Parris Afton Bonds

PARRIS*AFTON*BONDS

THE CAPTIVE

Published by Paradise Publishing

Copyright 2013 by Parris Afton, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Cover artwork by Tell~Tale Book Cover Designs

This is a work of fiction and a product of the author’s imagination.  No part of this novel may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.  This e-book may not be resold or given away.  The Maidenhead is a revised edition formerly published under the title of The Savage.  Any resemblance to characters living or dead is purely coincidental.

BONUS

First chapter
of my novel LAVENDER BLUE is at the end of THE CAPTIVE.

Author
’s Note

Four generations ago, a woman emigrated to the United States from Scotland and raved to her neighbor about the beauty of the Afton River in the Scottish Lowlands. That neighbor, fascinated by the Afton River, named her daughter Afton. Her daughter named her daughter Afton, and so on.

Having five sons, I had no daughters to whom I could pass on the Afton name. Running short on boys
’ names by the time the last son was born, I bestowed on him the name Ted Afton. I would like to continue this Afton legacy with the story of
The Captive
.

For Mary Afton Burns ~ I love you, Mother

“
Flow Gently, Sweet Afton”

Flo
w gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes;

Flow gently, I
’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;

My Mary
’s asleep by the murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

—Robert Burns

Celtic tradition has it that the soul of one who dies in battle wi
ll take the low, or easy, road to the place of his clan. Thus:

Ye’ll take the high road,

And I
’ll take the low road,

And I
’ll be in Scotland afore ye.

For me and my true love will never meet again

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond

Chapter One

“
I
t looks as though Enya isn’t going to be a beauty.”

Incredibly, Enya awoke without a thought of her wedding in mind. Without anything beyond a feeling of general good will and buoyancy. Not until old Elspeth parted the pale green bedha
ngings embroidered with gold did the phrase from childhood leap to the forefront with a force that cut short Enya’s languorous stretch.

"G
’morning, m'lady Lazybones," the nearly toothless woman said and draped Enya’s morning gown of green gauze across the foot of the bed. “Tis late awakening you are for such a day of import.”

"Tis not a day of jubilation for me. For my people, aye, but not for me.”

She had reached the advanced age of three and twenty without bending her head to the rights and privileges of a husband. If any man came close to claiming the rights of her heart, it would be Duncan Fraser.

Dared her childhood friend come to her wedding?

She shrugged, took up her morning gown, and headed for her bath. Her serving maid, a short, plump farm girl, took her satin robe from her. "G’morning, m’lady! T’day’s finally come! Yer wedding day!”

Along with Elspeth, Mary Laurie was to accompany her to her new home in the Highlands. “
I should be so eager, Mary Laurie.” Enya tried to maintain a good humor about this, of all mornings. But it was the end of all she had known and the beginning of the unknown.

The bath was still in a state of chaos. With a little smirk mixed with deep love, Enya felt this was just like her mother. Kathryn could rule the Afton clan bene
volently, but she was a riot on running a house. Enya’s very controlled and very controlling mother didn’t suffer fools lightly, but, dear God, when would her mother ever finish the house?

Blue tiles were stacked in a wooden box, awaiting a mason from Ital
y. A washbasin of speckled marble quarried in Connemara, Ireland, had yet to be inset in the wall. Glazed windows served until leaded ones arrived.

Situated on a gardened terrace above the sandy shores of the Firth of Clyde, the great red sandstone house s
till had many rooms that were unfinished. Three years before, her mother had hired William Adam and Sons to design Afton House. Fashioned in neoclassical taste, it replaced the baronial castle that for centuries had governed the Lowlands of Ayrshire and the Clan Afton.

Enya knew that before her birth years of warring weather and warring clans had worn away the granite castle. Overlooking Loch Doon and its rolling braes, the vacated seat of the Afton clan was more rubble than rooms.

Which was virtually the state of Afton House at the moment. Admittedly, the finished portions were marvelous. Ionic columns, Venetian chandeliers, a multitude of tall, arched windows and oakwood floors gave Afton House a light, airy interior.

This contrasted with the massive, more
oppressively masculine castle, with its crests and family mottoes strewn about to remind Enya of the heavy legacy left by her ancestors.

With peace, at last, established with England and the Afton clan united under her mother
’s benevolent hand, impregnability was no longer an essential aspect. Battles now were waged on croquet and tennis lawns or at the lively conversational duels held at the frequent dinners her mother gave. Guests were a hodgepodge of Scotland’s intellects and creative geniuses.

Enya
’s bath was scented with a dozen herbs that old Elspeth claimed were a secret concoction dating back to her forebears, the Picts, or painted people, as the invading Romans had called them.

Enya
’s own lineage was even more impressive. Tracing, as the Picts did, through the matriarchal line of her mother, she could count farther back to Druid priests as ancestors. Enya’s mother preferred to think her reign over the Afton clan was a more enlightened one than that of her mystical Celtic ancestors.

“
You are starting earlier than is your wont, daughter. The first light of day has not silvered the sea."

Enya half
turned in the marble tub. Kathryn stood in the doorway. A mauve-patterned morning wrapper covered her trim figure. At forty-five, her mother was still as beautiful as the day Enya’s father, the Black Lion, had captured Kathryn’s father in battle and demanded her as ransom. Her wealth of black hair, caught in a loose braid at her nape, was streaked with gray. Lines of laughter and time girded her mouth, now curved in a wistful smile.

“
Aye, that I am, Mother. Tis a deed that must be done anon, and the sooner I begin the better.

