The Highlander & the Unlikely Heir_Scottish Highland Romance Read online

  the highlander

  & the unlikely heir

  Scottish highland Romance

  Fiona MacEwen

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 A Betrothal

  Chapter 2 Sister

  Chapter 3 Alastair

  Chapter 4 Introduction

  Chapter 5 A Loch of Heart

  Chapter 6 In Passing

  Chapter 7 Departure

  Chapter 8 Laird of Grant

  Chapter 9 A Feast

  Chapter 10 Forbidden

  Chapter 11 Reluctance

  Chapter 12 The Loss

  Chapter 13 A Land as Bright

  Chapter 14 A Life of Service

  Chapter 15 Lies and Truths

  Chapter 16 Deceit

  Chapter 17 Conventional Dream

  Chapter 18 On Time

  Chapter 19 Unrest

  Chapter 20 A Forest of Hope

  Chapter 21 Revelation

  Chapter 22 Unravel

  Chapter 23 Bind

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  Prologue

  SUTHERLAND, 1222

  The sun was setting over Loch Shin the day Catriona died.

  Bryce loved her fiercely, but when he could stand to look at her no longer, he had to take a moment to gaze out over the water. Reds and oranges cast an almost fiery hue over the water, and it was akin to the fire currently raging in his breast. The screams and wails of his greatest love seemed to eternally ring in his ears, and it could not be borne. He was unused to such helplessness. Being Laird of Sutherland Castle was not for the faint of heart, and while Bryce had always considered himself to have a hardy constitution, his unfailing bravery seemed to wilt in the face of Catriona’s pain.

  “Bryce.”

  The weak voice pulled Bryce from his reverie, and he turned from the window, fingers laced at the base of his spine. There was a difference, he supposed, to looking controlled, and feeling such. The few footsteps to the bed seemed to take an age, but as Bryce sank to his knees at Catriona’s head, he breathed out a slow, shaky breath. “Catriona.”

  Catriona’s eyes were the same blue as the water on the loch on a fresh spring morning. Bryce found himself pulled towards her from the moment he had seen her, a servant fresh to his household. He is ashamed that he never sought to know where she hailed from, which parts of Scotland flowed through her veins, but her origins were unimportant. This moment would matter.

  “I would marry ye,” Bryce told her, certainty heavy in his tone.

  Catriona’s face is grey, a light sheen to her skin as she stares up at him, mouth curved into an expression of pain, of despair. “Love her.”

  “I would never do otherwise,” Bryce promised. Somewhere in the next room, their daughter is already being cared for, swaddled, and protected, while her mother lay dying. Bryce brushed Catriona’s hair from her forehead, refusing to dwell on the heat beneath his palm. “I have called for the parish priest.”

  Father McEwan would come at Bryce’s call. He was a proud but fair man, and Bryce was certain he would be a steadfast ally in this. Catriona was not what his parents would have hoped for in a wife, but Bryce found that he did not care. Their daughter would be legitimate, she would have the rights afforded her by the title, and Bryce would see Catriona honored and cherished.

  Catriona was weak, her touch a mere shadow of what it had been, but when she touched his cheek, drew his head down, Bryce could see the strength she lacked in physicality echoed in her eyes. To the last, she would be brave. “I am sorry, me love.”

  Bryce could not find his voice. His throat seemed swollen with grief, and he could only lean into Catriona’s palm, could only lean in for a press of their foreheads, for a soft, chaste kiss. Their passion has been strong in the days before, their love had seemed endless and free. Here in this room, the memories threatened to overwhelm him, but Bryce found an anchor in the pained breaths Catriona took in those moments, waiting for Father McEwan.

  For Catriona, for their daughter, Bryce would remain strong.

  Chapter 1

  A Betrothal

  There was to be a wedding at Castle Sutherland.

