Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Read online

  Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass

  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

  LOVE FOR A RELUCTANT HIGHLAND LASS

  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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  Also By Emilia Ferguson

  Acknowledgement

  If You Have Enjoyed This Book…

  Publisher’s Notes

  Copyright © 2017,2018 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:

  facebook.com/EmiliaFergusonBooks

  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

  LOVE FOR A RELUCTANT HIGHLAND LASS

  A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY

  by

  EMILIA FERGUSON

  PROLOGUE

  Duncliffe Manor

  1742

  “No!”

  Ettie's voice rang out in the silence, loud to her own ears. She shivered, drawing the threadbare cloak tight about her shoulders, wishing it would keep out the cold and her fear. She felt as if she had woken into a nightmare.

  She couldn't enter.

  I won't.

  Moving from being a scullery-maid at Estmoor to working at Duncliffe Manor was impossible. At least, it was for Ettie. She stood on the step by the gate and looked in, terrified.

  All her life, Ettie had been the strange one, the outcast. Ostracism and cruelty were her only friends, and neither of them made it easy to move house. At Estmoor, she had faced both –cruelty and being shunned – and had, by now, become used to it. More importantly, the people there were used to her. They ignored her without comment, finally.

  Now, with this change of location, she was meant to face that all again? All those weeks of torment? She would not do it.

  Estmoor might have been horrible, but at least it was a horrible place I was used to. Duncliffe Manor was all new, and terrifying. She couldn't move, not even if she wished.

  She didn't wish it.

  Beside her, Lady Marguerite gently shook her head. It was an imperceptible motion, just disarraying her red curls slightly, but Ettie saw it. Ettie had always been observant. She noticed things that other people didn't notice. That was one of the things that both scared her and made other people scared of her. That and the dreams. She had always had the dreams – and how she looked – to set her apart from everyone else in the village, who hated her for both.

  A black-haired, gray-eyed bairn, born of a red-headed woman, was a changeling, clearly. That was what all the villagers whispered. An ill-luck child. They had avoided her, walking on the other side of the path and looking away. The village attitude was also that of her mother, who had alternated neglect with cruelty until, at fifteen, Ettie had run away.

  Now, at twenty, Ettie glanced sideways at Lady Marguerite. She felt the tension in the woman, like a rod holding her up. She also sensed impatience in her, and fear.

  The last part hurt.

  Even Lady Marguerite, the only nice person at Estmoor, is afraid of me.

  Ettie drew a deep breath and tried to find words. She had long ago given up the practice of asking for anything – that got her either nowhere or a blow to the head. She opened her mouth, paused, and shut it.

&n
bsp; No sense tae ask Lady Marguerite if I can give up this daft plan and go haime.

  Marguerite would not agree to that. This was her idea – her way of helping. It didn't feel like help to Ettie.

  Ettie stood at the gate and looked inside. She drew a deep breath. It wasn't a matter of courage: Ettie had plenty of that. She just simply didn't know how to walk into a house of strangers. Not how to do it and make it safe.

  Marguerite turned away from her, distracted by a horse on the lower path.

  Ettie let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. Some of the tension disappeared with the woman's focus. For the first time, Ettie really looked around her. The manor, or what she could see through the gate, was different than Estmoor – this was a tall, gray building with turrets and a courtyard. It was when she was looking around the courtyard that she saw the woman at the door.

  Tall and sinewy, with black hair bound back in a plait, the woman radiated a strange authority. It resonated in Ettie. The woman reminded her a little of herself. In addition, she made her feel safe.

  Ettie looked up at her face. Liquid eyes met hers. Something within her heart answered that stare. She took a step forward, then another. One of the kitchen dogs ran out then, barking, and Ettie smiled.

  That was all she needed to take the final step.

  “Och, laddie,” she said to the dog, who ran to her, and barked and jumped in slobbering welcome. He laid his paws on her leg and closed his eyes as she scratched his ears. With him at her side, she walked over to the kitchen quite naturally.

  “Well, you have a friend there, lass,” the woman said dryly.

  “I've allus liked dogs,” Ettie said.

  The woman nodded, face inscrutable. “Well, then,” she said. “You can do a fine job for me, keeping them off the supplies. When I'm curing a ham, last thing I need is a big whiskery nose in it.”

  Ettie grinned, wanting to laugh, but the woman had already turned away and Ettie wasn't sure whether or not she had meant it as a joke. She was interested, though, and followed her into the kitchen.

  Perhaps – just perhaps – Duncliffe wasn't going to be too bad a place to live in after all.

  A NEW TASK

  The warmth from the fire spilled out--a ghost of the evening's blaze. It radiated warming light on Ettie's face and hands. She bent over and brushed the ashes from the hearth and into the pan. She would come and clean out the grate later, when the embers were cooled.

  “Lomond?” a low voice said behind her.

  Ettie – who was used to being called by her surname – turned around. “Aye, Mistress?” she asked softly.

  On the long, velvet covered chair in the parlor, Marguerite smiled gently, her heart-shaped face appearing kind. “You like your new employment?” she asked.

  Ettie frowned. Do I?

  It wasn't a hard question, she supposed. For her – who had never been asked her opinion on anything – it seemed impossible. She didn't know what her opinion was. Never mind how to tell it.

  “Um, reckon so, Mistress,” she said, deciding to be neutral.

