Enraptured by the highla.., p.1
Enraptured by the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel, page 1
Enraptured by the Highlander
A Scottish Historical Romance Novel
Lydia Kendall
Contents
A Little Gift for You
Scottish Brogue Glossary
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Preview: The Highlander’s Fiery Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Also by Lydia Kendall
About the Author
A Little Gift for You
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you, called Falling for the Highlander. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping the image below or this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
Lydia Kendall
About the Book
A dark prison shelters their love but the truth tears the canvas of their passion...
Adelaine Watson, daughter of the Earl of Daffield, anxiously awaits her brother’s return from war. But when her father returns, he brings back someone else: her brother's murderer.
Falsely accused of murdering an Earl's son, Caelan McLagen, Laird of Loch Mahrais, has accepted his death sentence. That is until the alluring Adelaine starts visiting his cell and he feels the warmth of hope.
Convinced of Caelan's innocence, Adelaine falls madly in love with him and is desperate to find a way to stop her worst nightmare from becoming reality.
When the only eyewitness to her brother's death dies, Adelaine realizes that the real murderer is closer than they thought. With Caelan’s execution hanging above their heads like the executioner's ax, Adelaine must make a terrible choice…
Scottish Brogue Glossary
Here is a very useful glossary my good friend and editor Gail Kiogima sent to me, that will help you better understand the Scottish Brogue used:
aboot - about
ach - oh
afore - before
an' - and
anythin - anything
a'side - beside
askin' - asking
a'tween - between
auld - old
aye - yes
bampot - a jerk
bare bannock- a type of biscuit
bearin' - bearing
beddin' - bedding or sleeping with
bellend - a vulgar slang word
blethering - blabbing
blootered - drunk
bonnie - beautiful or pretty
bonniest - prettiest
cannae - cannot
chargin' - charging
cheesin' - happy
clocked - noticed
c'mon- come on
couldn'ae - couldn't
coupla - couple of
crivens - hell
cuddie - idiot
dae - do
dinin' - dining
dinnae - didn't or don't
disnae - doesn't
dobber - idiot
doesn'ae - doesn't
dolton - idiot
doon - down
dram - a measure of whiskey
efter - after
eh' - right
'ere - here
fer - for
frein - friend
fey - from
gae - get or give
git - a contemptible person
gonnae - going to
greetin' - dying
hae - have
hald - hold
haven'ae - haven't
heed - head
heedstart - head start
hid - had
hoovered - gobbled
intoxicated - drunk
kip - rest
lass - young girl
leavin - leaving
legless - drunk
me - my
nae - not
no' - not
noo - now
nothin' - nothing,
oan - on
o' - of
Och - an Olympian spirit who rules the sun
oot- out
packin- packing
pished - drunk
scooby - clue
scran - food
shite - shit
sittin' - sitting
so's - so as
somethin' - something
soonds ' sounds
stonking - stinking
tae - to
teasin' - teasing
thrawn - perverse, ill-tempered
tryin' - trying
wallops - idiot
wee -small
wheest - talking
whit's - what's
wi'- with
wid - would
wisnae - was not
withoot - without
wouldnae - wouldn't
ya - you
ye - you
yea - yes
ye'll - you'll
yer - your
yerself - yourself
ye're - you're
ye've - you've
Prologue
November 1542, Solway Moss, Scotland
If anyone was to blame it was the King, James V, the nephew of Henry VIII of England, and his pride and his stubbornness. He was the reason Caelan McLagen, the Laird of Loch Mahrais, was marching over bloody ravaged land, his wrists manacled, shirt torn, and a once-bright plaid now stained with mud.
His sword, a priceless inheritance from his grandfather, had been taken and thrown on the wagon ahead of him with the rest of the other fighters’ weapons. It was doomed to be another ornament in the English King’s house and the King would never understand its worth.
Caelan did not even want to try to number the men who had died by drowning in the dark river behind them.
Trapped between the river and peat bogs of the moss…so many are gone…so many lives lost to one man’s foolish pride.
There were women at home, undoubtedly keeping watch for a husband who would never come home and children who would grow up without a father. Sons who would only have their namesakes as a heritage and daughters who would not have an example for which to choose their husbands by.
