The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Read online

  The Highlander’s Runaway

  Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

  Emilia Ferguson

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A Personal Note From Emilia Ferguson

  Dedication

  About The Author

  THE HIGHLANDER’S RUNAWAY

  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

  EPILOGUE

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  Acknowledgement

  If You Have Enjoyed This Book…

  Publisher’s Notes

  Copyright © 2017,2018,2019 by EMILIA FERGUSON

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real or dead people, places, or events are not intentional and are the result of coincidence. The characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author/publisher. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover designed by Ms Melody Simmons. Author has the copyrights to this cover.

  A PERSONAL NOTE

  FROM EMILIA FERGUSON

  To My Dearest Lovely Readers,

  There is something picturesque and dramatic about the Scottish Highlands. Not only the landscape, which is mysterious, with its own special wildness and drama. It is the people themselves.

  Scottish people are the original untamed spirits: proud, wild, forthright, in touch with their inner selves. The Medieval period in Scotland is a fascinating one for contrasts: half the country was steeped in Medieval culture - knights, ladies, housecarls and maids - and the other half was a maelstrom of wild clans people; fighting, living and loving straight from the heart.

  If the two halves - the wild and the courtly - meet up, what will happen? And how will these proud women and untamed men react when brought together by social expectations, requirements and ambitions?

  Read on to find out the answers!

  Thank you very much for your strong support to my writing journey!

  With Hugs, Kisses and Love…

  ~ Emilia

  DEDICATION

  Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be man's last romance.

  Oscar Wilde

  This Story Is Specially Dedicated To You, My Dearest Reader!

  It is with gratefulness and gratitude that I am writing to you this personal dedication.

  Thank you once again for giving me this opportunity to share with you my creative side.

  I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much I have enjoyed writing it!

  It is with such great support from you that we authors continue to write, presenting you with great stories.

  Have you checked out my other western historical romance books series?

  Click the link below to get started

  *** AMAZON USA ***

  Do you like what you have read?

  I want to hear from you!

  Please do get in touch with me:

  facebook.com/EmiliaFergusonBooks

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Emilia Ferguson is the pen name of an author who writes historical romance with her husband.

  When she is not writing her Medieval Historical Scottish Romance pieces, she enjoys taking long walks with her husband and kids at the nearby beaches.

  It was these long walks where she got inspirations and ideas for her stories. She credits her wonderfully supportive husband John, her great cover designer Ms Melody Simmons and her advance review reviewers for helping her to fine-tune her writing skills and allowing her creativity to explode.

  ~ Emilia

  THE HIGHLANDER’S RUNAWAY

  A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY

  by

  EMILIA FERGUSON

  PROLOGUE

  Estridge Manor, England

  1743

  “It's all for the good of the cause in the end.”

  Claudine nodded. She found that disturbing, but decided to ignore it. “As you say,” she acknowledged.

  The room was quiet a moment, light flowing over the parquet through French windows.

  “And when it's all as it should be...we will have brought new stability to the realm. New prosperity. And isn't that grand, eh? And it all starts here.”

  Claudine nodded again. She looked at her father, searchingly. His pale blue eyes were bright and earnest and sincere. She knew he meant it. The fire crackled in the grate, shedding warm light over the gaunt face before her.

  Nothing means more to him than his cause. That the Stuarts should sit the throne again and end these bitter squabbles with foreign lands our men are dragged into needlessly.

  It was an obsession her father, Lord Estridge, had shared with his brother-in-law, who had relocated from England to Scotland, taking her cousins Marguerite and Henry with him. Now, with French allies and troops rumored to be amassing in Dunkirk, the time was right. Their dream – if such it could be called – could be realized.

  Claudine plucked at her long silk sleeves. She drew in a shaky breath, aiming for calm. Her stomach roiled. “You speak rightly, Father.”

  “I do!”

  Claudine felt sorrow as she gently kissed her father's head and went out into the hallway. She couldn't hate him – she wasn't angry, or even upset. Not really. She just wished that he was a little less...interested in lofty things, and more interested in her brother Reid, and her.

  “There's nothing that will bring that about.”

  She shook her head. Her father had always – more since the departure of her mother to Brighton, for her health – put the Cause ahead of aught else. The risk of being a Jacobite supporter in England was growing greater, though, which was why her father was making plans for her future. In addition, since there was no way of making her father less obsessed, there was also no way that she could escape marrying the man he chose for her.