  Though not yet a certainty, even the loch itself seemed to be as affected as the castle and the staff within. A breeze caught the reeds, ripples cascading over the water, and as soft, pale feet sank into cold earth, they seemed endless.

  Catriona, the picture of her mother, beautiful blonde hair curled as best she could manage, and blue eyes that her father would often tell her could match the loch for beauty. It was the one place she felt close to him, to her mother, and curling her toes into the mud at the edges of the loch was a connection. Turning her face up into the sun, Catriona could imagine the bustle of the castle at her back.

  Her one reprieve was at sunset, when she could escape for an hour, watch the life around the loch settle into night, and make believe for a moment that all of this was hers, that she could claim a part of it for herself.

  It galled her to know everything around her was hers by right, by her father’s wish, and though she wanted to shout at the top of her lungs to anyone she could that this was hers, she could not. Whatever claim she had was gone, long hidden, though she had tried to find someone, anyone, who could stand on her behalf.

  Father McEwan, her father had whispered to her just before he left for battle. He will be your ally.

  The priest had been a confidant when she was growing, a sympathetic ear when her father was away and Catriona had only her sister and stepmother for company, but he had passed a long time ago. Though loving and attentive, Catriona’s father had not cultivated friends and companions for her, confident that her sister would be everything she needed.

  “If he had only ken,” Catriona whispered, words scattering on the wind like so many blossoms.

  A sharp, “Catriona!”

  The hour had seemed to pass so much faster today, Catriona mused, pulling herself from the water. She would get a reprimand, she was certain, for the dirt on her feet, the water dampening the bottom of her dress, but she could not bring herself to be sorry. If there was one thing her stepmother could not take from her, it was the loch, the beauty, the time.

  The grass was soft underfoot as she wound up the path towards the main castle gates. Her heart lurched in her chest. Her father’s legacy was a proud one, a castle that had been lovingly tended and staffed while he was alive, but which had fallen into disrepair with his passing. Catriona longed to put it right, to see her once beautiful home restored.

  “Where ha' ye been?” Robert was a strong, demanding man with a fierce expression. His face was often the same shade of red as Catriona’s skin after an hour in the sun, though the top of his head remained a pale pink. It was a dichotomy she had often wondered upon. As she passed, he curled a hand around her elbow, grip tight. Protesting would do her no good, so she stopped on the path, tilted her face towards him.

  “I thought– “

  Robert shook her arm, eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance. Shamed, Catriona dropped her own eyes. Another shake, and Robert began to tug her towards the main hall, his mouth a thin line. Though grand, the entrance was barren, Robert’s boots echoing on the stone floor. Catriona’s feet left a trail of mud that she was sure she would be forced to clean herself that evening. “Yer mistress requires yer services.”

  Catriona was always required. The mistress was not alw
ays the same. Sometimes it was Isobel, the sister Catriona loved, but who held a deep resentment for her in return. Other times, it would be her stepmother. Catriona loved her once, she was sure, but that love had coalesced into a deep distrust, and an even deeper fear. Aware of who held the power, Catriona adhered as best she could to the rules her stepmother, Lady Margaret Sutherland, had laid out for her, and perhaps one day, she would be free.

  Robert continued to tug Catriona through the hall and up to the main staircase, grip unrelenting as he gave her barely enough time to find her feet on each step. Stumbling more than once, Catriona bit her tongue to keep from asking him to stop, to let her free. Keeping up was a challenge, but not impossible, and as they reached the top, Robert let her go abruptly.

  Stumbling, Catriona pressed a hand to the wall to right herself and stared into the scowling face of Margaret.

  Stern and severe, Lady Sutherland was a beautiful woman. Catriona had often wondered if there had been a day Margaret had smiled in a way that did not feel false. Often, she wore a scowl instead, or perhaps that was just when she looked at Catriona. When she was a wean, Catriona could remember days of her stepmother looking almost ethereal in her beauty, hair tumbling over shoulders in honey waves and dresses always perfectly crafted to her body. She had been alluring, fascinating, and Catriona had always thought her beautiful. Though no less captivating, her dresses were often symbols, powerful colors, and accentuating the bearing Margaret had affected in her position of power. Her hair was pulled tight around her head, braids as intricate as the lies she weaved, and Catriona often fantasized about tugging those braids out, watching Margaret’s carefully crafted plans fall as easily as her hair.

