A Pledge of Passion to the Highlander
A Historical Scottish Romance Novel
Maddie MacKenna
Edited by
Maggie Berry
Contents
A Gift from the Highlands
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Preview: Under a Highlander’s Spell
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Also by Maddie MacKenna
About the Author
A Gift from the Highlands
Thank you very much for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love and support!
As a way to show you my gratitude, I have written a full length novel for you, called Highlander’s Untamed Bride. 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 again, I can’t thank you enough for your support!
Maddie MacKenna
Scottish Brogue Glossary
Here is a very useful glossary my good friend and fellow author Lydia Kendall 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
About the Book
Some beasts have the most angelic face of them all...
Faced with her family's impending financial catastrophe, Roseann Gibson, daughter of the Baron of Croilton, must make a terrifying decision: witness her family's downfall or tutor a Laird's brother.
When his men return from patrolling the border, Domhnall MacBeathag, Laird of Greum Dubh, becomes certain that nothing will ever be the same. And it's all thanks to the beautiful English lady, who presents herself as a tutor.
When news of Scottish villages ransacked by British soldiers reaches their ears, their fragile happiness crumbles.
An old agreement signed in Scottish blood comes into effect and Domhnall has but a single, heartbreaking choice: if he wants to save his people from certain doom, he must marry a lady.
A lady who is not Roseann...
Prologue
The English-Scottish border, 1354
She was in trouble. Her father had warned her. Her mother had pleaded with her. But she had ignored them both, and now she was dealing with the consequences of her rash actions.
“I cannae work it out,” said the large man, gazing at her, with an almost stupefied expression on his face. “What is a grand English lass like ye doing travelin’ with only a wee milksop of a lad for a guard?”
Why, indeed, thought Roseann darkly. She glanced at young Nigel, to see how he was taking the rough Scot’s criticism of his figure. The woodcutter’s son’s face had flushed a painful hue of red, and she saw that he was struggling to find the words to cope with this sudden, unexpected course of events.
She cast her eyes fearfully over the rest of the men who had waylaid them almost as soon as they had crossed the border from England into Scotland. A ragged band of Scottish blackguards, she thought. They were filthy and mud smeared, their hair lank with grease. They were all wearing a wraparound cloak of the same pattern, looped haphazardly around their tunics.
The men brandished whatever they could get their hands on. Some carried pitchforks, but others had regular swords. The bright sunlight caught the metal, momentarily blinding her view.
Another fearsome-looking man, with a mane of fiery red hair and bushy beard, growled. “Why are ye askin’ questions, Fearghas?” He carefully spat on the groun
d, so that it landed at the tip of Roseann’s left foot. “English vermin, that’s what they are! Let’s deal with them and be on our way!”
The man named Fearghas turned to slowly stare at his compatriot. His face didn’t change. But suddenly, he had him by the scruff of the neck, raising him into the air, high enough that his feet dangled helplessly beneath him. Roseann watched with horror as the man started to choke, spittle flying out of his mouth.
“Are ye finished?” growled Fearghas quietly. “I didnae ask ye to speak! Who is leader here, MacTavish?”
“Ye are,” spat the man. “For the love of God, let me down!”
Fearghas lowered him, pushing him so violently he staggered backward, landing on the ground with a thud. The other men laughed. MacTavish flushed a beetroot red and struggled to regain his composure.
“Now,” rapped Fearghas, turning back to her. “Yer name, lass, and yer business. What are ye doing this side of the border?”
Roseann took a deep breath. She didn’t know what to tell them. Were these blackguards intent on killing them both? But Fearghas gazed at her intently, at least pretending that he was willing to listen to her.
“My name is Roseann Gibson,” she replied, in an as imperious voice as she could muster. “I am the daughter of the Baron of Croilton…”
“Croilton?” Fearghas scratched his head. “I have heard of him. He owns land and title on the other side of Berwick.” He kept gazing at her. “A lot of land, which yields little, and he has been sellin’ off in smaller lots, year by year.”
Roseann flushed. “It is true, my father has been forced to sell off some land, but he is an honorable and good man…”
Fearghas guffawed. “I wouldnae ken or care about the character of the man, lassie. What concerns me is what your business is here in Scotland…my lady.” The last words were delivered contemptuously.
Roseann’s flush deepened. The man was making fun of her; he was playing with her, reminding her how vulnerable she was, standing here on a windswept Scottish moor in the middle of nowhere. The fact that she was the daughter of a baron, and his social superior, obviously meant nothing to him.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. The battles for control of the English-Scottish borderlands had been raging for many years now, and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight to them. It was a dangerous thing for anybody to cross these borders, let alone an English lady traveling with only a woodcutter’s son for protection.
Were these men rogues? She had heard of the marauding gangs, both Scottish and English, raiding the countryside on both sides of the border, causing mayhem and destruction. After what had just happened with the renegade English soldiers, she had thought they were her rescuers. Were these men working with them? Had she stumbled into a trap?
She had never been more frightened in her life. But she was the daughter of a baron; she mustn’t let this ruffian intimidate her.
