Bedded by the Laird (Highland Warriors) Read online

  BEDDED BY THE LAIRD

  By

  Rachael Kennedy

  Copyright ©Rachael Kennedy

  Cover image Hot Damn Stock SCO0245HIGH

  All characters and settings in this work are fiction and

  figments of the author’s imagination

  With love and thanks to a wonderful group of women,

  for all your help and support.

  You know who you are.

  xxx

  Chapter One

  Scottish Highlands 1st February 1296

  ‘Good morning Laird.’

  Laird Alasdair McClelland did not stir as Bridie came into the room carrying his breakfast tray. Putting it down on the table beside his large bed Bridie walked over and opened the heavy drapes and shutters and looked out to the magnificent morn. It was crisp and cold but despite a fresh fall of snow, there must be thawing higher up, for she could hear the gush of the burn in the hillside and it was as if, not just the morning was rising, but the whole of McClelland.

  The whole of Scotland.

  Bridie swallowed, she could not stand to think of the English and all the problems the laird faced. Not that it was just the English causing difficulties -there had been fierce fighting yesterday with the Glenbarachs, a neighbouring clan. Laird Alasdair was the McClelland War Chief too and wore three feathers and went into battle with his men, unlike Laird Peter of Glenbarach, who stayed safe in his castle.

  Bridie let him rest just a moment longer, her eyes lingering on the loch, painted in corals and greys as it reflected the sunrise. It was a sight she would never tire of, for every morning it changed - today it cast pink hues to the snow nestling in the tree branches making them look like they were filled with the blossoms of spring.

  Bridie could gaze on the view forever but the castle was preparing for tonight’s feast and she didn’t want Mrs Moffat telling her off for wasting time daydreaming again, so she turned and set about lighting the fire. Once it was starting to take, Bridie approached the bed.

  ‘Laird.’ There was a cut above his eye and he was covered in bruises and her hand moved to touch his shoulder, to wake him as she often did, yet she pulled it back, suddenly nervous around him, only she didn’t know why.

  Most were scared of the laird, but not Bridie.

  Och, he was fierce and a brute to look at, but despite what everyone said he was not a man of few words. Often he would take the time to speak with Bridie when she brought him his breakfast and she wanted him to wake this morning for she had important news to share.

  ‘Laird.’ She said it again, but did not touch him and, as his blue eyes opened to her green ones, Bridie’s heart fluttered in her chest as if she were about to be scolded and a fierce blush spread on her cheeks as she saw not a brute, but his male beauty. For the first time she properly took in the dark hair that fell to his broad shoulders, noticed the rough of his strong jaw and she forgot to breathe for a moment.

  ‘Morning Bridie.’

  ‘I brought your breakfast.’ Her sing song voice was a touch more breathless than usual and her hands were shaking a little as he sat up in his bed and did as he did each morn - stretched and yawned, only this time she could see the muscles ripping in his chest and thick arms, saw the scars from battle on his torso. Her hands, as the laird took the tray, felt impatient to be idle, for there was an urge to reach out, to feel beneath her fingers what she had never really noticed – the dark hair on his musclebound chest and flat nipples. Her eyes drifted down to a snake of hair that was halted by a fur rug and Bridie’s own flat nipples, for the first time, tingled.

  At fifteen, and an undeveloped fifteen year old at that, Bridie had no time for men. Unlike her friend and maid Mary who nursed a secret love for the Laird’s younger brother Angus. Mary was a full year older than Bridie, and it showed, not just in the things she said, but in her curvy body too. Bridie was straight up and down, like a stick, the only volume to her was a mass of long red curls, which surely this morning seemed pale, compared to the roar of her skin.

  ‘What’s this?’ The laird asked, picking up the little gift she had brought him, just as so often she did – perhaps a stone she found interesting, or some flowers she had collected and the laird would tell her about them, teach her things, but this morning Bridie was embarrassed by her stupid, childish gift.

  ‘It’s just a feather.’ Her cheeks were scalding. ‘I found it on my walk yesterday.’

