Highlander's Hidden Destiny: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Read online

  Highlander's Hidden Destiny

  A Historical Scottish Romance Novel

  Maddie MacKenna

  Edited by

  Robin Spencer

  Contents

  A Gift from the Highlands

  Scottish Brogue Glossary

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Highlander’s Untamed Bride

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Also by Maddie MacKenna

  About the Author

  A Gift from the Highlands

  Thank you very much for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love and support!

  As a way to show you my gratitude, I have written a full length novel for you, called Highlander’s Untamed Bride. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping the image below or this link here.

  Once again, I can’t thank you enough for your support!

  Maddie MacKenna

  Scottish Brogue Glossary

  Here is a very useful glossary my good friend and fellow author Lydia Kendall sent to me, that will help you better understand the Scottish Brogue used:

  aboot - about

  ach - oh

  afore - before

  an' - and

  anythin - anything

  a'side - beside

  askin' - asking

  a'tween - between

  auld - old

  aye - yes

  bampot - a jerk

  bare bannock- a type of biscuit

  bearin' - bearing

  beddin' - bedding or sleeping with

  bellend - a vulgar slang word

  blethering - blabbing

  blootered - drunk

  bonnie - beautiful or pretty

  bonniest - prettiest

  cannae - cannot

  chargin' - charging

  cheesin' - happy

  clocked - noticed

  c'mon- come on

  couldn'ae - couldn't

  coupla - couple of

  crivens - hell

  cuddie - idiot

  dae - do

  dinin' - dining

  dinnae - didn't or don't

  disnae - doesn't

  dobber - idiot

  doesn'ae - doesn't

  dolton - idiot

  doon - down

  dram - a measure of whiskey

  efter - after

  eh' - right

  'ere - here

  fer - for

  frein - friend

  fey - from

  gae - get or give

  git - a contemptible person

  gonnae - going to

  greetin' - dying

  hae - have

  hald - hold

  haven'ae - haven't

  heed - head

  heedstart - head start

  hid - had

  hoovered - gobbled

  intoxicated - drunk

  kip - rest

  lass - young girl

  leavin - leaving

  legless - drunk

  me - my

  nae - not

  no' - not

  noo - now

  nothin' - nothing,

  oan - on

  o' - of

  Och - an Olympian spirit who rules the sun

  oot- out

  packin- packing

  pished - drunk

  scooby - clue

  scran - food

  shite - shit

  sittin' - sitting

  so's - so as

  somethin' - something

  soonds ' sounds

  stonking - stinking

  tae - to

  teasin' - teasing

  thrawn - perverse, ill-tempered

  tryin' - trying

  wallops - idiot

  wee -small

  wheest - talking

  whit's - what's

  wi'- with

  wid - would

  wisnae - was not

  withoot - without

  wouldnae - wouldn't

  ya - you

  ye - you

  yea - yes

  ye'll - you'll

  yer - your

  yerself - yourself

  ye're - you're

  ye've - you've

  About the Book

  She found him both dismaying and utterly attractive, in an enticing yet forbidden way...

  Trapped in an engagement she never wanted, Amelia Barton, daughter of the Earl of Workington, feels her life is finally over. Until the day true love comes knocking on her door in the face of a dashing Highlander...

  Orphaned by his mother since birth, Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira, travels to France to stop the Jacobite cause. When called upon by the Royal Court, the most beautiful lass he has ever seen enters his life like a bolt of lightning.

  When Amelia gets kidnapped, Feargan is accused of the crime. Determined to prove his innocence, he will stop at nothing to find her.

  Amidst this desperate hunt, love and lust are not the only things that come to light. Feargan has been living a lie and the truth about his parentage lies in an old handkerchief that everybody thought lost.

  1

  France, 1745

  That day the snow lay thick upon the road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye and the carriage was stuck fast in the mud churned up by its own wheels. The horses were cold, stomping their feet, their long plumes of breath rising into the icy air like a mist on water, as the driver patted their manes.

  “Zi horses are cold, monsieur,” he said, casting a nervous glance at his patron, who was pacing up and down beside the carriage.

  “Ye assured me that this carriage would make the road from Paris, even in the snow. It will be nightfall soon and I daenae wish to be stranded out here at the mercy of thieves and robbers. Is there nae way to move it?” the man replied.

