The Highlander's French Bride Read online

  “Then come with me to Scotland and raise Arielle with that overgrown dog of yers. We could start a small monastery and support young widows who have no family, and orphans who need a home. A domerie such as the one in Aubrac where none are turned away. Everyone would work together to be clothed and fed.”

  “And feel needed?” she asked.

  “That is curious,” Kinnon replied. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I think Lucienne is searching for something that makes her feel needed—complete. For whatever reason, she seeks it in her encounters where she believes she has power and it makes her feel good. It is my hope that someday she will find someone who will care for her, make her feel needed and loved so that she abandons the life she has now.”

  He saw the same need in Melisende’s eyes. Unlike Lucienne, she had been content to wait, to fill her life with other things until love bloomed. But the same emptiness demanded to be filled in her. The hunger to meet that for her grew inside him.

  He tenderly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “I need ye, Melisende. I need your warmth, your laughter, your wisdom to fill my life. I loved ye the first time I saw ye with dirt on yer face and yer great dog at yer side. And I crave yer touch like I need the air to breathe.”

  Flinging her arms wide, she threw herself against him. Tilting her face up, she demanded his kiss, and he happily obliged her. He crushed her to him, slanting his mouth across hers as he deepened the kiss, coaxing, urging, demanding she admit she belonged to him. Her arms slid around his neck, her breasts pushed against his chest as she pressed closer to him. Her mouth opened and her tongue played feverishly with his. His cock grew instantly hard, pressing against the folds of fabric between them.

  She struggled against him, and he loosened his arms, breaking the kiss with a moan of disappointment. Reaching behind, she grabbed at the laces of her gown. With a rumble of laughter, Kinnon reached down and jerked her skirt up, running his hands up the length of her legs. She shuddered and gasped, leaning against him so the vee of her legs pressed against the head of his cock. He scooted backward until he sat upon one of the boulders, dragging her into his lap.

  Bracing her knees on either side of him, she leaned forward, giving him a chance to rake his leine up, and their bodies finally came together. Her shoulders hunched forward and he feasted on the sight of her breasts pouring over the top of her gown. She wiggled her hips and his attention snapped immediately to her velvet warmth as it enveloped his cock. He shuddered as he penetrated her depths. Her head arched back as she stroked him faster and harder until her breath caught and she teetered on the edge of passion. With a powerful thrust, he spent himself as she spasmed around him, the sweet sound of his name on her lips.

  His palms splayed across her bottom as he held her in his lap, savoring the last tremors of her body. Her forehead rested on his, escaped tendrils of her hair forming a curtain about their faces. He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “I cannot live without you, Kinnon,” she breathed.

  “Nor I without ye, mo chridhe. But there is still the matter of yer sister’s words between us. I know ye dinnae believe her, but once heard, ’tis hard to un-hear them.”

  Melisende nodded. “Oui, but my heart knows the truth. ’Tis my hope that when I look at Arielle, I will believe I see both you and me in her, as our daughter. And mayhap, from time-to-time, I will see Lucienne as well.”

  “I will endeavor to forgive her for trying to cause a rift between us. And pray for her.” Kinnon shifted, suddenly noticing the hard stone beneath his bare buttocks.

  Melisende gave him her sweetest smile. “Are you ready to get up, mon amour?”

  He grinned. “My bum is, though the rest of me could stay like this forever.”

  She laughed as he lowered her to her feet. “We have a long voyage ahead of us. I am eager to see the charms of Scotland.”

  Kinnon jerked his leine back into place and placed his lips against her ear. “And I am eager to show them to you.”

  Epilogue

  Rain beat steadily on the roof of the small cottage, damping down the sharp scent of burning peat. Melisende breathed deeply, aware the odor, so strange at first, had become a comforting symbol of her new home—and her new life. She smiled contentedly. Kinnon drowsed in a nearby chair, his feet propped on the hearth. Arielle sat on the floor beside him, playing with a doll he had crafted for her a few months earlier. Jean-Baptiste lay sprawled on his rug on the far side of the hearth, his job of protecting Arielle suspended pending a nap.

