Samantha James
Authors: Bride of a Wicked Scotsman
Bride of a Wicked Scotsman
From out of the mists and magic steeped in time…
The day began as any other.
Go to him, Maura. Seek him out.
Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, stood at the edge of…
I prefer to dance naked around the fire. I fear…
Alec woke the next morning with a hammer pounding dully…
On her wedding day, Maura woke to the sweet sound…
The crossing across the North Channel was rough. Waves splashed…
Alec installed himself in front of the fireplace, long legs…
It is a marriage nonetheless…I merely wish to set about…
It was Mrs. Yates who came to fetch Maura. She…
Two days later Maura rode a dappled gray mare to…
Upon their arrival at the train station in Glasgow, Alec…
When Maura woke, the bed was empty. She had slept…
Fast in the grip of a powerful desire, his erection…
Alec returned to Gleneden late the following afternoon. He found…
Maura made a choked sound. Stricken, her gaze lifted to…
Sprawled above her, Alec was still gasping for air when…
The silence that followed was brittle. Brutal.
Early in the afternoon, Alec decided to look in on…
They lay there for a long time, Alec watching the…
Maura had long since abandoned the choice to wait until…
They married in the church on the hill. The Circle…
An Ancient Irish Myth
From out of the mists and magic steeped in time came a myth—a myth that was born on the lands of the people who came to be called the Clan McDonough. It was here, on the very tip of the peninsula, in this place where the wind meets sea and sky, and the sky the earth, where Druids reigned and pagans came to worship their Celtic gods in a temple ringed with standing stones. It is here, said the tale, that the Circle of Light first came to be, conjured by the Druid priests. Conjured up from sea and sky, water and earth, a symbol of the eternal cycle of life. Of purest silver it was made, a simple pattern, weaved together, a circle that had no end and no beginning.
The Circle of Light resided high upon an altar of stone—floating, suspended with a power of its own, slowly rotating, ever turning, shimmering with myriad color and warmth. The Druids proclaimed that all people of the Clan McDonough who worshiped—all who believed in its powers of endurance—would be blessed.
So wondrous was the Circle of Light that St. Patrick himself came to see it. He, too, blessed the Circle, and all of the McDonough and their lands. He decreed that it should remain forever in this place of ancient worship; the clan was charged with its guardianship. In thanks for this blessing, the Clan McDonough built their church in honor of St. Patrick, bringing fortune and favor to their lands and people.
As time and tide went by, the McDonough came to believe that to lose the Circle of Light—this enduring cycle of life—would be to lose their good fortune. Such was their belief. Such was their faith. Night after night throughout the centuries, in the church of St. Patrick, the Circle of Light was seen through the window to the north, casting out its glow. Shifting and shimmering through mist and moonlight and the darkest night, bringing forth luck and prosperity to the lands of the McDonough as promised. Like a crown of warmth and hope, its light could not be dimmed.
Until the night the Black Scotsman came plundering across the seas, to the land of the McDonough, where he seized the Circle for his own…
And the truth of the legend came to be.
The day began as any other.
Yet for some vague reason, Lady Maura O’Donnell reflected, something seemed different that day.
While the curtain of night retreated, dawn began its awakening. Snug in the warm nest of her bed at Castle McDonough, Maura watched as pale pink light hovered as far as the eye could see; it banished the shadows and deepened to amber and rose, at last spilling across the earth until it poured through the open curtains.
Ha! Whoever said that it rained in Ireland more than anywhere in the world had never lived here, on the northernmost tip of the isle!
Wide-awake now, Lady Maura rose from her
bed. It was mid-June, but the mornings carried a chill yet. There was no rug on the floor, so she yanked back her toes at the feel of the cold wood. Jen the housekeeper had seen the once grand carpet beneath the four-poster whisked away while Maura was gone one day. A hazard and a relic, Jen declared with a glint in her eye, daring Maura to refute it when she yelped at its absence. Maura admitted that Jen was right when the threadbare carpet joined the burn pile and burst into flames thrice her height—why, thrice the height of Jen’s husband Murdoch, truth be told.
