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The Reluctant Highlander

A Highland Romance

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

The North Inch of Perth, 25 June 1431

The night had been nearly starless before the clouds moved on.

Now, a pale golden glow edged distant hills to the east, which told twenty-three-year-old Sir Àdham MacFinlagh, riding south on the west bank of the river Tay, that the moon — full tonight — was rising.

Sir Àdham's night vision was excellent, and his shaggy black-and-white dog, Sirius, ranging ahead on the undulating, shrublined path, would alert him to any disturbing movement, scent, or noise nearby.

The King's annual Parliament was meeting in the royal burgh of St. John's Town of Perth, so the road from Blair Castle, where he had spent the previous night, was safe enough to travel even at that late hour. Nevertheless, as Àdham neared the town, he welcomed the increasing moonlight.

Starlight had already revealed black heights of the town wall a half mile ahead, beyond a rise in the landscape. He could even make out the tall, pointed spire of what he suspected was the Kirk of St. John the Baptist, for whom the town was named. Then, the bridge crossing from the village of Bridgend to St. John's Town's High Street gate came into view.

At that hour, even the broad expanse of water to his left had hushed, looking black and bottomless as it flowed toward the Firth of Tay and the sea. He knew the Tay was a powerful river, but now, it seemed calm and contained, reminding him that sea tides influenced its current. It was low, too, flowing some ten feet below its banks. So the tide was also low but on the turn. The breeze wafting toward him from across the water stirred no more than an occasional ripple.

His path lay between the river and a wide field to his right that, despite big patches of shrubbery and scattered trees, he believed was the infamous North Inch of Perth. The current King's father, Robert III, had ordered a trial by combat there between the two great Highland confederations, Clan Chattan and the Camerons.

The full result of that great clan battle depended on who told the tale, and Àdham knew little more than that the two sides had had to provide thirty champions each and that the Camerons had lost all but one of theirs. It had happened before his birth, and although a truce had resulted, no one on either side had been eager to discuss the battle with him.

All was quiet on the Inch, too, unnaturally so. Not even a night bird's call.

His instinctive wariness of new places, augmented by years as a warrior, stirred strong then, as did his Highlander's mistrust of any town's dark environs.

His mount was tired after a long day's ride, and enough of the moon peeked above the hills to light the river and its surrounding landscape, so he dismounted to lead the horse. Absently shifting stray hairs of his beard from his mouth with a finger of his free hand and smoothing them, he scanned the nearby field.

He had not visited St. John's Town before, but his foster grandfather had explained exactly how he could find their clansmen by following the High Street into the town from its north gate.

He could see the top parts now of a massive dark tower rising above the end of the town wall near the riverbank. Moonlight also revealed that the rise ahead was a low, rocky hillock extending into the water.

A short distance ahead, to his right, orange light revealed two high windows of an otherwise shadowed building inside a wall of its own. Torch-glow suggested that its east-facing wall had a gateway, but the rise hid all save its twin towers.

Rustling shrubbery near the field's center sharpened the wariness awakened by its hitherto unnatural silence. His skin prickled, too, making him wonder if someone watched him from the Inch or from one of those lighted windows.

The dog's ears rose at the rustling sound, but when they relaxed almost immediately, Àdham relaxed, too, deciding that he had let his imagination turn a wakeful badger or fox seeking its supper into a bairn's boggart.

"Whisst now, ye dafty!" the older of the two watchers hissed to the one creeping toward him with what the fool apparently mistook for extreme stealth. "'Tis like a herd o' kine, ye be, a-pushing through them shrubs!"

"Whisst yourself!" his cousin hissed back. "Some'un's coming, Hew. A chap on horseback with a dog, and a great sword on his back. D'ye see our quarry yet?"

"Nae," Hew whispered. "Three men walked over from the town, though, and I saw one go into yon monastery. From here, I couldna be sure if them others went wi' him or stayed outside. I'm thinking we may ha' tae wait till they leave, though."

"Who were they?"

"Sakes, how would I know? But the one as went inside, by his bearing, were a nobleman sure."

"Deevil's curse on all three o' them. We canna bide here much longer! I did think this would be the night. But what if that dog senses us?"

"It'll hear nowt if ye say nowt," Hew muttered savagely. "It canna smell us, Dae, because wi' this breeze a-blowin' at us from yon river, the dog be upwind of us. This may be our chance tae win freedom for Alexander. So just hush your gob."

Instead, his cousin Dae hissed, "Look now, Hew. Some'un's a-hieing down tae the river from yon hedged garden!"

Àdham had seen no sign yet of his squire and the two other lads who followed him more slowly on foot, leading sturdy Highland garrons laden with bundles of the extra clothing and gear that they might need in town.