  Her little family, though outside the walls of their snug house, there were many others she considered the same. They’d found the perfect site for Kinnon’s vision close to the Bishopric of Glasgow, an abandoned monastery that had walls still in good order, and they’d begun replacing roofs and clearing gardens for the next year. And though she knew it was further from his home than he wished, his face glowed with the contentment of being able to help those in need. He’d recently reminded her, we are at our best when serving others. His family had welcomed them warmly when they’d first arrived, smoothing her and Arielle’s entrance to Scotland, and she missed seeing them almost as much as he did. But this was where they were meant to be.

  She’d even met Brother Padraig when he’d visited only a month or so after they’d arrived at the old monastery. He shared a few stories of Kinnon’s time on Iona, earning him some pained looks from Kinnon, and laughter from her. And he’d brought Kinnon’s wee cat, Angus, now quite grown and eager to claim the house for himself and keep the rats and mice at bay. For which she was very grateful. And perhaps even as grateful Jean-Baptiste appeared to take little notice of the cat, since Arielle had taken quite a liking to him, though Jean-Baptiste remained her ever-present companion.

  It was even possible Brother Padraig would return and take over the monastic side of their mission, for it was clear the need for a place of sanctuary for widows and orphans exceeded the work she and Kinnon could do alone. He’d promised a setting much like the domerie at Aubrac, and to do so, they would need many more dedicated hands.

  She hoped they would arrive soon. She ran a hand slowly across her belly, still hiding the secret she was anxious to share with Kinnon. After months of love-making and no sign she was enceinte, she had feared she was too old to conceive a child. She had shared this once with Kinnon, and he’d assured her she and Arielle were all he needed in his life. And then loved her so thoroughly it took her breath away. For a time, she’d been content. But now she knew for certain their babe would arrive next winter just before Yule, and she waited for the perfect time to tell Kinnon.

  Kinnon stirred and glanced at her from beneath hooded eyes. Arielle yawned and hugged her doll as she climbed into Kinnon’s lap. With an enormous sigh, the child fell asleep. Kinnon rose carefully and tucked her into bed behind a curtain on the far side of the hearth.

  He crossed the room to Melisende and stepped behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist. “How is ma petite French bride?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

  Shivers of longing shot through her and she arched against him, his arousal against her buttocks. “She is ever in love with the Scot who swept her off her feet,” she replied. His hands splayed across her belly as he swept his palms up her ribs and cupped her breasts.

  “Mayhap she would care to show how much she loves him,” he murmured huskily.

  Melisende inhaled a long, deep breath. She spun in his arms and nibbled his lower lip. Her heart filled so much she thought she could not contain it. A year ago, she had faced life as her uncle’s assistant, with no other family to care for and love. Joy welled up in her and she stared into her husband’s adoring eyes. It was time. She had news to share.

  Acknowledgements

  To begin, Kinnon’s story came about because readers asked for it. He was the hinge-point in The Highlander’s Reluctant Bride—would he show up at some point and change the course of the book? Though he only appeared briefly in that story, he was apparently a sympathe
tic character, and people wanted to know what happened to him. My readers are a wonderful well of inspiration, and I love hearing from them. I have enjoyed the journey of writing Kinnon and Melisende’s story. Thank you for asking for it.

  As mentioned earlier, as I began my research, Kinnon’s story became entwined with that of Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of France. I wish to thank a generous lady at Murray State College, Dr. Rebecca Jacobs-Pollez, who has a doctorate in History, specializing in Medieval France, who helped me uncover obscure references on this great man. One particularly helpful source was Bertran du Guesclin: the hero of chivalry by H.D.T. (Harriett Diane Thompson), publisher – London: Burns & Lambert, [1859].