For the sake of one man, a thousand losses.
As he trudged over the wet moorland, stomping over thick moss and breathing in the acid smell of peat, he silently mourned. His feet were numb but he still marched; his pride was broken with his and his fellow soldiers’ defeat. Never in his life as a soldier and a doctor would he have imagined suffering such deep humiliation.
The sky was iron grey, and low rumbles of thunder held a constant threat of rain as they marched south to England. He spotted the bloody face of Laird Sinclair, the muddied head of Lord Kilmaur of Cassilis, and even the limping form of Laird Maxwell.
How the mighty have fallen.
They had been on the march for almost two days, over rugged terrain and through forest land with little rest, only water to drink and whatever they could forage while passing through the forest.
Caelan shot a sympathetic eye over to a man who was hobbling along, his left thigh wrapped with the torn remains of his shirt and another who had a bandage around his lost right eye. He had treated both men in the aftermath of the battle.
They had marched under the direction of the English, only to come to Arnside. Years ago, a tower had been created there to stem the threat of robbery posed by the border reivers. At the foot of the hill, Caelan gazed upon the towering five-story structure of gritty stone with a ragged sense of relief. They would be prisoners but prisoners with a roof over their head and a place to rest their wearied bones. The tower had an adjacent wing of equal height, built in a style that reminded him of some Scottish castles.
English soldiers went through their ranks, sorting the able-bodied men from those who were wounded. They were placed in groups of fifty. The ill were placed in the lowest tier of the adjacent tower and while those more stalwart were sent to the first tower, filling it from bottom to top.
A soldier came to him and placed him in the last group to fill the first tower when a call rang out. “Is there a doctor among you lot?”
His head darted up, wondering if he had heard right when the call came again. A soldier, no, a knight, known by his embroidered surcoat and glistening chain mail, was seated on top of a massive ho
Caelan lifted his hand, “I am.”
The man’s eyes zeroed in on him and he nodded to another soldier, “Take him.”
He was roughly grabbed and shoved forward; he mutely followed the man on the horse as they went toward the adjacent tower. The soldier led him inside. The knight reached up and tugged off his helmet. There were deep lines around the man’s blue eyes and his mouth was set in a thin, grim line.
“Your name, sir?”
“Caelan. Caelan McLagen, Laird of Loch Mahrais,” he said. “I am a doctor also.”
“I am Sir Robert Duglas,” the knight said. “I am the second in command of the contingent Bernard Watson, the Earl of Daffield, sent in aid of His Majesty the King’s conquest. I have some sensitive matters to discuss with you.”
Sensing something pivotal was coming his way, Caelan nodded. “I’ll listen.”
“The Earl’s son, the Viscount of Watson was injured in the battle and the Earl, before hurrying back to England, ordered a doctor to take care of him,” Robert said. “I was not made aware of his injury until a few hours ago. I know that being a prisoner of war might not make you lenient toward the plight of your captor, but I need you to save his life. Will you put away your grievances and just attend to him, man to man and not captor to captive?”
“No soul should be lost when there is a chance to save it,” Caelan said. “He could be me worst enemy but I’ll save him if I can.”
Relief flooded the man’s face, “You’re a good man, McLagen. Please follow me.”
They took the stone stairwell that curved gently upwards and came to a top floor where a man laid on a cot with a deep grimace on his face. His lower stomach was wrapped in a swathe of blood-stained bandages. The man looked young, very young.
Why is an Earl’s son out fightin’ a war? Shouldnae a place behind a desk be better for him? And why did it take almost two days to discover he was injured?
Sinking to the man’s side, Caelan studied him. “Forgive me for being intrusive as I ken its nae proper, but what is his name?”
“Peter Watson,” Robert said. “He’s a good man, McLagen; he is loving and kind. He does not deserve to die this way.”
“He doesnae deserve to die at all,” Caelan added. “Especially not this way.”
