My Highland Prisoner: A Highlander Erotic Romance

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental
 

My Highland Prisoner copyright @ 2014 by Kate Lawrence.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

MY HIGHLAND PRISONER

“I brought ye some tea, lass
,” Glenda announced with faux cheer, as she shuffled into Ailsa’s bedchamber, balancing a tray of hot tea and sweet biscuits on her ample hips. The motherly nursemaid moved quickly, but quietly, over to the desk where Ailsa was bent over. She set her load down and said, “Ye should drink it before it gets cold. It may help take the cold from yer bones.”

Ailsa looked up from the papers she’d been pouring through to the kind, older woman. She was hovering over her like a mother Lapwing over her newborn chicks, but she had always been that way. From the moment Ailsa was born on a warm spring morning on Ostara, Glenda had held her in her arms, wrapped her in cloth, and let her suckle at her teat.

It was the only motherly comfort Ailsa knew, since her own mother died on that same morning, choosing to sacrifice her own life for the life of her wee bairn. At least that was what everyone told Ailsa.

“I will, Glenda. Thank ye.”

Ailsa heard the fatigue in her own voice and the strain those few words placed on her; but, it could not be helped. As much as Glenda had cared for her as a child, Ailsa knew it was high time to return the favor, whether she wanted to or not. The laird of Castle Dunn, her kind and wonderful father, had been shackled and thrown into Invavary, the prison where killers, thieves, and crooks were sent. Ailsa’s father was none of those things. He was a good man, one who hadn't deserved to be sentenced to that horrible place. Death, Ailsa knew, would have been better.

Her father had been sent to jail for fraud charges, claiming to be someone he was not and possess things that he did not have. She knew that it was not the laird’s fault. After Evanna died, while giving birth to Ailsa’s twin half-brothers, her father had changed. Sadness had crept into his heart and was only assuaged by mulled wine and a tavern wench’s bed.

Ailsa’s hands shook, as she turned away from Glenda and to the pot of tea on the table beside her. “Ye can leave, Glenda. I will no’ be needing ye again this night.”

“Pleasant dreams, lass.” The servant bobbed a quick curtsy before throwing the young woman a concerned glance and disappearing through the door where she’d entered.

Tears snaked down Ailsa’s cheeks, but she dashed them away angrily. She’d cried for nearly a sennight when they’d taken her father away nearly a year ago. Ailsa refused to cry for him again, especially not with the situation he’d left his lands in.

Ailsa loved her father, but bitterness and anger had seeped into her bones. As the months passed, she watched their food grow sparse, the crops rot in the fields, and the villagers pledge their allegiance to another laird.

Forcing her shaking hands to calm, Ailsa gripped the brown clay pot and poured the steaming liquid into her tea cup. Leaves danced at the top of her cup, chasing an invisible master. She sighed deeply before setting the pot down and wrapping her hands around the heated clay cup.

Carefully, she drew the cup up to her lips, blowing on the surface to cool the liquid. Her eyes slowly traveled around her sparse bedroom, a thing she’d done often these days. Chipped, cold stone stood out where was there had once been thick tapestries. Slick, unpolished stone stretched the length of the room, chilling Ailsa’s toes in her soft leather slippers.

Her room had once been one of the warmest in the keep. It always boasted a roaring fire and was usually lit all around with soapy candles. Bales of lavender used to hang from the rafters above, while sheep and goat pelts graced her bed and the floor. Those small luxuries were now gone, since they were either sold or traded for coin or food.

Very few things remained from what once filled her room. She still had an ancient chest at the foot of her bed with three simple dresses tucked inside. There was a four-poster bed stuffed with straw and covered with a deer and sheep skin for warmth. Beside the bed, there was a side table. Finally, there was the desk and chair set that Ailsa currently occupied.

Almost none of the things in her room actually belonged to her. The chest was her mother’s, as were the dresses inside. The bed had been part of the dowry gift that Evanna’s father had given the laird of Dunn. Even the desk and chair didn’t really belong to her. Everything was borrowed in one way or another and there was nothing that Ailsa could claim as her own. If she wasn’t careful, nothing in the castle, not even the castle itself, would be hers or her brothers’ to claim.

Taking a sip of her now tepid tea, Ailsa closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of cherries and chamomile. A smile curved across Ailsa’s lips, as happy memories came flooding back to her. She could remember a time in the distant past when her father and a heavily pregnant Evanna would sit with her in the great room and warm themselves in front of the fire. Her father would tell stories of great, fearsome warriors. A tiny Ailsa would lay down in front of a roaring fire that smelled of fragrant peat, her legs swinging in the air, as the action in the story grew. Her hands would cup her jaw and her wide, hazel eyes would stare up at her father, like he was a god among men.

And to her, he had been.

But, Ailsa thought as she finished her tea and set it down gently on the tray, history has a way of making good men evil and bad men good. History either lifts one’s spirits or crushes them completely, as they look on from the bleak present. Running her hands through her hair, Ailsa turned away from her negative thoughts and resumed her desk work.

***

“Didna ye hear me! Yer not welcome here!”

Glenda’s screaming voice woke Ailsa up with a jolt, sending her chair tilting back precariously. Her arms flailed out, as she tried to find the cold, stone floor with her bare feet. It was a terrifying second, as she wondered if she would tilt back and fall. At last, the chair righted itself.

Ailsa breathed a sigh of relief, as another shriek issued from Glenda. Cursing softly under her breath, then rolling her eyes and berating herself for cursing, Ailsa stood up from the chair and reached for her
Sgian Dubh
. She tucked it into the band of her cotton skirt, hiding it under her shirt. A second later, she was out the door and racing down the stairs.