  She could see his strong fingers holding it, felt a shiver inside as he stroked one side and she had a sudden urge to run, to just flee from the laird’s chamber, though he didn’t seem to notice her new fear, just carried on talking as sometimes he did with Bridie.

  ‘It’s from a Snow Bunting,’ he said, for the laird knew so much – taught her so much when others did not. Mrs Moffat said that Bridie was too nosey, too curious and had too many questions, but the Laird never seemed to mind. ‘See the sandy tip?’ He asked, and Bridie nodded. ‘By the summer the ginger colour will be gone and the bird will be back to black and white.’

  He took a long drink and Bridie moved to the fire, warming her hands there, instead of asking more questions as she usually would - just so much more aware of him now.

  ‘It’s Candlemas today,’ he told her. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Aye,’ Bridie said. ‘It’s a feast day.’

  ‘It’s when we start prepare for the end of winter,’ the laird told her. ‘All the candles are blessed, there will be feasting and celebrations in the village. Soon the brown trout will be plenty and from tomorrow you can bring snow drops into the home, it’s bad luck to bring them in before Candlemas. Remember I told you that last year.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘What’s the weather, Bridie?’

  ‘Crisp and clear,’ she turned and looked at him, no longer nervous. ‘Laird, it’s the most beautiful day, there’s hardly a breath of wind.’

  ‘Perhaps, but if that’s the weather then winters not over.’

  ‘I know.’ Bridie smiled. ‘You told me the saying –

  “If Candlemas Day be fair and bright

  Winter will have another fight.

  If Candlemas Day brings cloud and rain,

  Winter shall not come again. “’

  Alasdair smiled as she recited it. He was a man of few words, just not with Bridie. She was such a bonny, bright wee thing. He’d been five years old when the McClelland groundsman had found her, wrapped in a blanket, by the burn. He remembered his mother staring at the abandoned babe and Mrs Moffat promising Lady McClelland that she would take care of her, that she’d be no trouble.

  Bridie had been no trouble at all – she brightened the castle, belonged to the castle really. Everyone had a soft spot for Bridie and, in return, she loved them all back.

  Still Alasdair had had enough talking for one morning - his head was pounding from the beating yesterday, but he didn’t mind for he had the consolation that Hamish, the Glenbarach War Chief, would be faring far worse.

  ‘Away now.’ He said for he must dress and meet with Angus, but Bridie suddenly remembered her news.

  ‘Laird, the fox has had its cubs…’

  ‘It’s barely February. There’ll be no cubs for a few weeks yet…’

  ‘But William Hunt told me…’

  ‘Away now,’ Alasdair‘s head was spinning and he did not want Bridie making a fuss, as she would if she thought he was unwell. ‘Enough of your chatter.’

  Bridie hurried off.

  The day passed quickly for Alasdair. He surveyed his land and then there was a long Mass as the candles were blessed. Supplies were sent to the alehouse for, just as there was to be a huge f
east at the castle, he made sure the villagers could celebrate as well. Though a fierce leader, unlike his father before him, Alasdair was a more generous laird, treating his people well and expecting loyalty and service in return.

  It was a night of too much whisky and too much indulgence for Alasdair and he woke to Shona, a woman he took to his bed now and then, sleeping beside him. He was, for the first time, just a touch awkward as the door opened, but he didn’t need to worry for it wasn’t Bridie bringing him his breakfast but Mrs Moffat.

  ‘Where’s Bridie?’

  ‘Och, she’s nowhere to be found.’ Mrs Moffat huffed. ‘I’m too old to be running up and down castle stairs.’ She carried on chatting as she lit the fire, but Alasdair did not return her small talk, he had no interest in hearing about Mrs Moffat’s knees. As she left he felt the hands of Shona move to him but, rarely for Alasdair, he had no further interest in the woman in his bed, instead he took a drink of his brew and grimaced, it was weak.

  He sent Shona away and then hauled himself from his bed and dressed in plaid. He pulled on leather boots and strapped on his dirk and broadsword, just as he did each morn and then headed off to survey his land with his brother Angus.

  ‘You look like shite.’ Angus greeted him.

  ‘You dinnae look so grand yourself.’

