Her Highland Rogue

Chapter 1

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Duncan MacThomas braced for the worst. He’d not seen that look on his father’s face since the day he’d been fostered. The day that changed his life forever.

His father confronted the issue directly, speaking as if knowing he crossed the sword’s edge of Duncan’s temper. Recently, I had correspondence with a wealthy man in London, Lord Nigel Gillingham. The two of us, at King Edward’s bidding, drafted a wedding contract.

Duncan walked closer to his father, each step measured. You intend to wed? Are you not a bit long in the tooth?

Dinnae be daft, Duncan. MacThomaidh locked eyes with his son. It little suits you. You are to wed Gillingham’s daughter within a fortnight.

"What?" Duncan slammed down his ale tankard. Missing the table, his knuckles hit the edge, the drink spilling on the floor. He rubbed his other hand over the skinned knuckles.

’Tis done, the match is made. Determination crossed MacThomaidh’s weathered features. We needs must arrive in London within a fortnight. We leave on the morrow.

You are daft. I will not marry to please you. Duncan’s voice rose. "You gave up the right to tell me what to do the day you abandoned me to the care of strangers."

Fostering is the Highland way, son.

But never seeing your child again is not!

Duncan whipped around and crossed the large room to the double doors in three long strides. He flung the garden doors open, sending dust motes swirling in the sun’s muted rays. As a child, before he’d been sent away, the garden’s beauty often calmed him. His mind roiling in black fury, this time he saw nothing. How dare his father—the man who’d sent him to foster with a clan that abused him—now presume to rule his life?

You shall do as I say. You defied me before and wed a woman no better than a harlot. That will not happen again.

Why can you not leave me alone? You did whilst I grew up.

You are my son! Regardless of past mistakes—mine or yours—you shall one day be Chief of Clan MacThomaidh.

Turning back to face his father, Duncan’s face twisted in a mixture of pain and anger. He opened his mouth to reply, but his father forestalled him. ‘Tis time you produce a son and heir. You have obligations to your clan. ‘Tis high time you acknowledged them.

I will not leave for London—or anywhere else—in the morn, came Duncan’s low, angry growl. The only place I shall go is Cray Hall.

Nothing had changed. His father always brought out the worst in him. That is my home and naught you say will change my mind. His words bitter, Duncan gave his father no quarter. "You actually believe I would agree to the machinations of an English king? The Hammer of the Scots? That you support him disgusts me."

Duncan braced his feet. The MacThomaidh’s grim expression sent a foreshadowing of doom stealing up his spine.

Sometimes we needs must make decisions we would rather not. Off fighting with your cohorts, you have been away these past years.

Fighting the English king, Duncan retorted, for Scotland —for freedom. Now you expect me to accept a royal edict from Longshanks? Faugh!

The contract has been signed, and according to their religious beliefs Lord Gillingham posted banns.

Duncan scoffed. Why? The Bishop waits to hear if anyone objects? Well I object!

I swore our clan’s fealty to the king. We prospered, but times have changed. This war against England dips heavily into our coffers. Whether you believe it or not, I am no traitor to Scotland. His father’s angry voice cut into Duncan like a broadsword. The way nobles switched sides before and after Stirling’s battle was a disgrace. You thought the war won, but ‘twas only the beginning. Since Scotland refuses to bow its knee to Longshanks, we battle still, and as Chief I must consider every clansman. MacThomaidh exhaled loudly. The dowry the woman brings to this union shall keep our people safe and fed many a year. Look around you, he said, his arm sweeping in an arc to encompass the high ceilinged Great Hall. The castle needs work. I might regret the necessity of this action, but she shall be an asset to our clan and shall be a good lady wife for you, breed you fine sons. I dinnae choose lightly.

Duncan grunted, unable to find words to express his disgust.

