To Love a Highlander

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To honor the “real” Little Heart, a tiny gray tabby kitten who should have enjoyed a long and happy life in a loving forever home, had he not met the sad fate that claimed him at only seven weeks.

Little Heart was a stray, and his story touched me so deeply that I was compelled to write him into this book, letting Mirabelle find, adopt, and adore him, giving him the happy ending I so wish he’d had in real life.

Heartfelt thanks and appreciation to everyone who helps stray and feral cats and kittens. How I wish they could all be saved and loved.

Little Heart, you aren’t forgotten.

The spark for my Scandalous Scots series was ignited by my fascination with the Scottish medieval hero Alexander Stewart, Lord of Badenoch and Earl of Buchan. Son of Scotland’s King Robert II, brother to King Robert III, “Alex” was most famously known as the Wolf of Badenoch.

To many, he was a villain, the quintessential bad boy. One reason for his notoriety was his burning of Elgin Cathedral in June 1390. Of course, the Wolf had reasons for everything he did, and he made his own rules. He was a larger than life man of his time and, as the King’s Justiciar of the North, he governed the Highlands with an iron fist. Bold and charismatic, he is said to have been six feet four and dashingly handsome. He was also known for his grand passions.

I have deep personal and family ties to his longtime mistress, Mariota de Athyn (Clan Mackay), with whom he had five sons. Because of my interest in the Wolf and Mariota, I’ve visited many sites in Scotland that were significant to these medieval lovers. In some such places, especially the more remote ones, it is still possible to feel their presence. I suspect that will always be so, even hundreds of years from
now. Such vibrant and colorful personages leave an indelible mark on history, regardless of how you view them.

So when I decided to write a series about Highland bad boys, genuine rogues and rascals who would be bastards at the royal court of Stirling Castle, I knew exactly who I wanted as their “ringleader”: my own lifelong hero, Alexander Stewart, the Wolf of Badenoch.

He was a real-life legend and loving him as I do, I really enjoyed weaving him into Scandalous Scots. If he could read his appearances in the story, I hope he’d approve of how I portrayed him.

Special thanks to my best friend and agent, Roberta Brown. She’ll know why I’m also giving a nod to Horatio, Hercules, and the gang.

Much love and appreciation to my very handsome husband, Manfred, who married a stewardess and ended up with a cranky writer. He surely preferred free flying privileges to suffering my deadlines, but he makes the best of it. As always, the whole of my heart to my little Jack Russell, Em. I could write a million words and not convey how much I love him. Hopefully he knows.

S
ince time immemorial, kings have surrounded themselves with a lively, colorful throng. The Stewart kings of medieval Scotland kept a particularly glittering court. And of these privileged worthies, the King’s bard held a place of highest honor.

Archibald MacNab was one such fortunate tale-teller.

A laughing-eyed, roguish Highlander, he charmed and entertained, his silvered tongue gaining him royal trust and affection. With song and wit, he also won the adoration of all who heard his magical voice, rumored so beautiful that birds envied him.

Few men enjoyed such favor.

Unfortunately, the King’s grace wasn’t the only boon bestowed on him.

Privileged ladies, Lowlanders mostly, were enchanted by Archie’s dashing good looks and his status as a Highland chieftain, hailing from a wild and remote region far from the civilities of court. It was no secret that Highlanders were rugged and dangerous men, their deep, buttery-rich voices making them irresistible.

And when their tongues were so masterful…

It followed that Archie rarely slept alone.

At night, when the hall quieted and torches guttered, the court lovelies beat a path to his door. Eager to discover if the whispered praise about the carnality of wild Highland men was true, these women often undressed as soon as they stepped over Archie’s threshold.

They also did other things. Some arrived bearing flagons of headiest wine. Others brought scented oils to bathe and massage him. All plied him with silken kisses and skilled embraces, rousing him with their smooth and creamy nakedness, their rosy-crested breasts, and the tempting shadows between their thighs. As a well-lusted, hot-blooded man, he gladly surrendered to the pleasure.

Life was good.

Young, virile, and unabashedly fond of women, Archie appreciated such bounty, enjoying the gifts offered to him. In turn, he did his best to prove the prowess of Highland men. This was easy, for his amatory skills were as extraordinary as his storytelling.

His only weakness was saying no.

And so it came that he accepted the wrong ladies into his bed.

In quick succession, he tasted the sweetness of the King’s four most cherished mistresses.

Fine lovers indeed, and beautiful enough to stop a man’s heart, Archie understood why the King held them in such high esteem.

Soon he learned that the King also distrusted them.

Even though he’d left their beds of late, lavishing his royal attention on a new, much younger temptress, his four favorites were still watched carefully, their every move reported to the sovereign.