Lightly grasping the end of the bandage, Caelan unwound it to see the stab wound in the man’s side. The wound was scabbing with bulbs of festering pus resting under the skin. It reeked of infection. Caelan squeezed some of the weeping, bloody pus out into his hand. It smelled like poison. This man had been stabbed with a poisoned knife. And after two days of infection, who knew how deeply the poison had gotten inside the poor man? He had to act fast.
“What do you need, McLagen?”
Caelan grimaced. “It’s nea going to be pretty, Duglas, I need to drain this infection and remove the rotting flesh. I need herbs to numb the pain and herbs to heal the wound inside and out. This man has been stabbed and poisoned, a sure way to have him dead.”
“What herbs exactly?”
After rattling off a list of herbs and substitutes if the primary herbs could not be found, Caelan then requested tubs of hot water, and a clean knife.
The man hurried off while Caelan sat with the injured man. He scanned for other injuries but found none. Something was curious though, on the third finger of the man’s right hand, there was evidence that he wore a ring as there was a band of skin that was paler than the rest of his hand.
Is he married?
The thought was quickly replaced by Caelan wondering why it took two days for this man to be reported.
Could it be by design? Delaying this would mean someone wanted him dead.
When Duglas hurried back with the two men carrying water buckets while he was carrying the knife and a bottle. “I’ve sent out men for the herbs, they should be back before night. One of our soldiers had a bottle of spirits, it should help in disinfecting the wound.”
Taking it, Caelan nodded. “It should. Hold him, please, this is going to sting like the devil.”
He popped the top off, grit his jaw and upended a third of the bottle in the man’s wound. The piercing scream Peter let out had the men flinching but Caelan was prepared for it. As Peter settled back down, shuddering with the after effects, the Laird saw his eyes, light brown, almost amber, and they were wide with pain.
Patting the wound dry, Caelan began to remove the dead flesh that was poisoning the rest around it. It was bloody, pus-covered work and it would turn anyone’s stomach, but he had overcome those reactions years ago. He managed to remove the scabbing, infected flesh and cleared the pus away.
Peter was unconscious as the pain had knocked him out. It was both good and bad for him to sleep, but if too much time passed and he did not come back, Caelan would have another problem on his hands. When the men came back with the herbs, he had some of them boiled and the others ground into pulp to make a healing paste.
Duglas had somehow found a needle and thread, so Caelan had been able to sew the wound together before slathering more of the healing paste over the sutures. The knight had stayed with him through it all and when night came, he ordered a cot to be placed beside Peter.
The young soldier looked peaceful in his sleep but Caelan did not dare let himself succumb to sleep until Peter woke up and could take the medicinal brew. He was weary from the battle but he had to take care of the man. Despite his dedication to taking care of Peter, his own exhaustion dragged him down into slumber.
It was a haunting hoot of an owl that had him opening his eyes and looking over his charge in fright. It was dim in the room but he saw Peter’s chest rising and falling and he sagged back on the cot with relief. Peter was not dead.
For now, I cannot tell how far that poison has gone inside him. God forbid it gets to his heart.
He went over to check the man’s pulse and just as his fingers pressed on Peter’s neck, the man grabbed his wrist, fear in his eyes. Elated that he was awake, Caelan said, “Dinnea be afraid, Imma doctor. Yer friend Robert Duglas put me in charge of ye. Ye’ve been poisoned, Peter, but I ken ye’ve gotten past the worst of it. I need ye to drink some medicine, can ye handle it?”
“Yes,” Peter’s voice was weak but Caelan had expected that.
Reaching for the boiled medicine, now in a bottle, he braced Peter to sit up and carefully tilted it to the man’s lips. Peter valiantly drank a few large mouthfuls but spluttered on the last one and Caelan took the bottle away and let him sit up for a few more moments before laying him back down.
“Where am I?” Peter asked.
“In Arnside, Lord Daffield,” Caelan replied. “I’m Caelan McLagen.”
“You’re Scottish,” Peter said.
Caelan’s lips twitched, “That is the case, aye, but I hold no ill will toward ye.”
“Thank you, Caelan,” Peter’s tone was deeply grateful and a bit sorrowful too. “I’m sorry you’re in this position, caring for one of the men who defeated you. You must have the soul of a saint, anyone else would have killed me instead.”
