Forbidden to the Highland Laird--A Historical Romance Award Winning Author Read online

  When Ailsa stumbled, he was quick to reach out and steady her. Something ignited within him, a sudden rush that heightened his senses.

  Only by a supreme effort of will did Logan resist the temptation to kiss her. She was an innocent. She had put herself under his protection and he must not abuse that trust!

  “Careful now. I know you would dearly like to tell me to go to the devil, madam.”

  “I should not be so uncivil,” she retorted. “It is merely

  that I hardly know you.”

  “How so?” he teased her. “Have you forgotten we danced together on the night of the ceilidh?”

  Was it his imagination or did her hand tremble on his arm? What might she have thought if he had told her how much he had enjoyed that dance in the moonlight? What hopes might he have raised? Hopes that he could not fulfill because he had left his heart in England.

  To mislead her in such a way would not be the action of an honorable man. It would be the action of a scoundrel.

  Author Note

  Since I moved to the remote Highlands of Scotland eighteen months ago, it was inevitable that the wild beauty of this remote and magical place would inspire me to write a book set here. Forbidden to the Highland Laird is the result.

  Logan and Ailsa’s story is set in the early days of the eighteenth century, when life in the rugged Highlands was harsh. Most people were farmers or fishermen, there were few roads and only the rich owned horses. Allegiance was to the clan rather than to the government in far-off Edinburgh, and clan chiefs took their responsibilities seriously.

  For someone more accustomed to writing about the English Regency, I have had to do a lot of research, and I am still learning! My Scottish friends have been extremely generous with sharing their knowledge and I am especially grateful to my fellow author Mairibeth MacMillan; I owe her a huge debt for checking over the Gaelic words I have sprinkled throughout the story. Any errors I have made with this ancient and fascinating language and also any mistakes in the interpretation of Scottish history are entirely my own.

  Writing this book has been such a joy. I hope you will love Ailsa and Logan as much as I do.

  Happy reading, as ever.

  SARAH MALLORY

  Forbidden to the

  Highland Laird

  Sarah Mallory grew up in the West Country, England, telling stories. She moved to Yorkshire with her young family, but after nearly thirty years living in a farmhouse on the Pennines, she has now moved to live by the sea in Scotland. Sarah is an award-winning novelist with more than twenty books published by Harlequin Historical. She loves to hear from readers; you can reach her via her website at sarahmallory.com.

  Books by Sarah Mallory

  Harlequin Historical

  The Scarlet Gown

  Never Trust a Rebel

  The Duke’s Secret Heir

  Pursued for the Viscount’s Vengeance

  His Countess for a Week

  The Mysterious Miss Fairchild

  Saved from Disgrace

  The Ton’s Most Notorious Rake

  Beauty and the Brooding Lord

  The Highborn Housekeeper

  The Infamous Arrandales

  The Chaperon’s Seduction

  Temptation of a Governess

  Return of the Runaway

  The Outcast’s Redemption

  Brides of Waterloo

  A Lady for Lord Randall

  Lairds of Ardvarrick

  Forbidden to the Highland Laird

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To the Romantic Novelists’ Association, celebrating sixty wonderful years of romance.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Widow’s Scandalous Affair by Lucy Ashford

  Chapter One

  The Highlands of Scotland—1720

  There was a small stone chapel at the centre of the burial ground. It had sheltered the remains of the Rathmore clan chiefs for generations and had been freshly turfed before the latest interment, which had taken place a month ago. A month before Logan Grant Rathmore’s arrival. Now, he stood alone in the chapel, silently regarding the stone slab that recorded the name of his father as well as that of his mother, who had died three years earlier. United at last in the grave.

  It grieved him that he had not been present for the passing of either of his parents. The letter warning Logan of his father’s illness had reached Hampshire only a day before the express telling him of the old Laird’s decease. He thought bitterly that the adage of bad news travelling fast obviously did not apply to letters penned more than six hundred miles away in the Highlands of Scotland.

  After a tortuous journey north, Logan had arrived last night to find his father buried and Ardvarrick in mourning. However bitter his regrets at not being able to speak one last time with his father, there was nothing Logan could do to change that.

  With a final nod of reverence towards the tomb, he left the chapel and stopped for a moment at the entrance to button his coat. He had forgotten how the cold could cut through to the bone here, even in early September. Frowning, he stared around the burial ground, then he looked out over the low stone wall to the sea loch beyond, where the grey waters tossed restlessly beneath a lowering sky. This was his inheritance, this bleak, harsh land of mountains, streams and lochs on the western edge of the Highlands. He had known he would have to return one day and take up his duties, but not yet. Not at six-and-twenty.

  Turning quickly, Logan strode out of the burial ground to join his cousin, who was waiting at the roadside with the horses.

  ‘Are ye done, master?’

  Logan frowned as he took the reins of his horse. ‘You have no need to call me master, Tamhas.’