You do remember your kinsmen, do you not? his father continued. "Just because you have not been around Glen Shee these past years dunnae mean you wiped us from your memory. Holding our honours cost dearly, with the Kirk there with hands out for their tithe and Edward wanting his twelve percent. You defied me once afore. See where that got you. You shall do it my way nonce. We leave on the morrow, Duncan, and I shall hear no more on the subject."

MacThomaidh turned and stormed from the room, the upcoming meal forgotten.

I bloody well will not! Duncan yelled to his father’s retreating back. In three strides he reached the Great Hall’s massive oaken door, flung it open and crossed the yard. He snatched his horse’s reins from the groom, leapt onto the stallion’s back and galloped toward his home as though wolves nipped at his horse’s heels.

The MacThomaidh opened his bedchamber door and walked inside. He shook his head, dismayed at the sight that greeted him. His wee granddaughter had pushed a stool to the wall and climbed atop it to stare out the window. He walked behind her and wrapped his arms around the three-year-old’s waist as she stood on her toes to watch her father ride away. She tilted her head and gazed up at him. Tears pooled in her bright blue eyes and glistened on her lashes before one trickled down her right cheek. Her lower lip quivering, she turned in his embrace and threw her arms around his neck. Grandda.

MacThomaidh closed his eyes and sighed. Och, dinnae cry lassie. Grandda will make everything aright. Why hadn’t he thought this through? Knowing full well Duncan would storm off, he should have addressed the issue at Cray Hall. It was his fault as much as his son’s that his granddaughter Meghan, was unhappy.

Da did not come see me, she told him, hiccupping from her sobs. Her tear-filled eyes looked into his.

He drew her closer to his chest, gently rubbing her back, the bones of her small body so frail under his large calloused hands. Merciful saints, what have I done? Never would I hurt this precious child apurpose. He hoped loving Duncan’s child in some way made up for the love he’d been unable to show his son.

Bending, he kissed the top of her head. Sweetling, your da loves you. It disheartened him Duncan visited often, but only when certain his father wouldn’t be present. Often MacThomaidh left Castle Glenshee just to allow Duncan time to visit Meghan, though his stubborn son never realized it. Neither did Duncan witness how he hungered from a visit from his son himself.

Den why . . .?

He left because he is upset with Grandda. He wanted to remain home to be close to you, but we needs must take a trip on the morrow. He bent to kiss her soft cheek.

I want Da. I wuv him. Her mouth scrunched up and tears flowed down her delicate cheeks.

The light of his life, his granddaughter’s pain lanced through his heart. He wanted to take away her distress. Unfortunately, the one person who had the power to make her smile just galloped away. He lifted her and carried her to her bedchamber, cradling her tenderly. Grandda and Da needs must go away, Sweetling.

Can I go wif ye?

Hope sprang to her eyes. When he shook his head, her shoulders slumped.

Not this time, my heart. Your da and I have something important we must do, but I shall return anon.

Meghan appeared crestfallen. Will Da come back?

MacThomaidh assured her with a hug, Naught could keep him away from you. The servants shall take good care of you while I am gone. He smiled and leaned forward, touching her forehead with his. You get whatever you want when I am not here. He gazed into her face, hoping for a smile. None came.

He found her rag doll and placed it beside her, knowing she never slept without it. Her aunt gave it to her and Meghan adored it. After a time, she fell asleep as he rocked her, her arms wrapped around her doll. He laid her gently on her small bed and covered her with soft white lamb’s fur.

He walked slowly to the narrow window and stared out. Och, why dinnae I share such moments with Duncan? So many years wasted. Faugh! I let pride get in the way of showing my love. Whyever was I daft enough to consider his illness a poor reflection on my manhood? Foolish pride. Mayhap ‘tis impossible to establish any bond again. His hands tightened into fists. Time is running out. Regardless, having a stubborn streak as long as Loch Ness, he wouldn’t reveal his heart to his son. Once again, foolish pride.