  “We are to receive guests on the morrow,” Margaret said. She sounded cold, chin tilted in the manner Catriona was familiar with. “Whatever Isobel wants, she is to be given. Ye unnerstaun?”

  “Aye, Me Lady.” Catriona kept her eyes down. Though she longed to stand straight, to show off the bearing she had been born with, she kept herself small, contrite. It was a lie of her own perhaps, but she had to keep parts of herself strong.

  Margaret swept herself down the corridor, shoes clicking against the floor, sounding powerful even as she walked. It was a false power, but no less intimidating.

  “Come,” Robert said, and pressed a hand to the small of Catriona’s back. “Isobel is to look 'er best. The marriage party arrives in the morn, and we must be ready.”

  Chapter 2

  Sister

  Alastair, Laird of Clan Grant, arrived the next morning.

  Catriona did not see him arrive, nor was she granted the opportunity to meet him any time afterward. She was kept busy in Isobel’s rooms, and then in the kitchens. It was hard work, tiring, and there was no time for her to enjoy the loch that afternoon. Avoiding Margaret was difficult, but she would be preoccupied with wedding affairs, and Catriona was grateful for her distance. Most of the castle staff were kind enough, but there were others, those brought in from Barra who were foreign to Catriona, to Sutherland, and their differences were obvious. They were discourteous to her and to the staff who remained from her father’s employ, and they were often slack enough that Catriona and others were forced to pick up their duties. It was a difficult life, and easily resented, but Catriona had no other options. If she did not live as Margaret requested, she would be sent away.

  Catriona would lose her home, her legacy, her loch.

  Just before tea, Catriona attended Isobel in her rooms.

  “He is everything I could have hoped for,” Isobel told her, eyes a dark grey. Often, Catriona imagined that her eyes were ever-changing colors, depending upon her mood. Today, they were as grey as the skies outside, and Catriona altered her bearing to match. On these days, Isobel would be vicious with tongue and with hand, and Catriona had learned to give her space, to keep as out of reach as would be respectful.

  Catriona kept silent as she helped Isobel into her dinner dress, eyes down to avoid any unnecessary tension. It would not do well to upset Isobel before dinner, and never with guests in the castle.

  “Perhaps one day ye will find a suitor who will adore ye” Isobel’s tongue was sharp and cruel, her eyes even more so.

  Catriona nodded. Her fingers tightened around the brush on Isobel’s dressing table. “Perhaps.”

  Isobel’s laugh was high, as though she found the idea of Catriona married to be a wonderful fantasy. In truth, Catriona did not see how it could ever come to pass. She would not say that out loud. Isobel caught Catriona’s eyes in the mirror. Catriona dropped her head, brushed her fingers slowly through Isobel’s thick, red hair. It was gorgeous in a way Catriona didn’t think hers would ever be, and every time she styled Isobel’s hair, she smothered the jealousy. It was not like her to worry about such superficial things, but sometimes she let herself feel bitter and angry about her situation, despite the futility.

  “Whether or not ye do,” Isobel said again, “I hope ye’ll conduct yerself with the utmost respect and appreciation for Laird Grant.”

  “Of course,” Catriona promised. While Catriona lived in the castle that was hers by right, she was treated lower than most servants. Thus she refused to refer to Isobel as 'Me Lady' when addressing her.

  Alastair, whoever he turned out to be, would be treated with the respect afforded a Laird of any castle. Perhaps he would have been a suitor for Catriona in another life, but she could not afford to let herself be distracted by flights of fancy, not when her very existence in the castle was dependent upon how worthwhile Margaret deems it to be that she stayed.

