Lusting for the Highlander
A Scottish Historical Romance Novel
Lydia Kendall
Contents
A Little Gift for You
Scottish Brogue Glossary
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Highlander’s Wicked Seduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
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
While running away from her demons, she put a spell on him...
Falsely accused of being a witch, Morgana Taylor is doomed to live on the run. In an attempt to escape a terrible fate at the hands of a vicious man, she finds herself under the protection of a captivating Highlander.
Having lost both his wife and unborn child, Gregor Reid, Laird of Henwen, has dedicated his life to his people. Until he meets Morgana. Mesmerized by her eloquence, modesty, and abilities, he falls passionately in love with her.
When Morgana’s huntsman finds a way to imprison her, Gregor is haunted by his failure to protect her. With his time running short, he will have to enlist every ounce of his wit and bravery: the only way to save the woman he loves from the pyre is to uncover the witch hunter’s darkest secret.
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
Chapter 1
Henwen, 1544
The old woman, Tily, looked down her long nose at the pretty young redhead who stood at her door. It was obvious that she was tired and dirty and a bit too thin. Despite her ragged appearance though, the woman radiated beauty. Her wild, fiery, copper hair framed her creamy complexion and emphasized blue eyes. Eyes so blue, Tily wondered if they were human or of faery folk.
Wisps were known to lurk in Scottish woods, she remembered her mother had told her so as a wee lass. But this woman was real, of that she was sure. Obviously not of Scottish blood though, which piqued the old woman’s interest even more. Tily poked her head around the woman to see what she had with her and her eyes bulged.
The woman had nothing with her but a large pack on her back, an old leather bow case, and a rather large, muscular black dog that looked more horse than canine. The beast was astonishingly quiet. She hadn’t even realized he had been there. Despite his size, he appeared rather obedient to his mistress. Another mystery.
“Ye what?” she asked again gruffly.
“I would like to stay in the cottage on the far east end of your property,” the woman replied, her accent undeniably English.
Aha! Not Scottish at all.
“And why would ye want to do that, lass?” she asked, shaking her head. “Naught much out there but field and wood. No people at all.”
“That’s what I want,” the lass replied earnestly. “I’ll pay for what is fair, and I’m tidy and quiet.”
“Ye married
?” Tily McDougal asked, her Henwen brogue thick in her words.
“No,” the young woman replied sharply, her bright eyes glittering steadily back into Tily’s dark brown ones.
Well, at least there wouldn’t be a man traipsing around trying to tell her what to do, as if he could. Still, Tily preferred her privacy. It had been her late husband’s place of work, tool shed, animal rescue, and whatever else he had needed it to be. After he had passed, Tily had soon forgotten it because it was so far away from anything. Which meant that the only way the lass could have known about it was if she was travelling through the wood herself and found it. There were no clans to the east that she knew of, which told Tily the girl had been traveling alone for a long time.
She needs rest. Her heart softened, if only slightly. Tily straightened her back, and thought of what to ask next. After all, if she was going to take on the girl as a tenant then she should know her a little.
Tily realized that an unmarried woman living alone would most likely have trouble paying rent on the property. She was curious to know how the lass was going to pay her way.
“What do ye do for money, lass?” she asked, eyeing her up. “Ye got a trade proper? Not one of these hoors, are ye? I’m nae judging, but I cannae be having that on me property. I run a respectable farm and plan on keeping it that way, ye understand?”
The young woman nodded her head calmly, seemingly not at all affected by Tily’s brashness.
“I make herbal medicines and I help people,” the redhead explained.
“I do have enough coin for now to cover the months I need in advance to get my garden started, madam, and the wood by the cottage is thick with all the necessities to start on simple remedies immediately. When my crops are ready, I’ll harvest and produce my stronger medicines, and then I’ll sell them to make my earnings.”
Well, certainly not what a hoor would do.
“Medicines ye say?” Tily asked, still contemplating. She thought of her wrists, and how they ached constantly when she worked. And her back too. After only a couple of hours in the field it would hurt so bad that she’d have to stop for several hours and rest. Perhaps having a gifted healer living on her property wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Ye a doctor?”
For the first time the young woman smiled, a little flit of a thing that passed just for a second over her full lips before they set into a calm line again.
“Nowhere near as impressive as that, I’m afraid,” she replied softly, “I’m good with herbs, but I can’t set a bone, or perform a surgery. I have been getting better at my diagnoses though.”
Tily grunted. “Eh? What’s that be?”
In a patient voice the woman explained that she was able to listen to people’s ailments and help them determine what herbs they needed for treatment. Tily found her tale fascinating, if not odd. Men were doctors. Not women. Although she technically wasn’t a doctor.
As she contemplated the woman’s offer, Tily’s eyes looked over her, and lingered on her chest. Around her neck, just above her breasts rested an intricately-carved iron cross that hung on a string of leather cord.