  Dunstan South isn't that bad. He's quite handsome.

  She bit her lip, reddening brightly at the salacious thought.

  Crossing the empty hallway of Estridge Manor, she paused at the window and looked down into the garden below. Dunstan might not have left yet, she realized.

  She was right.

  There, beside a tall tree, white coat bright in the suns
hine, was Dunstan, eighth earl of Halsfield. Feeling a tingling curiosity, she stood by the window and watched him as he paused there, waiting for his horse.

  He was handsome, with his tall, upright posture, his obvious athleticism. Sunlight shone on his hair, turning its usual sandy color to gold. He was a young man in his prime, and a wealthy, endowed one. She must be mad to feel anything other than excitement at the prospect.

  And I am excited. It's just, well...something.

  She shook her head, impatient with herself. She turned, long white velvet skirt whispering on the stairs behind her. A footstep sounding nearby made her shrink back to the shadow of the recess around the window. A giggle followed.

  “Claudine?” her friend Amelia called on her way up the steps, voice echoing a little. “Where are you?”

  “Amelia,” Claudine smiled, quickly hiding her thoughts. “I'm here. What is it?”

  “Oh! Nothing,” Amelia said, her gentle face softening. Then she grinned, eyes sparking. “Is there some news?”

  Claudine swallowed. She knew her friend had probably guessed her father had called her to talk about her future, and she didn't want to talk. “Well, not really,” she said, sidestepping the matter.

  “Oh!” Amelia shrugged. “Well, then! We have gowns to plan for the ball next month. I want to have sleeves like that dress Joanna Elvering was wearing at the last ball...”

  Claudine nodded, following Amelia up to the next landing. That was one of the main things she liked about Amelia – her quick ability to change direction utterly.

  I suppose I just want to forget about it. Let Father settle this matter and find a way to be happy with his decision.

  She glanced out into the garden again. There was Dunstan – Lord South – heading down the path. She watched him walking, admiring his lithe grace. He looked up at the window and she thought he might have seen her watching. She ducked, cheeks flaming.

  “Claudine?” her friend called from the top of the steps.

  “Coming, Amelia!” Claudine boldly called up. “Let's talk about those sleeves with Mrs. Payne.” She felt a little sorrow, hearing her friend's delighted talk as she planned the dress. She had not the heart to tell her friend the other part of her father's news.

  I won't in all likelihood attend.

  Not because she didn't want to be there, but because she wasn't going to be in the district – or even in the country. Her father, having arranged her betrothal, was sending her to Scotland to stay with Cousin Marguerite.

  She wondered what she would find there at Duncliffe Manor.

  A SURPRISING VISIT

  “Ye reckon it'll be soon, then?”

  Brogan asked it, though he didn't wish to do it. The silence that met him confirmed his thought that it was a stupid question. All the same, he had to know the answer. He was here with the prospect of war close, and a small force of men with him: he had to know. The news drifting up from the coast was worrying – troops were amassing in Dunkirk, and war with the Hanoverians was imminent.

  Opposite him, his host – Douglas, young earl of Duncliffe – cleared his throat. His slender, handsome face wore a frown.

  “I believe so. Yes.”

  Brogan saw Douglas' wife shift beside him, reaching out to lay a protective hand on his wrist. The firelight rippled on her long red hair, left loose around her shoulders. He instantly felt guilty at distressing her like that. He was here at Duncliffe as a visitor, after all – he didn't want to worry his hosts.

  Though I reckon I'm not so much a visitor as ally, should they need one soon.

  He looked down at the table thoughtfully.

  The conflict between supporters of the Hanoverians and those supporting the old Stuart house had been brewing for decades now. It was only now, though, with the involvement of France and the promise of the long-awaited Stuart prince’s return that it seemed something serious would happen.

  And that, Brogan thought wryly, was why the earl of Duncliffe was suddenly so neighborly now. My lands border his, and my armed strength could aid him. But for that, he'd no' talk to me.

  “I think it will be a long time before the conflict moves this far north,” Douglas was saying, reassuringly. Beside him, Marguerite nodded.

  “I pray so, Douglas,” she agreed. “I am glad we will keep out of it.”