  It was with these thoughts in her head that spurred Catriona to return to her own room that night instead of taking another sojourn to the Loch. Every person in the castle would be on a high alert, ready to report back on the goings on of everyone within. While a Laird resided in their castle, Catriona’s every movement would be watched avidly. That night, as she stared out of her low window she could just make out the edge of the Loch, the moon’s light shimmering on the surface. It was the last time she would see it for some time, and she drank her fill before slipping into bed, turning to face the wall.

  Resting her cheek on her hand, she breathed out slowly, wondering if she would ever escape this life, if she would ever be able to breathe without her chest hurting.

  Chapter 3

  Alastair

  Alastair had been Laird of Grant Castle for a little over three months. After his father’s death in the summer, he was handed title of Laird, and had tried to do the best by his father’s legacy ever since. He had not always made the best choices, but there were many people in his clan, and he would not see them suffer for mistakes he made over whatever choices arose.

  Marriage was something he was forced to face before he was ready, but the alliance between the clans Grant and Sutherland would indeed be a match to celebrate. When Alastair was given word that Isobel, daughter of the Sutherland Clan’s previous Laird, was being put forth for marriage, given the dire nature of his clan’s position in the Highlands, he was ever desperate for a secure future.

  While he had yet to meet her, he knew that for this to work, he must accommodate her. Perhaps there would be some love there to work from. His father and mother had loved each other dearly, despite their marriage being forged out of political gain, and he could only hope for the same.

  Alastair’s entourage was not vast, but it was respectable. He had his best men and horses with him, along with some of his more politically minded clan members. While not imperative that he travel with companions, acknowledging the necessity for men at arms when travelling to another clan’s lands was a sign of appreciation for their strength. That was what Alastair was hoping it would signify though he knew not every clan in the Highlands shared that opinion. He was confident the Sutherlands would see it as a compliment.

  As they approached the castle, he could see a severe, beautiful woman standing in the castle doorway. Flanked by a heavy set bearded man and a young, beautiful wo
man. Alastair was wise enough to know that others would be around, though he could not see them, and they would be keeping a watchful eye on their people, so he dismounted his horse with care.

  “Lady Sutherland,” he said, tone genial. He inclined his head in a bow. “A pleasure.”

  “Aye,” Margaret replied, and her voice was hard. Leading a clan was difficult enough, but more so for a widowed woman who must lead men of an already established—and strong—clan. Alastair admired her for that alone. “Welcome Laird Grant.”

  Behind Margaret, the heavy-set man’s eyes narrowed as he took in Alastair. Refusing to shrink at the attention, Alastair held his head high. While not the man his father had been, imposing in stature and so obviously the Highland man people were proud to follow, Alastair was no less capable. Slight and fresh-faced as he appeared now, one day he would cut a figure across the Scottish landscape. Until then, he would hold his own.

  “Robert,” the man offered, giving a tight nod.

  He did not have the bearing of a Sutherland man, Alastair noted. The red hair and the tanned face were much more indicative of the Barra islands. A companion of Lady Sutherland’s, then.

  “And this,” Margaret continued, resting a hand on the younger lady’s shoulder and gently guiding her forward, “is my daughter, Miss Isobel Sutherland of Sutherland.”

  Up close, Isobel was even more beautiful than she had been at a distance. Red hair and grey eyes that seemed akin to flint, and a smooth, delicate face that looked almost out of place on the rough Sutherland land. Her smile was small, but not cruel, though Alastair could not place why she immediately made him uncomfortable. He shook off the feeling; there was a reason he was here, and he gave her what he hoped was a warm smile.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Alastair told her seriously, and when she bowed her head, he brushed her chin with his fingers in the manner he once saw his father do with his mother. Lady Isobel gave him a wider smile though this one less sincere. “You have a beautiful smile.”