Papa had promised her another the next time they made the trip to Dublin.
Maura hadn’t reminded him. It was she who kept the books. There were no funds for such extravagances as beautiful, hand-woven carpets. The household staff had grown smaller through the years, as more rooms of the drafty castle were closed off. Now it was only the earl, herself, Murdoch, and Jen who resided in the main section of the castle. Maura’s mother had died before she was six; she could scarcely remember her.
Shivering, she finally braved the cold floor and scampered toward the washstand. A floor-board creaked. She paused and glanced down,
only to stub a toe on the edge of the next. Stopping, she ran the other toe along the loose edge of the long, pitted plank. As she washed her face, then combed her hair and tied it back with a length of ribbon, she decided she would have to call Patrick the Woolly in to fix it before she fell flat on her face. Her father had always claimed that Patrick the Woolly—not a soul in the valley called him otherwise—was the best carpenter in County Donegal. And he was, provided one used his services early in the day, before he’d had a pint too many. And if she did not have it fixed posthaste, her father would be wondering if she herself had imbibed with Patrick the Woolly.
A wistful sigh escaped. How dearly she wished there were funds to see the castle restored to its former glory. Oh, how Papa would beam…But she knew it would never be so. Little by little it had become necessary to begin selling off items of value. They were not destitute, not yet, but she feared that someday it might come to—
No. No. She must not think like that. She had to believe that better days were ahead.
Elsewhere in the castle, the morning ritual had begun as well. Maura heard her father’s boots cross the floor in his room at the end of the hall. Slipping into her petticoats and gown,
she heard Murdoch’s heavy footfalls on the stairs. More creaks there than she could count, she decided.
A heavy door opened, then closed. Another creak. Maura stifled a sigh and turned. As always, Jen’s timing was impeccable.
The shorter woman gave a curtsy, as much as her portly form would allow. “Good morning to you, milady.”
“Milady? What?” Maura teased. “What misdeed have I done that I have lost your good graces?”
The older woman shook her head. It was a long moment before she lifted her head. Maura stared. Her eyes seemed overly bright. Was she…
“Jen. Jen, what is this? Why these tears?” Maura grabbed her hands and pulled her into her room. “Jen, tell me! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” Jen spoke strongly, then her tone wavered. “It’s just that—well, you are a lady, Maura, a most beautiful one at that.”
Maura was still stunned, taken aback at the tears Jen couldn’t quite hide, the unsteadiness of her tone that she couldn’t control. She scoured her mind but couldn’t recall ever seeing Jen cry before. Not even when both her sons had left for America, and she and Murdoch knew they’d likely never see them again.
“Jen,” she whispered, and all at once there was a huge lump in her throat.
“You’ve grown up before I even knew it. And I—I thought you should know. I oft tend to see you as a child. But you’re a lady,” Jen said again. “So much a lady and so beautiful you bring tears to my eyes. Soon, Maura, some dashingly handsome young man will appear and take you away as his bride. I’ll miss you, Maura. I’ll miss you so.” Trying desperately to smile, she smoothed one velvety black curl that lay on Maura’s shoulder.
Touched beyond words, Maura reached out, wrapped her arms around Jen’s sturdy form and hugged her tight. After the death of her mother, her father had never remarried, and Jen, the woman who raised her, was the only motherly figure she’d ever known. She had comforted her, tended her scrapes—and oh, there were many!—and scolded her soundly when she was into mischief. Why, both Jen and Murdoch had done so. They were more than servants. Much more.
They were her family, as much as her father.
For a long time they stood that way, clinging to each other. In the back of Maura’s mind was that same sensation as when she woke…that something was different. Yet still it eluded her.