When these ladies started falling ill in the morning and their shapely figures began to thicken, tongues wagged and
fingers pointed. Envious court women were quick to share things they’d seen, suspicions that led to the King’s roguish, laughing-eyed bard.

Archie’s fall from grace was swift and hard.

Now as maligned as he was once loved, he was banished to Duncreag Castle, his stony, clifftop home in the Highlands. But exile wasn’t enough to satisfy the King’s wrath. Death was considered, but such punishment was believed too kind.

Something more galling was desired.

So a marriage was arranged, pairing the lusty Highlander with a most unattractive female of royal choosing. Archie was also threatened with losing his land and title if he ever again approached court, or his four bastards, so long as he lived.

The same fate would befall him if he spoke of their mothers.

Archie left court disgraced.

In time, he put his amorous past behind him, even falling in love with his wife. She played the harp beautifully, her music a perfect accompaniment to his silvered words. They raised a fine brood of sons and daughters, many as gifted as their talented parents. Archie’s youthful scandals were eventually forgotten. To his great delight, Duncreag Castle came to be known as a place of happiness and laughter.

Yet one should never rile a King.

Such transgressions follow a man always, their effects reappearing when least expected and even when royal attention has long since turned elsewhere.

The gods remember and exact vengeance.

So those with long memories weren’t surprised when tragedy struck Duncreag. A band of clanless men, greed-driven and dark-hearted, attacked the stronghold hoping to claim the riches rumored to be hidden there. Never warlike, Archie and his men were overcome with ease, their
doom sealed when the raiders refused to believe a treasure hoard didn’t exist. Failing to gain the wealth they’d desired, the dastards stole what Duncreag could offer: the lives of Archie’s kin.

Nearly all of them perished that day, including Archie’s beloved wife.

Help soon came when warriors from a neighboring glen rode in to oust the marauders. But even the fiercest fighting men are not able to journey quickly across such wild and rugged terrain. By the time the rescuers arrived at Duncreag, the worst damage was done. Archie had been robbed of everything he held most dear.

Alone in his empty, echoing stronghold, he became a broken man.

Yet he wasn’t entirely friendless.

Those who cared for him remembered distant rumors, hushed tales of Archie’s days at the royal Stewart court when his scandals took seed.

Somewhere in Scotland, his four bastards lived and thrived.

Unbeknownst to Archie, someone means to find them.

A pity doing so will only damn Archie the more.

The Great Hall at Stirling Castle

Summer 1386

I
’ll have a kiss from the dark-eyed lass before the night is done.” Sorley, baseborn and proud, swelled his youthful chest, his gaze on a comely maid dancing vigorously to the skirl of pipes. She wore a richly embroidered gown of deep red, its bodice cut to display her breasts, while her jeweled belt dipped suggestively low. She held her chin high and her raven hair shone in the torchlight.

Smitten, Sorley stepped out of the shadows at the hall’s edge. His pulse quickened. “She has fire in her veins, that one.”

“So do the kitchen maids.” Roag, the lad beside him, slid an appreciative glance at the swaying hips of a passing serving lass. “Suchlike willnae run crying to their fathers after you taste their charms.”

Sorley crossed his arms, his mind set. “I’d rather sample thon lass.”

As if she heard, the red-gowned girl twirled with even greater abandon. Her skirts flew, revealing shapely calves and trim ankles. Her breasts bounced, her bodice laces
temptingly undone. Equally enticing, her hair spilled to her hips, a skein of glossy black curls. Daughter of a lesser knight, she was several years older than Sorley’s own four-and-ten summers. Her flirtatious eyes and bright smile were pure invitation, hinting she’d welcome kisses and more.

Wanting her badly, Sorley flashed his most roguish smile.

The one he’d used to attract so many bonnie serving wenches. In the center of the hall, the dark-haired vixen appeared similarly captivated. She tilted her head, looking at him from beneath her lashes, her own smile deepening.

Sorley grinned and cracked his knuckles.

“Go kiss her then.” Roag gave him a shove, pushing him forward. “See how fast you feel the back of her hand. That’s all she’ll be giving you.”

“Say you.” Sorley spun about, grabbing Roag’s wrist and leaning in. “Be glad my mind’s on a lass this night and no’ on fighting.”

“It makes no’ difference.” Caelen, another lad, snorted. “The lordies willnae let you near her.”

“They’ll do more than that. They’ll skewer you with their swords.” Andrew, a fourth boy, looked pleased by the notion. “You dinnae even have a good dirk. They’ll—”

“They’ll run if I glare at them.” Sorley’s tone dared the other lads to deny it. His narrowed eyes warned what he’d do if any of them tried. The day before, he’d won an archery contest. He might not yet wield steel, but he could put an arrow into a foe’s backside.