With a nod, Kathryn dismissed Mary Laurie and settled onto the low stool beside the tub. Dampening a face cloth in the heated water, she began washing Enya
’s freckled shoulders.

"I empathize with your struggle, daughter, but 'tis a goo
d match I have made for you. Wife of the Lord Lieutenant of the Western Highlands is an honor not to be dismissed lightly. I understand Simon Murdock is good to look upon as well as ambitious. What’s more, he is young enough at two and thirty to comfort you in your old age.”

Neither woman voiced her thoughts of Malcolm Afton. Fifteen years older than Kathryn, her husband was now confined to a separate bedroom. Few ventured beyond those doors. Even the maid servants scurried in and out, heads averted, breath
held.

"Alas, this marriage is more to Murdock
’s liking than mine. A giant of a woman with no brothers to inherit a barony's estates of fertile, rolling crofting land and the lucrative fishing port of Ayr."

Kathryn
’s hand paused. Enya looked up over her shoulder at her mother. Those wise eyes had misted over like the fog that rolled in off the sea. “Andrew and Gordon would have been giving you away today in your father’s stead."

"Which is the reason for the marriage, is it not?" she reminded Kathryn softly,
repenting her reference to her brothers. Both had been killed in the service of His Majesty King George II of Great Britain.

Five years earlier, in 1746, the Scottish youths met their deaths at the Battle of Culloden Moor. Hope for an independent Scotland
had also met its death. England had suppressed the Highland uprising. As a reward for their loyalty to Great Britain, King George had bestowed the county seat of Ayrshire upon the Afton family.

‘
"Tis true," her mother said, rising. "Your marriage assures the Clan Afton and its estates continual security—and the opportunity to foster peace with those barbarous Highlanders. Is peace such a bad thing?”

Enya couldn
’t hold her tongue. “At the price of one’s values, Mother? Aye. Ye would trade Scottish blood for English.”

"Ye are a product of your father as well as me, Enya. Roman-British blood flowed through his ancestor
’s veins before that of the Scots. He sorely misses the wearing of the kilt and plaid, but he wisely chose peace with the British. Ye will go to him before the wedding for his blessing?"

With a sigh, Enya rose from the now-cool water and accepted the warmed towel her mother passed her. "Aye, that I will.”

Donning her robe, Enya followed her mother from the bath, and told her she would hurry with her dressing as Kathryn left the room. Elspeth alone was allowed to assist Enya that morning with her clothes. The old woman had been maidservant to Kathryn when the Black Lion and his men had stormed Sweetheart Abbey, where she had taken refuge. Alistair, Elspeth’s twin brother, was as devoted, and had become the family steward and master of the household.

Over camisole and stays and hoops, white silk stockings and garters, stomacher and quilted petticoat, was draped the white wedding dress of satin. The vi
rginal gown was trimmed with silver lace and seeded with pearls.

Only then did Enya don the dusting cloth and submit her angry red hair to the powder dredger. Her rebellious curls needed no waving, as was the latest court fashion. Slowly the fiery sheen wh
itened with the sifted powder. A blessed thing on her wedding day, since redheads were considered unlucky.

The mask she held over her face muffled her voice. "Has anyone heard news of Duncan?"

"Nae, m'lady." Elspeth frowned, adding more wrinkles to the accumulation already furrowing the bridge of her large nose. ‘"Tis best you forget that one. Nothing but a common smuggler.”

“
Arrant nonsense, Elspeth! Duncan is a Free Trader." Enya slid a foot into one of the silver embroidered slippers with high French heels. She was already tall for a woman. Tall and big-boned, she nevertheless moved with an untutored grace.

Was she taller than her English bridegroom?

"Bah,” Elspeth muttered. She stooped to slide the other slipper onto her mistress’s foot. "Duncan and his likes are avoiding the tax on malt and wool by operating out of Ayr. The gallows will hoist the smuggler ahigh one day, mark me words. An auld woman like meself knows these things."

Enya lowered the mask. The heritage of superstition that could be traced b
ack into the mists of time prompted her to ask in words almost inaudible, "What else do you know? The Lord Lieutenant—will he make of himself a goodly husband?”

Alistair
’s spinster sister cackled. "Not for the likes of ye. A firebrand, ye are.”

With none o
f her mother’s serenity. Nor her beauty, Enya mentally lamented.

When she was growing up she didn
’t like to see her mother work in the garden. Her hair would be in disarray and dirt smeared across her cheeks. Enya wanted her mother always to be dressed in bejeweled gowns. She loved her mother most at dinner, when, after a glass of wine, the color was high on her cheeks and she’d be laughing.

Her mother didn
’t laugh much anymore.

"Ye are a bonnie bride, m
’lady,” Elspeth said. “Take a look.”

Enya took the silver-backed looking glass the old hag held for her approval. Intelligent eyes of an ordinary hazel color stared back at her in the looking glass. Stared beyond her reflection, so singular and richly imprinted with her life
’s experiences as a homely child, and a daughter at that. There she found a profile so strong that it had virtually compelled her to develop a character to match.

With Enya
’s coming of age there had also been a coming to terms with her unconventional looks. It had paralleled her emergence from the shadows of her mother and father and brothers.

For years she had refused to look at her reflection, to see her nose, though patrician, too large for her face. Her distinctly square jaw with her cleft chin was too severe to ever be
considered feminine.

Now she saw that her face had grown into proportion to her nose. That, while not beautiful, the young woman staring back at her with that unnerving direct scrutiny possessed uncommon looks. Striking was perhaps a better description.

Her old litany, "I might not have the physical perfection, but I’m going to think myself into being beautiful," had almost come to pass.