There were tales of witches and warlocks roaming outside the Irish Isles and coming into Scotland. But the cross had told her all she needed to know about the young woman’s faith. It was common knowledge that no witch could stand the touch of iron or the holy symbol.
Continuing her inspection of the lass, Tily took in her simple maroon dress with a scooped bodice and full sleeves made of thick, sturdy fabric. It was a bit dirty, but all the tears had been patched up. Around her waist she wore a black sash with several satchels attached to it and around her shoulders was a dark-brown cape lined with matching fur.
It was plain to see that the lass was not high born by any case. Still, Tily wouldn’t go as far to think that she was a mere peasant either. There was too much intelligence in her eyes. The magnetism of the woman continued.
Tily looked up at the sky and noticed that it was getting rather dark and knew she needed to make a decision soon. Not just for the lass’ sake, but her own. She had supper over the fire and she was tired from a long day’s work. And if she was being honest with herself, she would be daft not take a chance on the lass.
She could use the extra coin now that Waryn was gone, and the woman, though single, seemed to be very mature for her age. Also if the lass was as good with herbs as she claimed to be, then perhaps she might finally find a remedy for her long-ailing back pain and swollen wrists. Her reasons to not rent out the cottage to her were running out.
Tily looked over the large black dog once more. He was sitting so still by the lass’ side that for a moment he appeared to be no more than a statue. His eyes were bright yellow, and they stared steadily into her soul, making her slightly uncomfortable.
“That beasty of yers going to bite me?” she asked.
This time the woman’s smile stayed. “Only if you try to bite me first,” she replied.
Tily’s huff of a chuckle surprised even herself, and she knew then she’d let the lass stay.
“Aye, fine,” she sighed, nodding her head toward the door. “But ye can move out to the cottage tomorrow when the light be out. For now, ye come in and get yerself a wash and a bowl of me rabbit stew. Yer skin and bones and in need of a proper meal.” She looked back over her shoulder at the dog again and grunted.
“He can come in too, but if he makes a mess on me floor he’ll be what’s in the stew tomorrow, alright?”
“Yes, mum,” Morgana replied, trying to hide her smile.
“Here we say ‘aye’, lass,” Tily called from over her shoulder.
Tily shut the door behind them all and crossed the wide living space to get to the kitchen hearth. Above a steady fire sat a black cauldron nearly halfway full of simmering stew.
“Warshin’ bowls to the left. Give yer hands and face a scrub and tell me yer name lass,” Tily instructed, adding a smidge of salt to the stew. After that she lifted the stone lid of the crock that sat in the embers, revealing a perfectly-browned loaf of bread. Behind her, she heard the lass’ stomach growl loudly. No doubt it had been days since she’d eaten.
“My name is Morgana.”
Although the old woman, or Tily, as she had been told to call her, was gruff at first, she had warmed to Morgana quickly after inviting her in. She was thankful for her generosity, and her open-mindedness, and answered what questions she felt comfortable with.
Tily had stopped asking about where she had previously been quite early, which Morgana was grateful for, and they had kept the talk mostly on farming and making medicines. By the end of dinner, they had come to a very agreeable deal. Morgana would take over the cottage and two fields, and in return she would pay Tily the sum they had agreed upon, and then work off the rest helping with the old woman’s crops.
After dinner, she helped tidy up the kitchen while Tily poked fun at her accent and attempted to teach her the harsh Scottish brogue of the village. Henwen, Tily had called it. A small village, barely bigger than a clan, but was looked over by a laird of the Royal Scottish court.
Tily had said that the nobles were kind people, not like the blue-blooded English lords Morgana was used to. She still wasn’t sure if she believed her. After all it was her experience that royals wanted her burned at the stake.
Now, hours later Morgana knew she should have been deep in slumber on her sleeping mat. Instead she rolled onto her back, wide awake, and couldn’t help but think of how badly she wanted a bath, and a clean dress.
Her body had been aching for weeks from the long journey from Southern England, and now on top of that her stomach ached from eating too much. It had been her first solid meal in a long time, and she should have eaten slower.
Trying to take her mind off of it all, she reached down and absently scratched at Zeus’ ears. He huffed in his sleep, and thrust his massive head further under Morgana’s nails. She smiled down at him affectionately, recalling how they had met. Like her, he had
been abandoned in youth and left to fend for himself.
She had found him shortly after her eighteenth birthday, right after she had been chased from her first village. It was where she had found safety and maternal love from her mother’s sister, her Aunt Gwenivere. They had been living in what Morgana had thought was peace with the nearest villagers. Then one day they came in droves, with Fordun leading them to their front door, demanding that she be burned. Her beloved aunt had put herself between Morgana and the mob, and had lost her life in doing so.
Witnessing her aunt’s death had filled her with both heartache and horror, both had fueled her to run as fast as she could. She had run until her chest was on fire and her legs trembled from overuse. Then as she approached a ravine, she lost her footing, and had landed rather unpleasantly in a cave at the bottom. Sadly, not before crashing through a nasty thicket of briars that covered her face and arms with scratches.