  They rode with Callum, his senior warrior, and with several other warriors too, for there was a high price on the McClelland brothers heads. It wasn’t just the English they had to worry about, the long hated neighbouring Glenbarach clan were fierce in their want for more of the Lairds land and for hunting rights, but steadfastly, just as his father and his father before him had, Alasdair refused to relent.

  Yesterday’s fight had started when Alasdair had heard they had again been fishing for salmon in the burn.

  Well, no more. He’d soundly thrashed Hamish of Glenbarach and the point had been made.

  His breath blew as white as the fresh sheet of snow that had fallen. As they rode through the village there were few to greet for most were no doubt sleeping of last nights excesses – there were some lads who hadn’t made it home asleep by the alehouse.

  ‘Morning Laird.’ Dougal Blaine stood as he always did when the Laird passed – he walked his dog at the same time each day and Alasdair stopped for a brief exchange.

  ‘Morning Dougal, the place is quiet.

  ‘Aye.’ Dougal said, which was as much conversation as you ever got from Dougal. He was a mountain of a man, a simpleton, but also a gentle soul and the Laird watched as he stooped from his great height to give his faithful dog a tickle on her tummy as she lay on her back at his feet.

  Alasdair kicked his horse on and rode through the village and then headed out to the fields.

  ‘Should we check the burn?’ Angus asked.

  ‘Aye, but later.’ Alasdair said, for it was his business to think like a Glenbarach at times. ‘First we’ll check the traps, afore they do and we’ll...’ His voice trailed off - there was a streak of red in snow and when he saw the tuft of auburn, at first he thought it a slaughtered fox.

  But then dread had tightened his guts like a fist to the stomach as Alasdair realised that it was not a fox that lay bloodied, but a body – part covered by the fresh snow. With mounting trepidation Alasdair kicked his horse into a gallop, not even waiting till it halted before he dismounted, for with each stride the beast took it became clearer that the body was Bridie’s.

  At first he thought she was dead.

  She was naked, her clothes were torn to shreds and strewn around her, her pale bloodied body was frozen. As he sank to his knees a moan of horror escaped from his lips as he lifted her to his chest. He wiped the snow from her face, her lips were void of colour and her eyes were closed to him and, as he raised her, beneath there was a crushed posy of snowdrops.

  Snowdrops she had picked for him.

  Alasdair knew it.

  ‘Bridie.’ He said to her as his men thundered towards them. ‘Bridie!’

  Callum threw him a horse rug, and Alasdair covered her.

  She was blue with the cold and he pulled her in, desperate to impart some warmth, calling her name again. There was a surge of relief for Alasdair as he felt a flutter in his arms as her chest moved and she took a shallow breath, but relief was short lived for there was no doubt that Bridie hovered at deaths door.

  The child was so cold.

  He passed her to Callum and rapidly mounted his horse and then held strong impatient arms out to hold her again.

  ‘Go ahead and warn the castle.’ Alasdair shouted various orders to his men. ‘Callum, get the healer. James, see there are more logs on the fire in my chamber…’ for he knew his chamber would by now be warm. As his men galloped at full speed to prepare as best they could for the injured Bridie, carefully Alasdair carried her home. An expert horseman he guided his beast with his pelvis and thighs, trying to shield her from the rough ride over the hilly fields and then into the village.

  ‘Stay with me Bridie,’ he ordered as he felt her slump further in his arms. ‘Bridie!’ He said sternly, shaking her gently, terrified she was gone, but then he remembered to breathe, for her eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Laird.’ Bridie didn’t say it aloud, she was by far too weak, she simply mouthed it and his heart felt broken as he saw the tears build in her eyes.

  ‘You’re safe now Bridie,’ he said as her eyes closed to him. ‘I’m taking you back to the castle, back to your home…’

  Chapter Two

  Alasdair rode into the castle and a groomsmen held Bridie as he dismounted and then he claimed her again and carried her limp and lifeless, taking the endless castle steps to his chamber.

  Alasdair’s orders had been followed – the fire was roaring. As he carried her to his bed, the horse blanket slipped and Mrs Moffat sobbed as she saw the blood pouring down Bridie’s thighs and the rough bruises to her hip, torso and breasts.