If he wished, he could pierce more tender places.

His rivals knew not to tempt him.

So he stared hard at all three. Like him, they were of questionable birth, unable to name father or mother. Roag had the most swagger, and a scar on his left cheekbone proved he enjoyed using his fists. Caelen deserved a smashed nose, if only because his good looks and silvered tongue made him a great favorite with court ladies. Andrew annoyed because
he fancied himself above the rest, aye claiming he was the King’s own by-blow.

Sorley knew better.

Royal bastards weren’t left to sleep where they could and didn’t wear cast-off clothes. Their shoes were of softest leather and didn’t have holes. They ate at bright, candlelit tables in the hall. Not in shadow and dark niches in the corners.

Unsavory places Sorley knew well.

As did his rivals, Roag, Caelen, and Andrew, with all four lads of like age and roughly the same height and weight. Excepting blue-eyed, auburn-haired Caelen, they were swarthy boys with inky black hair and dark eyes. Each one boasted a fine, strong face.

To Sorley’s irritation, they also shared dimples.

Women appreciated dimpled smiles.

And no one could employ such a desired feature to better advantage than Sorley. He wasn’t about to share the trick with his rivals. He did step closer, giving Caelan, in particular, a slow, knowing smile.

“My dirk serves well enough.” He dropped a glance to the blade’s hilt, peeking up from his boot. “Someday soon”—he knew it was true—“I’ll carry my own sword and swing it with greater skill than any lord.”

An unimpressed smile spread over Caelan’s bonnie face. “Aye, and the stale ale we’re served at dinner will turn to nectar.”

“The King will employ me to deflower the fairest court maids.” Roag laughed and sketched a curvaceous shape in the air. “They shall vie for my services,” he added, winking at the other lads. “Eager to—”

“You shall be the first to taste the bite of my steel.” Sorley went toe-to-toe with Roag. “The day will come, be warned.”

“You willnae live so long, eyeing the gels of lordies.” Roag’s voice was full of amusement.

When he elbowed Caelan and Andrew, earning their
laughter, Sorley showed them his back. Closing his ears, he looked again to the hall’s dance space.

A ring of tall, iron-mounted torches edged the area, the blaze of light shimmering across the dancers. They were a colorful lot, all nobles, dressed in finery and jewels. Many were unsteady on their feet, lurching and weaving rather than properly dancing. They also had red-glowing faces, their eyes bright from wine. A good number of women were scantily clad, their gowns slipping down their shoulders. Smooth and creamy female flesh was everywhere to be seen. But only one maid interested Sorley.

He wanted the knight’s daughter.

Ignoring the lads behind him, he felt his mouth curve in a smile that was more wicked than charming. He also stood taller, squared shoulders already hinting at the strapping man he’d soon be.

In truth, he already was a man.

He certainly knew how to pleasure a lady.

He couldn’t say the same of his companions. He did note that they also couldn’t take their gazes off the dark-haired enchantress. They watched her every twirl and sway, caught in her spell as she bewitched them from the center of the smoky, torchlit hall.

When her gown slipped to her waist, freeing her breasts, Sorley’s entire body tightened. She danced nearer then, tempting him with hot, brazen glances so that his heart pounded fiercely. His young, virile loins throbbed, quickening with sharp, potent desire.

He started forward, grateful for the “new” plaid slung across his shoulder. A bit threadbare, the wool well-worn and the colors indistinguishable, the tartan was nevertheless clean. It was also a gift from Alexander Stewart, Lord of Badenoch and Earl of Buchan, the King’s boldest, most outspoken son. Above all, the plaid gave Sorley a welcome edge of bravura.

The other court bastards had only received handed-down linen tunics.

Proud, Sorley put back his shoulders. He was glad he’d taken the trouble to polish the battered bronze pin that’d come with the cast-off tartan.

Rarely had he looked so fine.

“She’s toying with you,” Roag warned behind him.

“Making him an arse, more like,” Caelan agreed.

“That, he already is.” Andrew gave a bark of laughter.

“No more than you.” Sorley shot Andrew a dark look. “Your arse is where you’ll land if you say the like again.”

“Or you,” Andrew returned the threat. Grinning, he leaned against the edge of a trestle table and crossed his arms, insolently. He also made a show of gazing up at the hall’s dark, hammer-beamed ceiling.

Light from a torch fell across his face and Sorley almost felt sorry for him.

Andrew still carried a swollen, black eye he’d earned several days earlier when he’d dared to offer flowers to a scribe’s daughter. Her brother, a young knight-in-training, walked away with worse bruises. But Andrew’s victory was dampened by the cruel whisperings that soon spread through the castle.

Court bastards, while tolerated, should know their place.