  I’d like to also thank my critique partners, Dawn Marie Hamilton and Derek Dodson for their hard work along the way. And my editors, Liette Bougie and Simone Seguin for their invaluable insight. Hats off to Rae Monet who came up with a brilliant cover for the book, giving me every single thing I asked for, and to Vikkas and Katherine whose photo graces the cover.

  Other Books by Cathy MacRae

  Highland Escape

  (with DD MacRae)

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series:

  (Please read The Gathering by LL Muir first to avoid confusion)

  Adam: A Highlander Romance

  (The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series book 11)

  Malcolm

  (Available in 2016)

  Hugh

  (Available in 2016)

  About the Author

  Cathy MacRae enjoys writing stories of strong Highland heroes and feisty women on their way to their happily-ever-afters. She loves hearing from her readers, and you can learn more about her and her books—and the occasional dog or gardening story—on her website, www.cathymacraeauthor.com. You can also look her up on Facebook or follow her on Twitter @CMacRaeAuthor.

  Enjoy an excerpt from

  Adam: A Highlander Romance

  Book 11 in The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series

  by Cathy MacRae

  ADAM

  Chapter 1

  I listened to Soni as she challenged the others around me. The night was dark, the unearthly fire casting a greenish glow that lit our ghostly faces. To a man, they crowded about her, our sweet young witch, eager to hear how they could accomplish their revenge. “Each of you can face a hale and hearty prince,” she’d said. “If that is what you wish.”

  What we wish? How many times over the past 270 years had we heard of the failings of our Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Young Pretender? How he’d ignored the advice of his more experienced commanders, marched his starving and exhausted army through the snow on a dark night for a surprise attack that never happened. As proud as we all were to fight for his cause, every man among us would give anything for a chance alone with the prince to express his disappointment, frustration, ire.

  Except me.

  Soni drifted about the group, inserting a soft word here, a laugh or a gentle touch there. We were all a bit nervous as our numbers dwindled, one by one. For years I’d simply been known as Number 22, though I believed that to indicate the order in which we’d risen that first time after the bloody battle. My name is Adam Patrick Gordon, though few but myself remembered it.

  I thought of Soni’s bargain. Men who had spent the better part of almost three centuries wandering the moor and sleeping in the mud were now given the chance to become a hero and win the boon of their lifetime. It was something most, if not all, of us had dreamed of many times over the years. I’d turned my own grief toward the prince more than once. This restless non-life was no way to spend the rest of eternity, though we’d seen amazing things during our time here at Culloden Battlefield as it grew from a bit of marshy land enriched with the blood of braw Scots to a visitors’ centre where people came to witness the end Prince Charlie’s dreams. And though I’d witnessed many changes—from horses to cars, from the written and spoken word to voices issuing from small, hand-held devices, and the peculiar changes in clothing. Now there was an eye-opener if there ever was.

  I turned back to the moment at hand. The last of the 79 milled about, eager to be gone. Around me, the men joked softly, shared remembrances, boasted of how they’d take care of the bonny prince. A few had already disappeared into their chance to become a hero, and then to speak a few words to our doomed leader before settling forever beneath the moor.

  I turned my gaze into the green fire and tried to shut out the unrelenting voices in my head. Once again I heard those life-changing words echoing in my head. Even had I returned unscathed from battle, my world would never have been the same. The night closed about me, the velvet sky twinkling with stars that hadnae changed in nearly three hundred years.

  Fingers made feather-soft contact with my arm, and I jumped in surprise. It wasnae normal to feel things. Not physically, anyway. Memories and regrets were another thing, and I’d had far too many years of them. Soni’s touch startled me and I eyed her curiously.

  “Ye seem somber, Adam,” she said, standing beside me near the fire. “Are ye not ready to have yer say?” She gave me her winsome smile.

  Over the years, her ability to bring a smile to each of our faces had grown. She’d grown from a bonnie bairn to a lass who’d stolen our hearts. But this time I couldnae smile back. My heart was too heavy. There was more than the loss of a battle and all of Prince Charlie’s plans for me to regret.