  “Yes. We will. Unless it comes to us.”

  Brogan nodded. The earl of Duncliffe was well-known for his policy of remaining aloof from the conflict. Neither overtly Jacobite in his views, nor Hanoverian, he was a friend of anyone who was moderate. Brogan was likewise moderate in his views.

  I'll stay out of a fight unless someone picks one with me.

  “You will bring your men down this far?” Marguerite asked.

  Brogan blinked, surprised that she would ask him so pointedly. He nodded. “Aye, milady. I'd bring them to this place where we can stave off attacks on good terrain. We're good allies.”

  “Yes,” Douglas nodded. “Here we can secure the road north. It's best if we work together.”

  “Aye.” Brogan reached for his tankard of ale. He sipped some and considered that statement. His men were well-trained, and he had more of them than Duncliffe did – a fact that he knew had led to his being invited here. He was fairly sure people like Douglas and Marguerite would pay little attention to a backward Highland lairdling were it not for the strategic advantage.

  Not that they made him feel any less than welcome – it was something subtle in the way they glanced at him, the way they talked together, that made him think they were uncomfortable with his rougher ways.

  Och, I'm a proper Highlander – they've been down here for so long they're half-Lowland stock themselves.

  He meant no disrespect – it was simply that they lived life differently than him. Neither he nor they were right, just different. That meant they felt uncomfortable sharing a table with him, just as he felt uncomfortable in their more-refined life.

  “Milady?” A maid came in, frowning.

  Marguerite nodded. “Yes? Is it Alexandra's bedtime?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Marguerite nodded. “Excuse me,” she said politely, standing. “I need to attend to my daughter.”

  “Of course,” Brogan nodded. He had met little Alexandra once – a sweet child of perhaps two years old. He wouldn't wish to keep her mother from her.

  Marguerite left them with a rustle of silk skirts. He sat and regarded his host somewhat awkwardly, looking down at the dark wood table, lit by flame-light from the many candles.

  “You agree to what we suggest?” Douglas asked after a moment, surprising him.

  Brogan met the dark gaze opposite. He nodded. “Yes. I agree.”

  “Good.”

  They sat quietly after that, neither wishing to break the silence. Brogan regarded his host over the rim of his cup. Douglas was perhaps five years his junior, placing him in his early twenties. He liked the fellow – he seemed older than his age, with a grave maturity. However, he was smooth-skinned and his dark hair was lustrous, marking him as younger than Brogan, who had noticed the start of crows' feet beside his eyes, and strands of silver here and there in the dark red hair.

  Och, we none of us get younger.

  It was a bothersome thought. He was almost thirty, and his lands – should he be killed in this defense of the Stuart right to rule – would be left unclaimed. His uncle, Arnott McRae, would certainly claim them, but it was his duty to provide his father's land with heirs.

  His hopes of finding love long ago dashed, he felt he had to settle with an amicable solution. That would have to be good enough for him.

  A soft footfall on the parquet floor indicated Marguerite’s return. He nodded to her pleasantly.

  “She's sleeping?” Douglas asked, his eyes full of fondness for his wife.

  “She is in bed,” Marguerite said with a smile. “I don't think she'll sleep for a while yet – you know how curious she is.”

  “Yes,” Douglas agreed. “A
nd she seems to know we have guests.”

  “Yes,” Marguerite said, with a fond grin at Brogan. “She seems to like you.”

  Brogan chuckled. “She's a grand wee lass.”

  Marguerite smiled, pleased.

  A tiny lass of two years, with a rich auburn fuzz of hair and big, dark eyes that watched everything, she was charming.

  Makes a man wish he had bairns of his own.

  It was an odd feeling and he blinked, shaking his head to relieve it of his odd notions. He had loved and lost and sworn to keep his heart to himself from now on. It was safer that way.

  Safer and sensible, and right, no matter how hard it seems.

  “You will stay until the end of the week, at least?” Douglas asked.

  “I hope to, aye,” Brogan nodded. “I thank ye for the offer. I'd no' like to be caught out in that snow when it comes. It's going to be a hard winter.”

  “I believe so,” Marguerite nodded.

  “Well, you're very welcome here,” Douglas reassured. “Stay however long you need. I know this weather can be treacherous, and we'd rather you didn't travel in it before it's safe to do so.”