Certain of one thing, his granddaughter was a blessing from God, he’d not let anything—or anyone—hurt her the way he’d hurt his son.

* * * * *

Duncan galloped away from his family castle, but soon slowed his horse to a trot. He reined in near a copse of trees and stared across his lands, thoughts swirling through his mind. By the saints, what did I do? I stormed away without seeing Meghan. Never have I been there and not visited her.

He ran his hand behind his neck in effort to massage away tension. How could I do that? Am I a horrible father like MacThomaidh was to me? Turning his face to the heavens, he promised, Lord, I vow I shall make this up to Meghan.

He stared out over MacThomas land. Good land. The clan prospered despite constant warfare with the English. Blessed with rich soil for crops and cattle to keep everyone fed. The only problem was their bloody neighbors, the Farquharsons, reiving cattle and trying to claim MacThomaidh land. Scotland’s struggle against Longshanks caused hardships on many clans—not just in coin, but in number of warriors lost in battle—and the fight wasn’t over. Every summer saw Longshanks once more above the Tweed River vowing to suppress the Scottish rebellion once and for all.

Castle Glenshee’s pristine beauty had dimmed, needing coin to restore its splendor. He’d seen signs of change, but hadn’t wanted to face them. Now he must.

He closed his eyes in resignation. Why did MacThomaidh drag our clansmen into the discussion? Although unpleasant, Duncan forced himself to admit his father was right. At what cost to himself?

Alex, Angus, and Dohmnall rode out to meet him, bringing a smile to his face. He greeted them, Too impatient to wait until my return? Well, I shall not keep you in suspense. He related the details as they maintained a slow pace home.

I cannot walk away from my duty. For The MacThomaidh to mention the clan’s well being means he worries about its future. Things must be worse than I imagined. If only my future to consider, I’d fetch Meghan and keep riding, no qualms about stopping. But I owe it to everyone to support you—even in a manner I abhor.

Clan loyalties ran deep in a Scot, he was no exception. The invisible bond shackled him to the welfare and future of MacThomas clansman, from the lowest servant to his sister Tamara.

In a crowded London pub, a burly man sat alone. He leaned back in his chair and barked to the serving wench, Ale.

His ears picked up the conversation at a nearby table about news worthy of celebration. The men were laying bets on banns they’d heard called in church that morning.

Can you believe King Edward ordered Gillingham’s daughter to wed a heathen Scot? a gravely voiced young man commented. Already drunk, he knocked his goblet over, spilling ale onto his brown chausses. He jumped up and swore, the others laughing at his clumsiness.

Wiping the ale with a cloth, he sat down. ‘Tis passing strange, with the king holding Gillingham in such high regard. We all paid court the wench, only to be turned away. Personally, I thought her father set his sights on a Duke’s son for his precious daughter. Those around the table grunted agreement.

Who did the priest say she had to marry? a thin man asked.

Mac something, another answered.

The group laughed.

They’re all mac something or other, joked the man who’d begun the conversation. The priest said MacThoms or MacThomas. Aye, that’s it—Duncan MacThomas.

I bet a groat it does not take place, an elderly man with missing teeth said, walking up to the young men’s table.

You shall lose, old man, but we will be happy to take your money, someone scoffed. The chit does not have a choice about the wedding. The king ordered it.

Erwin couldn’t believe his luck. Duncan MacThomas would soon arrive in London. His lips twisted in an evil smile. The wedding saved him the long trip to Scotland. He could sit back and wait to kill his nemesis.

Chapter 2

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Shadows dappled the earth as the MacThomaidh entourage arrived at London’s Brentwood Estate. Duncan found it difficult to believe a fortnight had passed, though his backside assured him otherwise. He grumbled, It seems I just began this journey from hell and we are here already. Riding abreast of his men, his eyes took in his betrothed’s home. Bloody hell, he grumbled. "Those perfect trees probably took some poor servant a sennight to trim. He shot a look at his father. Pretentious—as I imagine her to be. The last attribute I want in a wife."