It was a truth that rankled.

And one Sorley was not wont to accept.

Setting his jaw, he looked out across the crowded hall, eager to challenge any lordlings or knights’ sons who dared to eye him crossly.

None did.

Sorley knew why.

With the King away at Dundonald Castle, one of his most favored residences, the hall had run wild. Loud and unruly, the notables of the land were filling their bellies with rich victuals and too much ale. The feasting had reached a pitch
that dulled wits and blurred vision, even robbing some men of their dignity. More than one lofty slumped in a drunken stupor, babbling nonsense. Others sprawled face-first across the tables, heads on their arms as they slept, snoring loudly, oblivious to the pandemonium.

Not averse to taking advantage, Sorley strode into the circle of dancing nobles.

He made straight for the whirling, laughing-eyed temptress, encouraged when she stopped dancing at his approach. That she didn’t bother to cover her breasts emboldened him all the more.

Seldom had he seen such perfection.

Her dark, thrusting nipples sent heat flashing through him, setting him like stone. His hands itched to reach for her, to plump and squeeze her full, lush bosom. He burned to touch her nipples, run his thumbs in circles around them, and then pluck them sweetly.

Truth was he wanted to devour her whole.

To that end, he bowed low, giving her his most practiced smile.

“One dance, fair lass.” He deepened the smile as he straightened, knew his dimples would flash, delighting her. He held out his hands, confident. “I shall be the most envied lad in the hall.”

“Think you?” She lifted a brow. Her tone was cold, her dark eyes chilling as she pulled up her gown, hiding her nakedness. “I say you are Sorley the bastard and greatly mistaken.”

She gave him a tight, icy smile. “Be glad the King is away or I’d have him punish you for your impertinence.

“I may yet.” She narrowed her eyes, looking at him as if he were a speck of mud on her shoe.

Sorley tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. His throat had closed, his mouth gone dry. The maid tossed her head, shaking back her rippling, raven curls before she sailed away into the throng, leaving him to stare after her.

Mortification sluiced through him.

The hall grayed, blurring around him. A loud buzzing filled his ears and a terrible, flaming heat raced up his neck, branding his cheeks. From a great distance, or so it seemed, he caught a glimpse of Roag, Andrew, and Caelan, gaping at him. The pity on their faces made him want to sink into the floor.

He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in shame.

Never had he been so humiliated.

Worse, he still stood with his hands extended. He couldn’t lower his arms. They felt frozen, stiff and immoveable. Everything careened around him. The dancers and strutting pipers, the hurrying servants, and even the castle dogs, they all blended into a great whir, making him dizzy.

He blinked, certain he was about to die, when an angel appeared out of the spinning chaos and came forward to take his outstretched hands.

A hush fell over the hall, a stillness so loud it was deafening. Everyone turned to stare at Sorley and the startling beauty who gripped his hands so demonstratively. As fair and bright as the other lass had been dark, she was the most exquisite maid he’d ever seen. Her large blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. And her hair shone red-gold in the torchlight, her braids falling below her waist. Unquestionably of high birth, she wore amethyst silk and jewels, her delicate rose perfume scenting the air around her.

“I will dance with you.” She laced her fingers with his, squeezing lightly. “If it pleases you?”

Sorley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She looked at him with her great blue eyes, holding his gaze as if partnering him in the dance was the most natural thing for her to do.

He was certain he’d never seen her before.

Her accent told him why.

She spoke with a soft and pleasing lilt, the musical
sweetness of the Highlands flowing in her voice. He also noted that her eyes weren’t just blue, but lavender-blue. And despite the brightness of her hair and her fair, creamy skin, she was graced with exceptionally long, black eyelashes. Though still tender in years, likely close to his own age, she already possessed the power to hold any man’s heart in the palm of her hand.

His own heart beat wildly, the rest of the hall, the dancers and the bright ring of torches, fading away. Nothing existed except the racing of his pulse and the flame-haired lass with the beautiful eyes, her honeyed voice and dazzling smile.

She lit the hall as if a thousand suns had descended into their midst.

Sorley lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. He remembered too late that, because she was surely chaste, he should have touched his lips to the air above her knuckles, no more. Yet she didn’t pull away. The warmth in her eyes remained, her face even softening as if she’d enjoyed his attentions.

“I am Mirabelle.” Her sweet voice made his pulse leap. “My uncle is celebrating this e’en. He—”

“He’ll be Murd MacLaren. Your father is Munro, chief of that clan.” Sorley should’ve known. There’d been talk of the MacLaren’s fetching daughter. The Highlanders were here because the King had granted Mirabelle’s uncle a land charter and pension for his support and retinue service in last year’s Anglo-Scottish war.

Her father had claimed his reward the year before.