She tried to quell the tremble in her voice as she announced, “I am traveling to take up a tutor’s position.” She paused. “A position at Coirecrag, with the Laird of Greum Dubh. Have you heard of the place or the Laird?”
A titter went through the men, moving like a wave. Fearghas turned and glared at them. Looking a little shamefaced, they stopped immediately.
“Coirecrag, ye say? The Laird of Greum Dubh?” His voice was mild.
Roseann nodded. “Yes. He is expecting me.” She raised her chin. “I demand safe passage. I demand that you let me and my companion pass freely and delay us no longer.”
Fearghas scratched his straggly brown beard. “Ye are a fiery one, are ye not? But ye see, my lady, there are spies all along these borderlands. I cannae let an English lassie pass freely.” He nodded decisively. “Bind them. Make sure they cannae even move a muscle.”
Roseann gasped. Two men sprung forward and grabbed them both before she could react. The young woodcutter’s son struggled helplessly, but it was like watching a sapling trying to withstand a storm. The Scottish blackguards were too large and too strong.
Coarse rope was tied so tightly around her wrists that she cried out in pain. The men didn’t react at all. She was pushed forward and made to walk. Two other men secured her horses. Well and truly, she was a prisoner.
She should have listened to her parents. And now she was surely being marched to her death.
1
Roseann stumbled wearily onwards. They had been walking for miles across this wild landscape. They had traversed valleys and hills, but it was all starting to blend a little. The same colors of muted green and dull brown seemed to typify this part of lowland Scotland.
She fell, landing roughly. The man walking two paces behind her laughed nastily. She glared up at him.
“If you have quite finished,” she whispered fiercely, “I am need of assistance…”
“Help the lassie up, Colum,” ordered Fearghas. “If we daenae start makin’ better time, we will be forced to camp out tonight.” He paused. “And I’m sick of the sight of all yer hangdog faces, lads! Tonight, all I want is a dram and a bonnie lass to warm my bed, ye ken?”
The men laughed raucously. Colum unceremoniously hoisted Roseann to her feet, and they were on their way again. Roseann sighed. Her feet were aching, and she wanted nothing better than a warm bed, too. But she knew that the likelihood of that was slim. She would either be thrown into some foul dungeon, or this was going to be the last night of her life.
Tears stung her eyes as she gazed over the barren landscape. She had been a fool. A stupid, reckless fool, to have done this. She was never going to see her beloved home or her family again. She was destined to die alone in a foreign land, inhabited by coarse, murderous people. Barbarians.
A single tear coursed down her face, but with her hands bound, she couldn’t even wipe it away. She felt its warm wetness trickle into her mouth.
She thought longingly of her home and all the people she left behind—the only home that she had ever known and her desperate quest to save it. The quest that had led her here to this awful point in time.
It had been a month prior that her world had slowly started to change. Only one phase of the moon that had led her inexorably down this path to this moment.
She vividly remembered that night. She was sitting in the dining room at Loughton Hall, her ancestral home, which lay just five miles from the border town of Berwick-on-Tweed. Father was frowning as he absently devoured a joint of mutton. Mother was picking like a bird at her own food with a faraway expression on her face. Neither had spoken for the entire meal.
Her father suddenly threw the joint across the table, his face creased into lines of disgust. “That it has come to this,” he muttered, staring at the offending meat. “We eat the worst mutton that the peasants would not deign to pick up! Only twelve month ago, there was swan and suckling pig at this table…”
Her mother sighed heavily. “It does not do to dwell on such things, my dear husband. It is only a rough spell, I am sure of it.” She bit her lip. “The Lord has sent this trial to test our strength. Tomorrow, I shall pray in the chapel, and make a donation to the abbey.”
Lord Croilton rolled his eyes. “With what, my dear wife? We have no more coin left. All your prayers and donations do nothing, anyway!”
Roseann gaped at her parents. It was slowly dawning on her that this wasn’t just a bad phase that they were going through. That things were serious at Loughton Hall, and they were getting worse.
She had known, of course, that her world was changing. But it had happened so gradually, so slowly, that she hadn’t seen the forest for the trees.
It started when her Latin and music tutors had been dismissed without fanfare. Her father had told her that she didn’t need them, anyway; she was more learned than most noble ladies her age or older. She hadn’t complained – she knew that what her father said was right. Most ladies were ignorant, not even schooled in their letters. The fact that her father had even educated her beyond what was expected for a lady of her posi
tion was enough, wasn’t it?
But it hadn’t just been the loss of her tutors. She had seen her parents arguing in rooms. Once, she had eavesdropped just outside the door. Her father was lamenting that he must sell off parts of the land, the vast estate that Loughton Hall resided upon. Servants had started to be dismissed, too. Now, they were down to a skeletal kitchen staff. Her old nursemaid, Elaine, was gone, as was Mary, her personal maiden. Centuries-old tapestries and paintings had started disappearing off walls, leaving behind dusty imprints.
She had convinced herself that it would get better. It must get better. This was their ancestral home. The possibility that it might not always be that way had never occurred to her.