  The driver muttered something inaudible in French and retreated around to the rear of the stranded carriage. Feebly, he pushed at the wheels, which were already beginning to freeze in the mud, twilight descending around them.

  “I cannae have further delays. Is there nae way ye can move it tonight?” the man said, his voice rising in exasperation at the man, whose promises in Paris had come to nothing.

  “There iz an inn nearby, monsieur, just along zi track. They would give you a bed for zi night and tomorrow we may dig zi carriage out,” the driver replied, shaking his head, as he pushed hopelessly once more at the wheels.

  “Aye, so be it then. It daenae seem like we shall have any luck tonight. If ye need help in the morning, then come and find me
at the inn,” the man said, as he clambered into the carriage to retrieve his bags.

  “I am sorry monsieur, I cannot help zi weather. I, too, am stranded ‘ere for zi night, my wife shall worry, and my children go hungry,” the driver said, looking mournfully at the man, who now threw a thick cloak about himself and turned along the road.

  “Make ye bed at the inn, too, and tell the innkeeper to charge it to me. As for yer wife, she shall have to sleep in a cold bed tonight, just as ye and I will,” the man replied, and without looking again at the driver he strode purposefully down the track, as a fresh flurry of snow began to fall.

  The road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye was rough and ready at the best of times. Unlike the court of Versailles, the exiled Stuarts had not the luxury of fine, carriage-worthy boulevards, to connect them with the French capital. The court of the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, was somewhat hidden away, lying at the end of a long road, west of Paris.

  They were sojourners in a foreign land, awaiting that glorious day when the line would be restored, and a Stuart monarch would once again sit upon the thrones of England and Scotland. At the Château de Saint Germain-en-Laye, they bided their time, playing host to countless visitors and well-wishers who made the bumpy journey from Paris to pay homage to the man they believed was rightly King across the channel.

  It was for just such a reason that Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira, in the far north amongst the Scottish hills, had come to Paris two weeks ago. The journey south had been long and treacherous, and he had already been away from home for several months. He was tired, and now that the château was almost in sight, his frustration at this latest setback was clear. He stomped along the darkening track, his bags slung over his shoulder, cursing the weather on that treacherous night.

  The snow was falling thickly now, and as he approached the lighted inn he shook off his cloak and stamped his boots. The lights were a welcome reprieve from the darkness of the track.

  “Another foreign bed,” Feargan muttered to himself, as he pushed open the door and was met by a rabble of rousing voices and the sounds of singing and merrymaking.

  Inside, the inn was brightly lit by oil lamps, a large fire burning merrily in the grate, and all manner of people sat around in varying states of array. Several eyed the newcomer with suspicion, but quickly returned to their drinks as Feargan cast a contemptuous look around him.

  He was a man of noble blood, who had little time for sensuous pleasures, nor the inclination to associate with those who frequented places such as this. The proprietor of the inn spoke rapidly to him in French, a language which, thanks to his dear departed mother, he knew well.

  “You wish for some food, monsieur? A bed for zi night, or just a drink to warm you on zis cold night?” he said, laying his hands on the bar and smiling a toothless grin at Feargan.

  “Aye, a bed, and some food if ye have it, and a drink, too,” Feargan replied, glancing around the room again.

  “You are travelling to zi château, monsieur?” the proprietor said, as he ladled a sludgy brown stew into a bowl from a steaming pan set above the fire.

  “Me business is me own,” Feargan replied, looking with some disgust at the meal now set before him.

  “We have a lot of travelers along zi road, monsieur. Even zi young Prince himself has graced zis humble abode,” the proprietor said proudly, and he poured a glass of wine for Feargan, looking at him with interest as he ate.

  Feargan made no reply, and after taking a few spoonsful from the foul-looking concoction, he pushed it aside.

  “Zis is just a humble inn, monsieur, I am sorry if we cannot satisfy your tastes.”

  “Just bring me somethin’ drinkable and leave me alone,” Feargan replied, pushing the glass and dish across the bar.

  The proprietor went off, tutting to himself, emptying the half-eaten bowl of stew back into the pan from whence it came and wiping his hands across his greasy apron, an act which caused Feargan to look away in disgust. He was about to forgo another drink, and demand his bed, when a voice at his side caused him to turn.

  “Ye are a traveler in these parts like meself, aren’t ye, lad?” the man said, setting down a glass of wine at Feargan’s side.