Finally, Maura drew back, searching Jen’s face. There were new wrinkles there—and it was something she had never noticed until now. With her thumbs she traced them, tiny grooves etched into the housekeeper’s cheeks. To Maura they were not wrinkles of age, but those of beauty—a beauty that came with life and loving and giving—beauty that bespoke her character and goodness and spirit.
“I shall not be going anywhere, Jen.” Maura sniffed, striving for a smile and succeeding. “Why, the only young men I know are most certainly not dashingly handsome. Those I know of the male gender are still throwing stones at their sisters! So I’m hardly ready to acquire a husband or become a bride.” She stuck out her tongue, making Jen laugh even as the housekeeper wiped away her tears with the corner of her apron.
Castle McDonough was her home, Maura thought. In truth, she could not imagine ever leaving the land of her ancestors.
They hugged again, then parted ways as Maura continued down the hall. She’d heard her father call for his newspaper—the footsteps on the stairs had been Murdoch delivering it. The newspaper from Derry was usually a day or so late, but it was the earl’s habit to read the news and sip a leisurely cup of tea before venturing downstairs for break
fast. Maura rapped lightly on the door to wish her father good morning.
There was no response.
She rapped once more. When he didn’t answer, she opened the door and poked her head inside. “Papa,” she said laughingly, “I do believe you and Jen have contrived to play games with me—”
She broke off.
“Papa?” she whispered, and then it was a cry. “Papa!”
Her father stared at her, an expression such as she had never seen before on his face. Shock, surely. And…something else. Something she couldn’t define. He was white as snow. The newspaper he had been reading fluttered to the floor, while the earl struggled to push himself to his feet.
Maura rushed forward, screaming for Murdoch. She managed to wedge a shoulder beneath her father’s just as he would have pitched forward. Wrapping her arms around him, sheer force of will helped to keep him upright—her father was not a small man—until Murdoch arrived to help him to his bed.
Her father fell back. His skin was ashen. He tried to rise, then fell back again. He sought to speak, yet could not.
Maura laid a hand on his chest. “Shhh,” she soothed. “Stay where you are, Papa. Let it pass.”
But whatever had overtaken him, he fought it. She sensed it; saw it in the anger and frustration and myriad expressions that chased across his face. His lips parted. Once again he sought to speak.
Maura took a deep breath, steadying herself even as panic loomed. She had never seen him like this.
She glanced back at Murdoch, who stood beside the bed. “Summon a physician,” she said, keeping her voice low. She was aware that fear lay vivid in her eyes as she looked at Murdoch, but she revealed no sign of it in her tone. Nor would she allow her father to see it.
All at once she could feel the heat emanating from his body. She laid her fingers on his forehead. He burned with fever. His eyes squeezed shut, then opened. He gazed at her, through eyes as green as the fields in the valleys far beyond—eyes the color of hers. All at once they clouded over.
“You know what this is, Maura. You know.”
“You’ve taken a chill, Papa. That is all—”
“It is always thus for the lords of McDonough. You cannot fight it, child. You cannot stop it. It happened just this way to my father, and my father’s father before him. Death, without warning. Death, so unexpected, to the lords of McDonough.
Since the time of Randall O’Donnell, grandfather to my grandfather!”
Anguish twisted across his face.
“Ah, Maura!” His cry of regret was almost pitiful. “The McDonough were once among the most powerful clans in Ireland, lass—our home, Castle McDonough, a powerful stronghold, safeguarded by our blessed Circle of Light. But no longer. Why, not for…what? A hundred years or more—no, nearly two! Two hundred years since the night the Circle was stolen from our church by that blackguard, the Black Scotsman!”
Behind her, where Jen hovered, Maura heard the other woman suck in a breath. From the corner of her eye she saw Jen cross herself. It had been thus throughout her life. Even now, those who still remained on the land of the McDonough crossed themselves at the very mention of the Black Scotsman’s name.