Escorted to his room by way of a well-scrubbed staircase and long corridor, Duncan was no more impressed with the home’s inside than its exterior. Portions of stone floor were covered with thick tapestries, clearly imported from the continent. They walk on these? he asked. I would hang them on my walls and be proud of it. Fancy iron works graced the ceiling and sunlight poured through stained glass windows. He groused, Look at this house. A waste of good coin.

His sister Tamara shot him a frown. Duncan, hush.

After arriving at her home in Melrose, her presence had been the only pleasant aspect to the journey.

He groaned. I must relinquish my freedom to obtain this Englishwoman’s hefty dowry. Yet her family throws coin around as if they have an endless supply. And you want me to hush?

Aye, you are being rude. Tamara’s eyes shifted to their young escort.

Duncan ignored Tamara’s glare. All he’d ever wanted was a woman to love much like his friend’s wife, Tory. She was charming, a healer, and a natural born storyteller. Everything a man would ever want. Well, she was a hellcat—but a man could overlook a few flaws for perfection in everything else.

He certainly never planned to wed a woman he never met. He knew nothing about his betrothed except her name—Catherine Gillingham. Even that sounded pretentious. Did she dread the marriage as much as he? Or was she so meek she did all bidding without question? Considering the English’s hatred of Scots, he couldn’t imagine her being pleased at the prospect. After living in such luxury, she’d find things different in the Highlands. She’d see no excess in his home.

Duncan stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed. He stretched his large frame and laced his hands behind his head, certain he’d have the last laugh. Now he could sleep.

* * * * *

Catherine Gillingham stared out her chamber window at white clouds floating in the clear blue sky. She listened as birds chirped happily. Such a beautiful day and yet it would be the worst day of her life. Her brother, Trevor, sat on her unmade bed. She knew he made an effort to cheer her, but his silence told her he could think of no comforting words.

Struggling to regain her poise, she turned to face him and wiped away tears.

Trevor, what shall I do?

He rose and came to her side, holding her securely in his embrace.

Shh, Cat. He carefully ran his hands over her long, dark brown hair, cascading down her back. Her lady’s maid Rowena had scattered seed pearls throughout and they shimmered with every movement. Trevor gently brushed back soft wisps of hair at the sides of her face, one stray lock coming loose on her forehead.

Fear of the unknown welled within her. Oh Trev, I assumed Father would secure a good husband for me. Not be bartered off by Edward to some Scottish heathen in payment for Scotland’s loyalty. She sobbed, Why can I not marry Marquess Pemberly? Have I aimed my sights too high? Jason cares for me.

Trevor said nothing, but stroked his hand over her back. She took his silence as agreement. What about Lightsey? I overheard Jeremy ask Father for my hand.

Overheard? Trevor teased.

Aye, I was—

Eavesdropping, as usual?

I do not eavesdrop, Trevor Gillingham. I glean facts, she huffed. And the few I learned of this marriage make me wish to escape to a convent.

She buried her face in his shoulder.

We have no choice, Cat. Edward decreed it.

Blast the king!

Trevor whipped his head around to search the doorway, his face drained of color. Hush, Cat. The king has ears everywhere. You must watch what you say—for all our sakes.

Seeking comfort, Catherine flung her arms around her older brother’s neck and sobbed. How shall I manage without you? You were the one constant in my life. She raised tear-filled eyes.

He held her, giving her no doubt he relinquished his role as protector reluctantly.

You shall be fine, he said, his voice soothing, although she steeled herself against the words. You can handle anything you set your mind to.

What if . . .? Words failed her. She tightened her grip around his neck. As a child, he’d protected her. He no longer lived at home, but she had only to send for him and he came. Their bond strong, she’d thought nothing would separate them. Until now.