  Marguerite frowned, a little wrinkle forming on her otherwise smooth brow. With a pale, soft face and masses of spice-red hair, Ettie wistfully looked at Marguerite. Dressed in a white gown of blended wool, her hair and the yards of fabric of the skirts shining softly, she was her hallmark of beauty.

  “So you...you would like to stay a scullery-maid a while yet?” her employer queried gravely.

  Ettie swallowed hard. This was a big question. It sounded, to her, as if her employment here was about to be finished.

  Should have known.

  She hung her head sadly. How was she supposed to answer? How had it happened that, just as she'd settled at Duncliffe, made a friend, even – the first one in her life – she was thrown out? She decided truthfulness was best, and cleared her throat.

  “Milady, if I've given ye cause tae send me off, I'll no' hold it against ye. But, in truth, I'd like tae stay.”

  Marguerite laughed, surprising Ettie. In the cradle by her chair, the baby stirred. She laid a soothing hand on her body. “Ettie!” Marguerite said, shaking her head. “What a thing to think! How can you think I'm getting rid of you? I only meant would you like to stay a scullery-maid? Or are you ready for a change of title?” Her gaze was level.

  Ettie stared. She forgot she was holding the hearth-brush and it fell, nerveless, from between her fingers. The clatter of its landing made the baby wake up, and Ettie grabbed at the brush, mumbling an apology. “Sorry, Mistress Marguerite.”

  “There, there,” Marguerite said to the baby – Alexandra Duncliffe – who had woken. She stopped crying, gurgled, and relaxed. Marguerite nodded. “You didn't intend to scare her,” she said mildly. “But I ask you again. Would you like that?”

  Ettie swallowed hard. She could hear she was making Marguerite impatient now, and knew that she wouldn't benefit from trying her patience. She had one chance at this. What was she going to say?

  “Milady,” she looked at the parquet flooring, mumbling. “I...I would like that. Yes.”

  Marguerite let out a small chuckle. “Good.”

  Ettie waited for her to say something else. At length, her patience was rewarded.

  “Tell Merrick to have your things moved to the lower attic. You're moving down.”

  Ettie stared. She meant it? She really did? “Och, mistress!” She ran to her and, not knowing what else to do, she knelt in front of her chair and looked up at her. “Thank ye,” she said.

  Marguerite frowned. She looked a little uncomfortable, but smiled fondly. Ettie reached for her hand and pressed it, and Marguerite nodded kindly.

  “There now, Ettie,” she said. “I'm glad you're pleased. Now, go and tell her. And have her send up some of her special tea also. I could do with something to help me rest.”

  “Yes, Mistress! Of course!”

  Ettie sprang to her feet, almost startling Alexandra again, who looked over at her. With big blue eyes and pale hair, she looked positively angelic. She was five months old now, and starting to become truly aware of the world.

  Ettie beamed at her. The babe made a little noise. Marguerite smiled fondly and Ettie, realizing she had paused in the door, staring inward, hurried out.

  She went straight down to find Mrs. Merrick. She was getting a promotion!

  She was going to be lady's maid.

  As she walked down the winding, shadowy corridor the servants used, she tried to make sense of it all. That had to be true. There was only one way to interpret Marguerite's statement. Amabel Farlane – her previous maidservant – had left two weeks before, to marry and settle in the south. That left the position vacant.

  It also left the only room on the lower attic that was vacant: hers. If Ettie was moving there: there being into the room connected by a bell to her ladyship's own, then that meant that Ettie was being raised to her personal maid.

  The room was warmer than her own, closer to the house-fires and with a tiny fireplace of its own. She would have a whole extra hour to sleep. In addition, she wouldn't have to clean fires or polish dishes or do hard manual work. Those were her first thoughts. The position also offered more leisure time and better wages, but that thought only came second.

  She was so excited.

  Ettie ran down the stairs of the servant's corridor, heading down toward the kitchen on the lowest floor of the house.

  “Mrs. Merrick! Ma'am.”

  Ettie never shouted. She barely spoke.

  Merrick turned from where she stood at the side-board, cutting some herbs. She raised a brow. “Yes?”

  Ettie gulped. “Mrs. Merrick?”

  “Yes?” Merrick asked, and this time her cheek lifted in a smile she almost managed to conceal. “What is it?”

  “Mrs. Merrick! I'm promoted!”

  Merrick raised a brow. “That is good,” she said. Her voice was mild.

  Ettie swallowed hard. “I'm...I'm tae become milady's own maid.”

&nb
sp; “Oh,” Merrick said. Her voice still didn't sound all that surprised, and Ettie found herself wondering if perhaps she already knew.

  She knows things sometimes. I know that.

  It was strange for Ettie to meet someone who had the Sight as a gift, and used it openly.

  I know things sometimes, and I'd never say.

  In the village, admitting you could foretell events would have been tantamount to asking someone to stone you in the field. Merrick, however, made no secret about it. The rest of the servants, if they wanted to mutter about it, kept their muttering very much to themselves. They were all frightened of her.

  I'm not frightened. I just wish I could be more like her.

  It was a sensation Ettie had never felt before - admiration. She cleared her throat.

  “Um...I need to ask you to have my things moved. To the lower attic. Amabel Farlane's old sleeping-place.”

  “Mm,” Merrick agreed. “I'll get one of the lads to do it in a jiffy. Farlane's, you say?”