As she came to the end of the staircase, the sounds of doors opening and worried mumblings greeted her ears. Ailsa ignored them, as she turned and raced to the great room. She quickly pushed a stole in front of the unlit fireplace and reached up for the broad sword hanging above the mantle.

It had been her father’s sword, a gift from a neighboring clan whom he had fought alongside. It was also the only weapon, aside from her dagger, that Ailsa hadn’t sold or traded. She sent up a silent prayer, as she heaved the sword down. Then, she lifted it up and balanced it against her shoulder.

The sword was almost too heavy for her. Ailsa was sure she couldn’t carry it for more than a few seconds before her arms would start to shake, but it was her only protection. While she wasn’t sure she could properly wield it like a warrior, she was more than confident she could run through whoever was at the door with it.

“Back! Back, I say!” Glenda spat a slew of Gaelic curses at the intruder, as Ailsa came up behind her. She lifted the sword off her shoulder and raised it at the door.

“Step aside, Glenda,” Ailsa hissed at the woman's back.

The servant turned around, anger and fear warring in her green eyes. After another second of hesitation, Glenda stepped aside. Then, Ailsa took a few steps forward with sword still raised. As she did so, she took a long look at their uninvited guest.

Her knees buckled and butterflies swarmed her middle. Emotions she couldn’t understand hit her, as a warm heat settled low in her stomach. The man before her looked weather-beaten and worn. His clothes were tattered around his muscular frame and there were large holes in the leather boots he wore. Rain fell off his too long hair and sluiced off his tanned skin.

Ailsa sucked in a breath when the man raised his head, as his intelligent, brown eyes met hers through curly, matted, sand-colored hair. The impact from his eyes was dangerous. Ailsa’s arms began to shake, though she wasn't sure if that was from the impact of his eyes or the broad sword she strived to keep up.

“Hello, lass,” the stranger said in a thick accent. The cultured notes when he spoke reminded her of a warm fire on a stormy night or of peace in the middle of chaos.

She heard something hard and metal hit the floor. It took her a moment to realize that the sword slipped completely from her grip and landed on the floor, making a thunderous sound that caused her to jump.

Whatever spell the stranger had on her was broken. Ailsa clamored to grab the sword and lift it again, but the thing was far too heavy to hold a second time. The best she could do was hold it against her side.

“Who are ye, and what are ye doing at Castle Dunn?” Ailsa demanded in her most authoritative voice.

The scurrying of feet and hushed whispers behind her, let her know that the entire house was now awake. Plus, most, if not all, its residents were crowded behind her.

“Yer father sent me.”

Ailsa snorted before she could catch the unladylike sound. Her father had always chastised her, wanting her to be more womanly and to act like others of her sex. Gently bred ladies did not curse, did not snort, and, most certainly, did not brandish swords at suspected intruders. But, her father was no longer around to chastise her on her behavior or lecture her on what women could and could not do.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Ailsa glared at the haggard man. “Nay, ye lie. My father is in irons. He could no’ send a whisper on the wind much less a man.”

The pitter-patter of little feet superseded her brothers’ arrival, as they pushed at her skirts to see the man at the door. Ailsa turned and shot a meaningful look at Glenda, as she tried to disentangle her little brothers from her skirts.

“But he said Da sent him!” Erroll cried, as Glenda banded an arm under the seven-year old and hauled him off. At the same time, she had a claw-like vise around the arm of his twin brother, Bryson, who was staring over his shoulder at the wet, dirty-looking highlander.

“Och, wee Erroll and Bryson. Yer father told me much about them, Ailsa.”

Ailsa snapped her head back to the man. She narrowed her eyes even further, as her slender brows knitted together in frustration. “How do ye know our names?”

“I told ye. Yer father sent me,” the man said gruffly, as he reached into the bag he’d flung over his shoulder. Ailsa mentally chastised herself for not seeing the bag before. For all she knew, the stranger could have had a dagger or something worse in the sack.

Instead of a weapon, the man pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and passed it to her. For a brief second, Ailsa felt bad about keeping the man waiting outside the walls of her home in the wet and cold, especially since he was barely wearing any clothes. Still, another part of her knew that kindness and blind trust came at a terrible price. She’d trusted her father and now their family could barely afford to keep the home that had been in their family for generations. It was now a home that might never again have a laird with the last name Dunn.

Ailsa was quick to take the missive and open it. The words were scribbled in her father’s writing, but Ailsa knew that they were not written in ink. Fear clawed up her throat, but she forced it down and began to read the letter.

Dearest daughter,

I know ye can no’ forgive me, and I will no’ ask ye to. I have sent Finlay, a loyal and trustworthy man to help ye with the land. He is a good and strong worker, and will do ye good.

I knew it has been hard, daughter, but let him help. He is a trusted friend who will help ye in my stead. Be strong, Ailsa, for my sons and for our people. Be strong, be faithful.

-Laird Dunn

Tears sprung to Ailsa’s eyes, but she dashed them away. The stranger wasn’t lying. Of course, anyone could have written the note; but, only her father would have told her to be strong. Those were the last words he had said to her before he’d been carted off to Invavary and those were the last words in his letter.

Wrapping her fist tightly around it, Ailsa clutched the paper to her chest and stared up into clear, brown eyes. If her father trusted him, it did not matter what had happened before, who he’d been, and how he’d come to Castle Dunn. All that mattered was that he was here now.