Inside, Maura trembled. To hear him speak so…A sickening rush of certainty swept over her. Always, he was hearty and robust. Always. Now, to see her father like this…to hear him speak with such anguish…it was like a knife in the heart. Despair encircled her. She tried to stave it off. She would not be weak. She must be strong for both of them.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Papa, it is only—”
“Nay, child. It is not myth. Not legend. You know it as well as I! From the night the Circle was stolen, a shadow stole across our lands, the lands that belonged to our family—to the earls of McDonough! My grandfather spoke of it—how the rolling fields of our valleys, so fertile and thick with crops, grew ever more barren, year after year. Sorrow and misfortune have been our legacy.”
She knew of what he spoke. The Circle. The Circle of Light. God, she almost hated it.
It spun through her mind how the church had been laid waste by fire nearly a hundred years ago. It was rebuilt by the people, for this was the church of the ancients, the church of St. Patrick. But then a fierce windstorm such as the isle had never known blew it to the ground. Again it was rebuilt, but even then those who had been loyal to the clan for centuries began to depart, family by family. And when the Famine spread across the land, there were some who believed the curse had spread across the whole of Ireland.
If only she could refute it. But she could not. She had only to climb high to the hills to see it, to know it for the truth.
Maura could not remember a time when she hadn’t known of the havoc wrought when the Circle was stolen. One of her forebears was known to cover his ears and run for the earthen cellar when storms battered the headland. Their castle towered on the tip of the peninsula, the once fertile valleys below. It was said he believed the castle would fall into the seas, as the kitchens of Dunluce Castle had in the year 1639.
Castle McDonough remained. Outside McDonough land, the rolling hills beyond still flourished, while the lands of the McDonough began to wither and die. Little by little, year by year.
An awful foreboding seized hold of her, flooded her entire body like a shroud from which there was no escape. It was as if she knew the outcome of this night…even before it happened.
No, she told herself. No!
With shaking hands she removed his boots, then pulled up the coverlet. He moaned and thrust it aside.
“It calls to me. The Circle calls to me. It cries out to come home. It cries out that I have failed to bring it home—failed as our ancestors have failed.” Something strange passed over her father’s eyes. “I can hear it,” he whispered, his tone almost haunted. “This is my punishment, Maura. This
is my judgment for failing to seek the Circle, to claim it and guard it as we were charged. Randall O’Donnell spent the remainder of his days seeking the Black Scotsman, to reclaim the Circle and return it to the church where it belongs, that our family and lands would once again be blessed!”
Maura went very still inside.
“To no avail,” she reminded him quietly. Randall never succeeded, nor did any of his sons. One by one the Clan McDonough abandoned their quest. It was rumored the Black Scotsman was a nobleman. Whoever he was, his identity was destined to forever remain secret, the Circle forever lost.
Her father railed, “I should have tried. Why did I not? I should have taken to the sea. To Scotland!”
Maura smoothed his brow. “Too many years have passed, Papa. Too many to—”
She broke off as he tried to rise and failed. A spasm racked his body. “You see, Maura? Death will take me. Death will take me this day.”
Her heart wrenched. “Do not say such things,” she pleaded, choking back her fear—her tears. “You will not die, Papa.”
By the time the door was flung open and Murdoch arrived with the physician, Dr. Mulligan, her
father alternately burned with fever, then shivered as if he’d been plunged into the icy waters of the sea.
Maura leaped to her feet. “Help him,” she pleaded. “Help him please!”
Dr. Mulligan peered at her over his spectacles. “Let us see what can be done,” he said gently. He motioned her outside, along with Murdoch and Jen.
Tensely, they waited. When Dr. Mulligan finally emerged, Maura stepped forward.
“What is wrong with him?” she asked. “What ails him? Tell me you can save him!”
The good doctor’s manner was one of resignation. It was unmistakable. He removed his spectacles, blew on them and rubbed them with his handkerchief, as if searching his mind for the right words. He settled them on his nose again before he cleared his throat.