The Highlander’s Healer (Blood of Duncliffe Series) Read online

  The Highlander's Healer

  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 HEALER

  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:

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  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 HEALER

  A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY

  by

  EMILIA FERGUSON

  PROLOGUE

  Scottish Highlands,

  March 1745

  “I don't know if that's a good idea.”

  Prudence felt a stab of surprise at Lady Claudine’s words, and a slight defiance. “It might be a good idea,” she said carefully.

  The last thing she wanted to do was offend Lady Claudine, of course, but she had to stand up for her choice.

  Opposite her, Lady Claudine smiled warmly. “Of course it should be possible,” she said slowly. “You must forgive me, Prudence...my mind is all with my unborn child.”

  “I know, milady,” Prudence said softly, then blushed. “I mean, Lady Claudine. I can't get used to it!”

  Claudine grinned. “Well, you shall just have to,” she teased. “You're a lady of means now.”

  Prudence looked down at the table in the elegant parlor where they sat. Her life had changed radically in the last few months, more so than she could ever have imagined. She had come here to the Scottish Highlands as a maid to Lady Claudine. Now, a mere six months later, her mistress Lady Claudine was wed to Laird McRae, and Prudence, her loyal maid, was rewarded with her own land in thanks to the help she gave them. Her own cottage.

  Newhurst Place.

  Prudence grinned at her own presumptuous naming of the place. It did sound rather grand! Moreover, why should she not name it after herself? It was, after all, her place.

  It barely seems possible.

  Prudence, the fifth child of a poor farmer, had never imagined owning her own home. She had, in fact, never owned anything besides her own clothes – a worsted dress for winter and a linen one for summer. The gift of a home barely seemed possible still, in more ways than one. It was that which they were discussing now: Prudence's new income. Released from her duties as a lady's maid, she was now a landowner and could earn money for herself. However, how could she do that as anything other than a servant? She had, as she saw it, two options: spin wool, or plant a garden.

  “I do want a garden,” Prudence said slowly. That was what Lady Claudine had said wasn't possible.

  Claudine put her head on one side, considering. “Well, I don't know anything about it, dearest,” she said affectionately, in a tone that nonetheless was challenging.

  Prudence again felt her own ideas belittled. “Well, I suppose carding wool is more lucrative,” she allowed slowly. She knew her mistress wanted her to choose that route.

  “It's not just that,” Claudine said quickly. “It's reliable! I don't believe the soil here is all that good no matter what Brogan tells me...what does a laird know of farming anyway?” She chuckled affectionately. “And I would ha
te to think of you starving in the winter, or even having a bad year, my friend. Wool is reliable.”

  “I suppose,” Prudence said slowly. She looked into her tea.

  Behind them, the fire crackled and it should have been cozy, though she felt a dampening of her spirits. She had been excited about her garden.

  It had been planned to be like her grandma's had been – a place to grow herbs for the making of salves and poultices. She recalled, suddenly – vividly – her grandma teaching her to make decoctions, and her heart ached.

  I would have liked to do that.

  “Now,” Claudine continued, “I think we have all sorts of spare equipment here in the manse you will need for wool-working. But you shall have to come up to the attic and see what you can find.”

  “Thanks, milady.” Prudence felt her cheeks lift in a grin, but it lacked some conviction. She felt a little sad. Just that morning, she had been planning what to grow.

  “I am sure we have...Oh! Hello Mrs. McLeary. What's the message?”

  “The McRae is just back from the ride, milady.”

  Claudine grinned at Prudence. “The McRae! I do love it when they say that,” she said. “I'll never get used to it. It seems a little too grand for our Brogan, doesn't it?”

  Prudence grinned, whole-heartedly this time. She had met her erstwhile employer's husband six months ago, and liked him a great deal. It did feel odd to hear him referred to as “the” McRae, however, and to see the absolute awe with which his cottagers held him.

  I suppose if he wants me to card wool, I might as well. Everyone here does what he tells them to do. Except Lady Claudine.

  With that last argument against her dream garden, Prudence sighed. “Well, milady,” she said slowly. “I suppose I should go back home and take on the challenge.”

  A thought occurred to her then, one that she hesitated to share now. Only a week ago, she had seen – or thought she saw – men lurking in the woods near to her cottage. Soldiers. She had felt a danger in their presence, though she could not have said exactly why. It was something underhanded about them, as if they’d deliberately tried to escape any notice.

  I'm probably just being fanciful.

  At length, she cleared her throat. “Milady?” she paused. “I saw...soldiers in the woods. Or what I think were soldiers. Can't be sure. They were too far away.”

  “Oh?” Claudine frowned, a line appearing on her porcelain-skinned brow. “I am glad you told me. Brogan will wish to know. I think we live in such uncertain times...”

  Prudence shook her head, setting her pale locks flying. “No, milady! Please don't disturb him...it's just my silliness. I don't know for certain I even saw them out there.”

  “It's not silly,” Claudine assured. “Very well. We shall wait until you see them again. But let me know the first glance you get! One cannot be too careful.”

  “No, milady,” Prudence agreed. She wondered what manner of wild men lurked out there.

