillian gathered up her every shred of strength and narrowed her gaze on the sea. She lifted a hand to her brow, peering out across the deep blueness of the rolling waves. To her relief, there was no sign of Donell’s galley.

Still, her heart beat in her throat and she could feel a subtle shift in the air. As if her world were about to slip from her grasp, the soft tendrils of mist seeming to shimmer with the change.

It scarce mattered that wherever she turned her gaze, nothing but the empty sea stared back at her.

That didn’t mean Donell wasn’t coming.

The mist was thicker near the horizon, spoiling her view. He could be out there now, his ship slicing through the troughs and sending up fans of spume, his crew’s well-plied oars speeding him toward the steep-sided spit of rock known as Laddie’s Isle.

Tamping down her ill ease, Gillian reached inside her cloak and slipped her hand through a slit in her skirts. She let her fingers curl around the small leather pouch that hung from a narrow belt slung low about her hips. She took comfort in her secret treasure’s solid weight and bulk, the hope its presence gave her.

“So eager for his arrival, are you?”

Jumping, Gillian whipped her hand from within her cloak and spun about to face her oldest brother, Gowan.

He stood less than an arm’s length away, towering over her. He’d crossed his well-muscled arms over his chest and planted one booted foot firmly on a wet, weed-draped rock. His deep russet hair, the same rich red as her own, blew about his shoulders, and he was eyeing her intently, peering at her as if she’d grown two heads.

“You startled me.” Gillian lifted her chin, ignoring his question.

“And you surprise me.” He flicked a glance at the sea. “I wouldnae hae thought you were so keen to greet the man.”

“Who said that’s why I’m out here?” Gillian tossed her head, knowing her cheeks were flaming. “Could be I’m hoping his galley doesn’t appear.”

“You ken it will, lass.” Gowan stepped closer and set his hands on her shoulders. “That’s as sure as the morrow’s dawn. No’ liking it will change naught.”

Gillian drew a tight breath, saying nothing.

She kept her chin high, hoping Gowan—her favorite among her eight brothers—wouldn’t hear the racing of her heart, the dread churning in her belly. He might sympathize with her, to a degree. But as a man, born and bred of the Isles and with their ways and traditions carved into his bone, he wouldn’t understand her displeasure.

She held his gaze, stubbornly, not liking what she saw.

He’d disapprove of her objections, making light of them, however much he loved her.

“Anything can be changed if the will is there.” She stood even straighter, forcing herself to believe her words. “Even the highest mountain can be torn down if you take away one rock at a time.”

“Aye, and by the time you’re done, you’ll be so auld and addled, you’ll no longer remember why you started such a fool’s errand.”

“It’s not foolish to me.”

Her brother frowned and shook his head slowly. “You dinnae ken what you’re saying.”

“I do.” And she did.

She’d empty the sea with a thimble if doing so would keep her from becoming Donell’s bride.

“All lasses must wed, as well you know.” He lifted a hand, tucked her hair behind her ear. “That is just the way of it, how life here has e’er been and aye will be. You could
do worse than the MacDonnell. He has his own isle, small though it is. His tower will be sound enough, once repaired. The prospects are grand.” He swept out an arm, taking in the endless stretch of the sea, the shimmering mist. “Magnificent enough to swell the heart of any Hebridean.”

“I’ve nothing against Laddie’s Isle.” Gillian spoke true. “It’s Donell I cannot abide. You weren’t at Sway when he came for the betrothal ceremony. None of you were there,” she reminded him, sure that if her brothers hadn’t been away at sea, and had been home, in their father’s hall, they’d have argued against the match.

“He is a toad.” She raised a hand, wagging her finger at him when he started to protest. “He’s also ancient, older than any graybeard I’ve ever seen.”

“Lass…” Her brother took her hand between both of his own, his grip warm and firm. “Donell MacDonnell is no more than ten summers older than you. That much I know. The last five years have fogged your memory.”

“I wish that were so.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Did Father send you to find me?” Gillian slipped her hand from his grasp, suspicious.

Wasn’t it in their sire’s best interest to be rid of her? A good enough natured man, but much too lusty for his age, Mungo MacGuire had a new young wife. Lady Lorna wasn’t even as old as Gillian. If the clan tongue-waggers were to be believed, she was just as hot-blooded as her adoring husband. It was whispered that she’d vowed to give him more sons than the eight he already had.

Lady Lorna also didn’t much care for sharing her new home with her husband’s daughter.

Gillian frowned, her blood heating even more.

Gowan angled his head, watching her with eyes that missed nothing. “Da is too busy ordering our brothers about, making them brush away cobwebs and sweep stone dust
from corners, to even notice you left the hall. He didnae send me to look for you.”

“If he did, he needn’t have bothered. I’d almost rather stay here.” She waved toward the cliffs, and the nameless tower that claimed the promontory’s best vantage point. “What awaits me at Sway, but Lady Lorna’s peevish glares and taunts? I’m hard-pressed to say which ill is worse. Sharing a hall with a shrew or being shackled to an ogre.”

To his credit, Gowan looked embarrassed.

But he held his tongue, still not siding with her.

“You should’ve stayed in the tower, enjoyed a few ales with our brothers.” Gillian held his gaze, seeing no reason for anything but the truth. “There’s nothing you can say to make this day a good one.”

“Aye, well.” Gowan glanced again at the sea, then back to her. “Could be you’ll find Donell to your liking.” He sounded hopeful. “The ship’s crew spoke well of him. They said he wore a fine mail shirt and more arm rings than the Viking warlords of old.”

“Indeed?” Gillian was sure they were mistaken.

Gowan nodded. “They sang his praises after you retired for the night. Had you still been in the hall, you’d have heard them.”

“They must’ve been in their cups when they met him.” Gillian could think of no other explanation.

Her onion-breathed, great-bellied betrothed could never be likened to a Viking warlord.

Gowan frowned. “Will you no’ give him a chance?”

Gillian flicked at her sleeve. “Do I have a choice?”

“In truth, nae.” Gowan gave her a long look, somehow managing to look both sympathetic and annoyed. “You’re duly promised to him, oath-bound. Such a pact is binding, and cannae be easily undone.”