  ‘That animal.’ Mrs Moffat retched. ‘Who would do such a thing to a wee innocent like Bridie?’

  ‘He’ll be a dead animal soon.’ Alasdair swore. ‘Where’s the healer?’

  Young Mary rushed into the room and started screaming when she saw the state of her dear friend. Mrs Moffat held her shoulders and guided her away from the room, trying to reassure a terrified Mary that Bridie wasn’t in any pain.

  ‘But what happened?’ Mary begged. ‘Did she fall?’

  ‘Aye, it would seem so.’ Mrs Moffat said, for she did her best to shield young ears from such things, but she could not stop her own tears as she consoled Mary. Despite her grumbles and scolding Bridie for daydreaming and singing, they were just that – grumbles, for she loved Bridie as a daughter. Everyone loved Bridie and the castle would be a sadder place without her.

  It would not be without her, the Laird told the healer.

  ‘There’s not much we can do.’ The healer shook his head. ‘Other than keep her warm.’

  ‘Find out who did this.’ Alasdair said to his brother, for he did not want to leave Bridie’s side.

  And then he remembered.

  ‘Bring me young William Hunt.’ Alasdair said, bile churning in his stomach. ‘He’s asleep by the alehouse.’ Guilt lashed like a whip as he recalled yesterdays conversation with Bridie, how he’d sent her away when she told him about the fox cubs, sure now that William had been luring her. ‘Bring him to me now.’ The Laird growled like a savage.

  ‘Bridie will never get over this.’ Mrs Moffat sobbed. ‘She’s such a shy, private wee lassie.’

  ‘Shy?’ Alasdair checked, because the Bridie he knew was far from shy. Why, he had never met someone who could talk so much, who could make him smile as she regaled a tale from her day. He recalled how she danced on her feet as she waited for the fire to take, how she could see pink blossom on the trees in the middle of winter, for she’d not been daydreaming yesterday, she’d been talking out loud to herself and Alasdair had heard every word.

  ‘She’s shy till she trusts you Laird, but once she
does…’ Mrs Moffat’s lips quivered. ‘Maybe it’s better if the Lord takes her now…’

  ‘Don’t speak like that.’ Alasdair warned.

  It was the longest day.

  Angus returned, black with fury, wiping his dirk and returning it to its sheathe. ‘She’ll no have to worry about seeing him again.’

  ‘I wanted to deal with him.’

  ‘Aye, well I did it for ye,’ Angus said. ‘He was so busy bragging he didn’t hear me coming up behind… the other lads were taught a good lesson.’ And Alasdair’s only regret as to the punishment dealt was that he hadn’t delivered it himself.

  It was the longest night too.

  He stood by the fireplace as Mrs Moffat sat by his bed that for now housed Bridie.

  ‘I’ll stay with her.’ Mrs Moffat said but Alasdair could not leave.

  She woke in the middle of the night screaming and fighting and scratching.

  ‘Bridie!’ Mrs Moffat begged her to calm but still she fought till Alasdair could stay back no longer.

  ‘It’s over, Bridie.’ Alasdair took over from the auld woman and held onto Bridie’s wrists. ‘You’re safe now.’ He felt for himself the fight she had put up as she struggled to be free from his grasp but he held her firm and told her over and over she was safe, till she calmed enough for him to feed her whisky to sedate her.

  It was all they could do.

  Yet, despite the healer’s predictions and Mrs Moffat’s grim musings, the Lord did not take her.

  She slept or lay mute by day, Mrs Moffat forcing broth down reluctant lips. By night still she fought, waking screaming, her hair dark with sweat, her face hot and red, but it took only the Lairds words now, not whisky, to sedate her.

  After a couple of weeks she was moved from the Lairds room, though not to the servants’ quarters, instead Alasdair had her moved to a bright room in one of the turrets. It had a magnificent view of the land she loved so and he hoped that the splendour might spark her soul - that the sight of the loch and the hills, covered now in flowers and heather, might help bring her back to them.