Catherine’s eyes brimmed with tears while he studied her face, caressing her cheek with his knuckles. As if reading her mind, his voice soothed, Call for me, Cat. Send a missive and I promise I shall come.

Her brother’s eyes held only sadness.

You must dress now, sweet sister, he told her, casting an eye at her rumpled robe. I shall leave so Rowena may return.

She watched him leave, too distraught to utter anything but a sob.

* * * * *

When the priest asked for Catherine’s voice of consent, her eyes slipped sideways to appraise the angry man beside her. His stony silence seemed as eloquent as any bard’s tale. He wanted nothing to do with her.

He’d not joined them at supper the prior eve, so she’d still seen only his back and profile. His dark brown hair fell to his shoulders. When her father escorted her to the chapel’s outer steps, she’d noticed the man’s height and the breadth of his shoulders. He was large, taller than her father or brother. He wore a white linen shirt with a blue and green plaide revealing long, strong legs. His profile looked chiseled in rock, clearly revealing his anger.

She feared her knees might buckle. How could she bear the burden of her father’s expectations to wed as the king decreed? He’d been in Edward’s favor for years. Couldn’t he have changed the king’s mind? Was being granted a new title and another estate more important than his own daughter’s happiness? His sharp admonition ‘to make me proud’ echoed in her mind.

Her eyes sought her father’s, pleading for a final reprieve. After leaving her to stand beside a stranger, he’d gone to her mother. She saw no love in his hazel eyes, only steely determination. Having always treated her kindly, Catherine wondered why he suddenly didn’t care about her feelings. He knew she didn’t wish to wed this man. How much wealth had the king promised?

Her mother stood beside him, wringing her hands. She’d been in tears for sennights, upset over Catherine’s fate. Her dark brown eyes were rimmed with red. Her hair, always a lustrous black, had begun to grey. Never one to challenge her husband’s decisions, Lady Gillingham wouldn’t intervene.

Shoulders stooped in defeat, Catherine turned back to face Brentwood’s priest. It felt like forever, yet mere moments had passed. Her voice cracking, she barely whispered the words that would forever alter the course of her life. I will.

The man beside her stood rigid as she gave her response. He exhaled loudly and said through clenched teeth, Aye, I will.

The priest completed the holy message despite the palpable tension, then moved inside the chapel to offer communion and bless the marriage.

Catherine couldn’t believe the priest’s audacity when at ceremony’s end he smiled at Duncan and said, You may give your bride the kiss of peace.

Chapter 3

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Duncan eyed the priest as if he’d lost his mind, then turned for the first time to face his lady wife.

Trying to keep his expression unreadable, his gaze traversed the length of her body, stopped at her breasts, her hips. Seal this unwanted union with a kiss to show the two families joined together with no ill feelings? He’d not do it. All he’d had to do was tell the priest he protested. The ceremony would have gone no further. He couldn’t do it. His clan needed him. Before he left home he’d decided not to stay with her after the wedding, wanting nothing to do with a woman his father selected. He planned to leave as soon as he took her to his home. He wouldn’t change his mind now.

He stood resolute—and unable to breathe—for he stared at one of the loveliest women he’d ever seen.

He moistened his lips and watched her proudly stare up at him.

He reached out to touch her face, but drew back at the last moment.

Rimmed with long black lashes, her large brown eyes had golden flecks shimmering throughout. Her lips pressed together to hide her nervousness. Failing, the corner of her mouth trembled. Duncan had the ridiculous urge to take her in his arms and kiss her thoroughly. An image flashed through his mind—of her body trembling with desire as he sheathed himself inside her woman’s heat.

He had to slow his breathing as his gaze drank in her every nuance. A sheer wimple flowed down her back and covered her shimmering auburn hair. Seed pearls and ivy formed a circlet atop her head. Her ivory-colored kirtle was form-fitted over ample breasts and draped over well-rounded hips. Hips perfect for carrying a bairn—his bairn. The sleeves were long and loose flowing, befitting her family’s extreme wealth. The côtehardie, cut to show the gown beneath, was trimmed with martin fur.