  She took my hands and turned me toward her. “Why so glum, Adam Gordon? Ye are a brave man. Ye cannae fail yer test.”

  “’Tis not the test I worry about,” I managed. “I was damned before I ever fell at Culloden.”

  She tilted her head at me, clearly surprised. “Suppose ye tell me about it.”

  I’d bottled up my grief, my anger and my self-recriminations too long. I’d fought well and done my duty and never confided to a soul. Yet the compassion from this slip of a lass nearly did me in. I struggled for breath to form the words.

  “I killed my wife and child.”

  It was her turn to look startled. “Can you explain, please?” Her grip on my hands tightened.

  I ducked my head as heads turned in our direction. “Not by my hand, but because I wasnae there to protect them.”

  “I would like to hear about it,” she said. “It clearly has ye undone.”

  Her eyes rounded with sympathy and I suddenly felt the memory break free. Words I had shoved to the back of my mind tumbled over themselves in the unexpected chance to tear loose. The too-familiar guilt was still there, but I no longer felt consumed, torn between duty and family.

  I remembered the day Major General John Gordon had ridden into Strathbogie on his gray Highland pony, still exultant from the Jacobite win over the English at Falkirk in January. He was a craggy man, his aged body twisted with rheumatism, but still a terrifying leader. ’Twas said a raid planned by Government forces had cried off due to a rumor that he and his men were in the area. The joke was his name alone gave King George nightmares. The reality was, he’d pressed every able-bodied man in the area to ‘the cause’, and I was among them.

  “’Twas the night before the march to Culloden,” I recalled. “We were down to our last bit of food, hoping the supply wagons would show up the next day. A young lad rode into camp, but we paid little attention. ’Twas not uncommon for new recruits to show up unannounced. Nor was it verra uncommon for us to lose a man the same way—slipping quietly away. It had been a hard winter, and the small respite after the victory at Falkirk in January of ’46 had done little to raise morale.

  “I left my sweet wife, expecting our bairn, when Major-General John Gordon of Glenbucket rode through our land in March, gathering men for the Glenbucket Brigade. Proud I was to support the prince, but reluctant to leave Mairi with her so close to her time. But the harvest had been poor, the winter lean, and the Major-General promised good pay.” A bitter smile threatened to twist my lips, still ashamed I’d been unable to provide for my wife. “My Mairi knew what the extra money would mean to us. Sh
e told me not to worry. She would have the bairn ready for me to dangle on my knee when I returned.”

  I paused. Soni shook her head. “And ye never returned.”

  “Nae, that isnae it. The lad who rode into camp that night had a message for me from my brother’s wife. Two days earlier, my sweet Mairi had heard the dog barking furiously and saw the hole in the barn where a couple of sheep had escaped. Though it was bitterly cold, she knew what the loss of a sheep meant and she set out to help the dog retrieve them. She slipped on the ice and landed hard. It caused her labor to start early and by the time she was found the next day, the babe was dead and Mairi wasnae far from it.” I could not choke out the next words, but Soni did not seem to need to hear them.

  “She died as well.” ’Twas more of a statement than a question.

  I nodded, too heartsick to speak. Even after all these years, the loss of my Mairi struck me hard. She had been my heart, my life, and to hear of her death whilst I was away still cut me to the quick. I wanted to believe someday our spirits would find each other, but I had lingered here on Drummossie moor, restless and unable to settle my guilt.

  Soni gripped my hands hard. “How is this yer fault, Adam Gordon? Falling is not something ye could prevent. Ye dinnae cause her death.”

  I rounded on her—I admit it—but my eyes were hazed with tears and each word pulled something loose in my heart. “Ye dinnae understand. The bloody sheep had escaped through a hole in the side of the barn. I’d always meant to repair it, but it just became another thing to do once I was home again. If I’d been more caring, if I’d spent one more day at home—”