His sense of watchers had vanished when Sirius remained undisturbed, and he had heard no more himself beyond leaves hushing in the gentle breeze.

Increasing moonlight now turned the river into a wide silver-gilt ribbon. He began watching his steps as the path steepened and grew more rugged. But when he reached the top, he beheld a sight so unexpected that it stopped him in his tracks.

The dog stopped, too, and glanced at him uncertainly. Behind him, the horse whuffled, its sound no more than the fluttering wings of a nervous grouse.

Halfway down the rough slope, watching the moon, transfixed and unaware of her audience, stood a slender figure in a thin white nightdress or smock. The garment's long sleeves and gathered neckline hid most of her. But it stopped at her knees, revealing bare calves, ankles, and small feet below.

Àdham's breath caught in his throat, although anyone watching — had there been such a watcher — would have noted no change in his expression because he had habitually concealed his feelings since childhood. Emotions, after all, were private, not for sharing in the world of men that he customarily inhabited.

The lass, who looked only fifteen or sixteen, stood as still as sculpted marble, as if she focused every ounce of her being moonward.

Dropping the reins, hoping the horse would stay put, as the Blair Castle man who had provided it that morning had promised, Àdham stood still, too, unwilling to break whatever spell the moon goddess or unknown river nymph had cast on her.

Her dark hair, gilded by moonlight, fell past her hips in soft, shimmering waves. The white garment revealed little more than the slenderness of her figure, although his experienced eye detected the soft outline of a generous bosom.

As he watched, he heard only the murmuring river. Then, an owl hooted softly in the distance and Sirius made a petulant sound as if questioning his master's stillness or his judgment.

Àdham's wariness stirred again, but the lass did not react. Her gaze remained fixed, eastward, across the river on the rising moon.

To be sure, the moon, looking larger than life, was a splendid sight. More than half of it showed now above the dark mass of hills to the east. It seemed to have come nearer and grown bigger since the night before. Were he a fanciful man — which, decidedly, he was not — he might have called it magical.

Movement drew his gaze back to the lass as she raised her arms out from her sides. Then, to his amazement, she continued to hold them so as she stepped down into the water. She moved slowly and with more grace than one might expect on such a steep, uneven slope. Keeping her balance with outstretched arms, she eased forward until the flowing water reached her knees, her thighs, and then her hips.

Àdham shivered, watching her. Although the late-spring air was temperate, the hour was nearly midnight. The water had to be much colder than the air.

Evidently, though, its chill did not deter her. She took another step, then leaned forward and glided into the water, stroking gently from the shore, her head up, her hair spreading behind her on the water's surface. Still gazing at the moon, she let the current carry her southward, away from him, toward the town and the sea. Then, in an eddying swirl, she vanished beneath the sparkling dark surface.

He watched expectantly, but she did not come up. Suddenly fearful, he dashed after her. Heedless of rocks, the uneven terrain, and other such minor obstacles, he cast off his baldric, belt, and heavy wool plaid as he ran.

Lady Fiona Ormiston savored the rare sense of freedom she felt deep beneath the surface, as her arms swept her forward and her legs kicked hard against the Tay's strong current, heading back the way she had come. She was smugly pleased that she could hold her breath long enough now to count nearly to two hundred.

She knew that someone had been nearby, for her senses, especially on such moonlit ventures as this one, remained keenly attuned to her surroundings, and as she had waded into the water, she'd heard barely audible sounds of approach on the path northward and had given thanks that she wore her least revealing shift.

Peripherally, just before submerging, she had glimpsed a large, apparently cloaked figure cresting the rise and decided it must be one of the friars or a guard who, despite her caution, had seen her push through the monastery's garden hedge and followed her. Such a man might watch her, even report her presence to others, but he would not harm her. She hoped whoever it was would be kind enough to return from whence he came without disturbing her or telling anyone else at the monastery that she had come down to the river.

In any event, although it was unusual to see anyone on that path at so late an hour, she would be safe enough in the water even if he was a late-night traveler.

A niggling discomfort stirred then at the intrusive memory of her first secret moonlight swim, years before at her home, Ormiston Mains, which was nearly four days' distant from St. John's Town. That night, she had emerged naked from the Teviot to find Davy, the youngest of her brothers, waiting on the riverbank. Eight years older, then sixteen, Davy had disapproved of her nudity and scolded her in that maddeningly calm but cutting manner he had.

Emboldened by her successful escape from Ormiston House and the bracing swim, she had dared to inform him that she liked to swim by moonlight.

When he'd smacked her bare backside hard and warned her to behave, she had demanded to know why she should not swim — having done so for two whole years, since she was six — especially late at night when everyone else was asleep.