Give her the kiss of peace? He intended no such thing, although he couldn’t take his eyes from her lips, wondering if they’d feel as soft as velvet. Overwhelmed by her beauty, it took every ounce of willpower to tear his eyes from her face. He turned and left her standing at the altar, a collective gasp from onlookers echoing throughout the chapel as he walked out alone.

He cared not what anyone thought of his actions, but knew he’d hear about it from his sister. Tamara wouldn’t hesitate to tell him he’d just been a cold-hearted, insensitive boor.

He saw his sister from the corner of his eye, her green eyes wide with dismay when he moved past her. She said not a word, but he clearly heard her saying, ‘Duncan, how could you leave that poor woman standing alone?’

Determined not to stay in this godforsaken house a moment longer than necessary, Duncan returned to his chamber and rang for the chambermaid. Upon her arrival, he told her, "Inform my lady wife we leave within the hour. I expect her packed and ready."

Observing the maid’s shocked expression, he coolly added, "Inform her any luxuries not down the stairs shall remain behind." He turned his back in dismissal.

* * * * *

Catherine felt a rush of annoyance and glared upstairs at her unseen husband. When he’d first turned in her direction at the altar, she’d lost herself in the fathomless depths of his blue eyes. She thought him one of the handsomest men she’d seen. She had the urge to reach up and brush the shock of dark hair from his forehead—until the rude man turned and left her standing alone.

She fumed, How dare he insult me and issue such an order? Does he not plan to partake of our wedding celebration?

Her mouth firmly set, she stormed upstairs, her mother, sister, and lady’s maid closely at her heels. That arrogant man may think he won, she grumbled, but he doesn’t know whom he deals with yet. He probably believes I shall turn into a hysterical female. Well, I shan’t.

She turned to the women she held dearest. With your help, I intend to put my husband in his place. Her eyes softened as she looked to her mother, who sobbed, her shoulders shaking with the force of her tears. Mother, please do not cry. I need your help to get through this.

Determined to show that man he’d wed a force to be reckoned with, Catherine packed with haste. With time to spare, she stood at the hall’s parlor door seemingly calm and serene in her light brown traveling mantle. She tried to maintain a calm façade. Inside, she seethed.

Her husband approached the staircase landing, probably expecting to see a group of wailing women ready to plead for additional time. Instead, a smile spread over her face when he stopped mid-step. She delighted he saw the woman he’d just issued a ridiculous order to waiting calmly, her traveling retinue around her.

Their gazes met and locked.

She gave a mocking smile. I thought mayhap you were going to be late, my lord husband.

A twitch of his lips and a quirked brow seemed to say, And so the battle begins.

* * * * *

With a haughty turn of her head, Catherine reached her hands up and drew her mantle’s hood over her hair.

Walking out the door, she fought the urge to glance back.

She stopped outside and turned to Rowena. I shall miss you. She touched the tears freely flowing down the woman’s cheeks. I would love to have you come with me, but would not subject you to that horrible ma . . . my lord husband. She smirked, her gaze sweeping to Duncan. He stared right through her, his face impassive, as if her derogatory words meant nothing.

Kissing her family farewell, she headed across the courtyard and stood beside the waiting conveyance.

Elizabeth ran to her, throwing her arms around her neck. I shall miss you. Who shall I spend my days with? Who shall teach me to—

Rowena shall care for you, Beth. Catherine lifted her chin and glowered at her new husband over Elizabeth’s head. The hood of her sister’s mantle fell, allowing her sandy brown hair to whip about her face. Lowering her head to her sister once again, Catherine whispered in her ear, I love you.

Catherine nudged her toward Trevor.

He gathered Elizabeth in his arms and endeavored to console her. Failing, he raked his fingers through his hair, unleashing it from the leather strap. Trevor attempted