  “And who might ye be?” Feargan said, eyeing the man with suspicion.

  His accent betrayed his heritage and his face had all the hallmarks of one who has been raised amidst the hills and glens of Scotland, weather-beaten and furrowed. He was old, and slightly hunched over, but his eyes were keen, as though behind them lay a mind which was sharp and active. He smiled again at Feargan and extended a gnarled hand.

  “Hamish McBride, a tutor at the royal court. I am returning from Paris, where I have just heard Voltaire speak. The snow has caused me to take refuge here, but in the morning I shall go to Saint Germain-en-Laye. Is that yer destination, too?” he said, fixing his eyes on Feargan.

  “Feargan Galbreth, I go to speak with our Regent at the château,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand and relaxing a little in the company of one who claimed to be a friend.

  The young Laird had learned to distrust men over the years, and ever since his father’s death he had found his own counsel to be of advantage to that of others. His mother had died when he was young and he had few remaining memories of her.

  The absence of a mother had left a void in him, such that the fairer sex remained something of a mystery. As a child he had been a loner, and despised the woman his father married just a year after his own mother’s death. He had grown up forced to call her Mama, an act he resented to this day.

  The life which Feargan had led was a lonely one and despite his inheritance, he had few men to call his friends. That is, except for his Godfather, Alexander Galbreth, with whom he had trusted his Scottish estates whilst he made the journey to France, and who this old man resembled remarkably.

  “The Regent? He has little time for anyone now,” the old man said, taking a seat at the bar, and signaling to the proprietor for more drinks. “What is it ye wish to speak with him about?”

  “That is a matter between the two of us,” Feargan replied, as the proprietor presented them with a bottle of wine that appeared to have better pedigree to it than the muck he had served before.

  “I am nae interested in yer business, lad, but I ken the Regent and I ken the court, too. I have been tutoring there these many years past. I was the Regent’s tutor in philosophy when he was but a wee lad,” Hamish said, looking with interest at Feargan who sighed, realizing he was going to get no peace that night until he explained his business and took the man into his confidence.

  “What dae ye ken of the Regent’s plans for a rising in England and Scotland to the Stuart cause?” Feargan asked, laying out his cards.

  The old tutor looked surprised for a moment, as though he, too, were weighing up the consequences of betraying what he had heard whispered in the corridors of the Château de Saint Germain-en-Laye.

  “Now I must ask ye if ye are a spy,” Hamish replied, smiling nervously at Feargan, who laughed.

  “Dae ye ken who ye are addressing, old man?” he said, shaking his head. “I am Laird of Loch Beira and as loyal to the Stuart cause as any man on either side of the border. A spy, indeed, what nonsense. And if I were, would I tell ye so blatantly?”

  The man’s face changed, and he visibly relaxed at Feargan’s words, smiling and laughing to himself, as he agreed that no, the Laird would not tell him if he were a Hanoverian spy.

  “I can only apologize for my suspicions, Galbreth, but there are many who would wish to ken the Regent’s secrets, and many who would wish to see him dead,” Hamish said.

  “And I am not one of them. What dae ye ken of the Regent’s plans?” Feargan repeated.

  “Not a lot, only that the château is filled with exiled Stuarts, eager to return to their homeland, and many visitors loyal to the cause who bring news of Hanoverian insult from across the channel. Ye must be well connected, and I need not tell ye of such things, ye wi
ll nay doubt ken many of those who reside there from time to time.”

  “Ye shall meet the Marquess of Torbay, betrothed to Lady Amelia Barton, the daughter of the Earl of Workington. I tutor her in Latin and philosophy, she is a most able student; and the Duke of Rothsay; alongside Lady Peal of Northumberland,” the man replied, warming to his subject.

  “I have no interest in acquainting myself to others,” Feargan said, cutting the man short mid-speech. “My purpose is to speak with the Regent on the matter in hand. I am not interested in English aristocrats and ladies.”

  His quest lay with the Regent and once more he questioned the elderly tutor as to Charles Edward Stuart’s plans for England and Scotland.

  “The Regent has every intention of regaining the throne, there is nay question of that, but why are ye so interested in such matters? Surely ye should have remained in Scotland to see to yer estates,” Hamish said, pouring another drink for Feargan. “Or does the Laird of Loch Beira have a lackey to see to his crofters?”