  IN THE WOODS

  “Damn it, you lot! Are you trying to get us all spotted?”

  Lord Alexander, heir to the earldom of Tillmore, twisted in his saddle, the better to reprimand his men. Jenkins, one of those closest, spat into the leaves.

  “Ain't our fault, sir. Randell's hit.”

  “A pox on him,” Alexander muttered. “I know he is. So we must all wait here on the hilltop, and risk our mission, because Randell's been shot?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “Reckon so, sir.”

  Alexander couldn't think of anything to say, so he said nothing. Impatient, he twisted in the saddle and looked back along the path.

  Rain fell, a thin drizzle, slanting from the wind and soaking his auburn hair. He shook his head and watched his men, and wished, once again, that he had been put in charge of the earlier group to leave.

  That lot was, at least, real soldiers.

  He looked back down the line he led, trying to ignore the growing impatience within him. As the only military-trained man in this platoon, he led a group of farmers and crofters, people who had wielded hoes and farm-implements, but never used a sword. Much less a rifle. His only hope was that when they reached the lines, they would be at the back and out of the worst fighting.

  And we'll be lucky to get there before the battle.

  He sighed and switched his attention back to Jenkins. “You think we can get off this hill sometime soon?” he asked, with acid in his voice.

  Jenkins shrugged again, placidly. “Reckon so, sir,” he said again. “Hey! You lot?”

  “Aye?” someone – Leats, probably – shouted back.

  “You coming along this way?”

  “He's on the horse again,” Leats yelled back.

  Alexander rolled his eyes. “Marvelous,” he said. “So. What's the prognosis?”

  “Eh, sir?”

  “Can we move now? Faster than a snail in autumn's chill?”

  Jenkins shrugged again. “We can try, sir.”

  “Splendid. Now, let's get moving!”

  “Aye, sir!” Leats and several others chorused back.

  Alexander, feeling his temper settle for the moment, at least, as he turned and led the group onward to the foot of the hill.

  Drawing his cloak tighter around him, Alexander considered the routes ahead, and which would be faster to follow. Damn this wind! As it was, they'd do best to reach shelter fast. The rain and chill were far too much for them.

  He needed to take his party of men to Falkirk.

  That was what his senior officer had told him. General Murray, the leader of the Jacobite army, was besieging the castle at Falkirk, and he needed all the men from the Highlands to help.

  Which was, Alexander reflected bitterly, why he was leading a group of cottagers down the hill in a chill rainstorm toward the marshy land near Falkirk.

  As they rode down south – some of his men who could ride rode, while the rest walked – he winced. Randell was clearly in pain. He could hear the labored breathing from far away.

  “I don't think he'll survive this.”

  He sighed. He didn't want to think the worst, and he wasn't without compassion for the man. The wound he had sustained – a shot-wound high in the chest, shattering the collarbone, was extremely painful, but didn't need to be fatal. All the same, with the ride and the cold and the lack of supplies, it would either tear further, cutting into a blood-vessel, or fester and carry away the fellow with fever a few nights hence. Alexander, a seasoned soldier, had seen such things happen recently.

  He shook his head. He should have told the men to leave the fellow. Nevertheless, they’d insisted they would not, and he had not the heart to order otherwise.

  At this point, they'd likely as not have shot me. And I wouldn't blame them.

  Unreasonable commanders were known to end up mysteriously shot from the back while leading a charge in battle.

  Alexander, six and twenty years old, had been fighting for eight of those years and knew a lot about it. He sniffed and looked around again at his troops, red hair whipping against a narrow jaw. He was a seasoned fighter. All the same, he had his doubts about his abilities with these men.

  I can count on ten of them to do something. The rest? Not really.

  All he could do was lead them into battle and pray they didn't die.

  Which wouldn’t, he reflected glumly, help the cause.

  The cause.

  He sighed, feeling the wind lift the cloak of Lachlann tartan he wore round his shoulders. He had been raised on stories of what would happen when, finally, the King from across the Water would return from France to Scotland, and everything would be made well again. They would overthrow these pretenders from Hanover, Scotland would regain her majesty and they could all live more freely.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?” he snapped, looking down at the unshakable Jenkins. The fellow looked up with a mournful expression in his eyes.

  “Sir, Randell isn't going to make it.”

  “I also think that,” Alexand
er said gently. He knew the men had bonded during their recent training. He understood, perhaps more than any of them might have guessed, the pain of losing a comrade. However, he had a mission to complete. Randell was a challenge. He was about to clear his throat to suggest one of them stayed here with Randell when someone interrupted.

  “Sir!” Leats called, riding beside Randell, who the men had strapped to his own horse. “Look there!”

  “Yes!” Jenkins said excitedly. “In the valley. Can you see houses?”

  Alexander bit back his retort. “Houses. Wonderful. Who do you think is in them?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “Folks, sir.”

  “Quite so. Folk who will talk loosely and garrulously to anyone who happens to pay them enough or threaten them sufficiently. All they have to do is point the gun at the local headman, ask: ‘did you see any soldiers come this way’, and the entirety of the Hanoverian Army is upon us. Do you see?”

  “Um, hadnae thought about it that way afore, sir.”