His reply was that he had been awake, so others might be as well. When she had tried to argue that now obviously logical point by insisting that she'd have seen anyone else before she went into the water, Davy had ended the argument by tossing her back in the river. By the time she swam out again, he'd collected her cloak from the damp grass and held it ready to wrap around her.

She smiled at that memory, because Davy was her favorite brother and lived only a day's journey now from their childhood home. Also, despite his displeasure with her that night, Davy had not betrayed her to their father.

That thought barely entered her mind before an unexpected surge in the water behind her startled her so that she almost gasped. Certain that someone was now in the river with her, she surfaced to see if it was the man from the path.

He faced away from her, snapping his head frantically back and forth in an obvious search of the silent water downstream. Other than his unfashionably long and visibly tangled dark hair, only his arms, moving on the surface, and his broad shoulders — oddly golden in the moonlight — rose above the water.

Aware now that he likely feared the river had swept her away, she used the same sweeping strokes she employed underwater to swim swiftly and silently back toward shore, moving perforce with the current, but diagonally, so the water would not carry her right to him, and with her head well up to keep an eye on him.

When she could touch bottom with her toes, using her arms and hands to steady herself, she said just loudly enough for him to hear her, "I'm over here."

He turned toward her, his movements powerful yet unhurried, revealing that, as she had suspected, he was a skillful swimmer, too. She had therefore been wise not to try to swim away from him against the current. Nor could she have scrambled back up the steep slope and run away without drawing his attention.

Although only her head was above the water, he saw her straightaway and snapped, "What the dev —?"

When he fell silent rather than finish the likely curse, she said warily, "Why did you jump in? Did you fear the river had swept me away?"

He did not reply. Moonlight lit his face, revealing a prominent, even beaklike nose, as well as dark and deep-set eyes with a gaze both penetrating and piercingly intense, as if he would peer right through her skull to examine her thoughts.

His dark beard was thick and as unruly as his hair. He pushed a few long, wet strands of hair away from his face and took a stroke toward her.

Hastily, she said, "Pray, sir, just swim ashore. I do not need any help, for I learned to swim before I could walk. Also, the firth's tide is on the turn, so the current is not as strong now as it is at other hours."

He stopped where he was and remained so steady that she knew he must be touching bottom and was strong enough to disregard the remaining current.

"Does anyone else know you are swimming here?" he asked. His voice was deep and so vibrant that it seemed to hum through her, strumming unusually pleasant chords in her body and instilling an unexpected calmness there, as well.

Those feelings did naught to help her identify him, though, nor did she trust her own calm. Doubtless, he was good with animals. But she was no dumb beast.

She had also detected an odd, vaguely familiar accent. In fact, there was something oddly familiar about him, although she knew they had not met before.

As for his question, she was uncertain of what to say.

He was certainly at home in the water. His shoulders were broad and muscular under what was evidently saffron-dyed cloth. She knew she could not outswim him, and she certainly could not outrun him even if she could manage to scramble up the slope to the riverbank before he caught her.

Such thoughts made her aware again of how vulnerable she was, and he was closer now, making her wish that he had been one of the friars or a guard.

"Are you going to answer my question?" he asked her.

"'Tis the least you can do after pretending to drown."

"Sakes, I just swam underwater. Did you truly think I was drowning?"

"I thought you might be trying to drown."

"So you jumped in to save me?"

"This water is cold, and I've had a long day," he said. "Also, you have not answered my question, making me sure that you did slip away without permission."

She could hardly say that she had had permission, because she had told no one any more than that she meant to walk in the garden to enjoy the moonlight.

Although she could climb up the slope to the riverbank from where she was, she knew that her shift would reveal too much as she did and that the air would now feel colder than the water did. So she stayed where she was, watching him, as she said, "I merely came out to enjoy the moonlight and swim in a well-guarded stretch of the river. And you interrupted my solitude. I am not cold, and I do not mean to return yet. But I am perfectly safe. If I whistle or scream, men will come."

"Then whistle," he said lightly.

Fiona grimaced, wishing the irritating man would just go away.

The expression on her face stirred Àdham's sense of humor, although he hoped he had concealed it. Clearly, she did not want to whistle and likely would not scream either, and he did not blame her. She would not want to draw such attention. Her air of confidence and gentle speech told him she was wellborn.

But if her people let her think she could safely sneak out at such an hour, they were fools. He had seen no guards. Doubtless, her father owned a house in town or had taken one there for the duration of the King's Parliament, although his foster grandfather had said naught of any nobleman's residence near the north gate.

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Excerpted from The Reluctant Highlander by Amanda Scott. Copyright © 2017 Lynne Scott-Drennan. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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