  ‘But you are clan chief and Laird of Ardvarrick now, and I am to look after you, since you’ve no servants with ye. ’Tis not seemly that I should call you anything else.’

  ‘Then call me master in company, if you must, but in private you will use my name, do you understand?’ Logan climbed into the saddle and turned his horse. ‘Come on. I want to go home.’

  ‘Back to England?’

  Logan threw him an impatient glance. ‘I meant Ardvarrick. This must be my home now.’

  He kicked his horse on, leading the way along the well-worn track that ran between the meadows to the house, a recent and substantial building on two storeys, built in the French style. When Logan had left the Highlands ten years ago to finish his education in England and abroad, his father had been drawing up plans for a new house, a building he considered more appropriate for the Lairds of Ardvarrick. His mother had included sketches and a description of the proposed dwelling in her letters. It was a far cry from the blackhouse, the low, thatched building that had been the home of his youth.

  Sadly, his mother had never lived to see the new house completed. Logan had been und
ertaking a tour of Europe when she died and by the time the news reached him it was too late to return for her burial. Logan had chosen to remain in England with his maternal family, rather than travel back to the land of his birth.

  Until now.

  ‘Ye really mean to live here, then?’ Tamhas pressed him.

  ‘I have no choice. I am the Laird.’

  ‘If you are that set against it, an agent could collect the rents for ye.’

  ‘I’ve not yet been home a day, Tamhas, are ye so eager to be rid o’ me?’

  Logan heard himself slipping back into the familiar brogue of his early years as he teased his old playmate. Tamhas had remained at Ardvarrick when Logan went south, but they had fallen into their old, easy ways within hours of his return.

  ‘Nay, man, I’m fair pleased to see you back, but you always spoke so well o’ Hampshire in your letters. I thought you was settled there.’

  Logan’s heart contracted. He had thought so, too, but that was only ever a dream. A dream that had been shattered when his proposal to Lady Mary Wendlebury had been so brutally rejected.

  It was not only her father’s scathing refusal to allow him to offer for her, but her own laughter when he had dared to declare himself.

  ‘La, how droll you are, Mr Rathmore, to think I could ever love a man who is so, so Scotch!’

  * * *

  He had been a callow youth, just one-and-twenty, when he had laid his heart before Lady Mary Wendlebury. Five years on, her words still cut into him like a knife. He had embarked upon the Grand Tour, hoping to eradicate his Scottishness and try his luck again, but when he returned it was to the news that Lady Mary had married the aged, but very rich, Earl of Fritchley.

  He said now, ‘No, Tamhas. I am my father’s heir and I mean to do my duty as the new Laird of Ardvarrick.’

  Shaking off the memories, Logan touched his heels against the horse’s flanks and cantered on to the stables.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Logan set off from Ardvarrick to pay a call upon his neighbour, Fingal Contullach. He was accompanied by Tamhas and two of his men, not that he feared for his safety, but he knew Fingal Contullach would expect him to arrive with an escort, as befitted the new Laird.

  It was a clear, calm day. The trees were a glowing mix of green, gold and russet in the bright sunshine and there was as yet no sign of snow on the distant mountains. In Hampshire, on such a day as this, his aunt would be planning an outing of pleasure. A carriage drive or a picnic, perhaps, with their friends, the Stewkeleys at Hinton Ampner. If Logan had still been there, he would be going with them. He would be anticipating a day of pleasure, not a difficult meeting with a curmudgeonly neighbour.

  They had left Ardvarrick land and were travelling through thick woods when he heard it, a bright tinkling sound that at first he thought was water in the burn, but as they moved on the sounds grew louder. He recognised a melody. Someone was playing a harp, the sweet, clear notes carrying to him on the slight breeze. The path continued through the woods, but to one side the pines thinned out and the ground fell away to the edge of a loch whose waters reflected the clear blue of the sky. And sitting on the rocks at the side of the loch was a young woman.

  Logan silently waved to his men to stop. From the shelter of the trees he watched her playing the harp, the sun glinting off the silver strings as they moved beneath her fingers. It was a very agreeable picture and her appearance was much in keeping with the surroundings. Her kirtle and cape echoed the varied greens of the lush grass while her long hair was reddish brown and gold, like the autumn moors and the bracken that covered the hill slopes on the far side of the loch.

  ‘Wait here,’ Logan ordered, keeping his voice low. ‘The sight of all of us might frighten the lady.’

  He dismounted and made his way forward alone. The harpist was intent on her music and did not hear him approach. It was only when the little pony grazing nearby raised its head that the woman realised she was not alone. Her hands flattened on the strings, killing the bell-like sounds as she turned her head to look at him.

  He said quickly, ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.’ With a smile that he hoped would reassure her, he swept off his hat and made a flourishing bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rathmore of Ardvarrick.’

  ‘The new Laird?’

  He found himself being appraised by a pair of violet eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes.

  ‘The very same. I had not expected to hear such beautiful music this morning. I pray you will not stop on my account. And if you do not object, I should like to rest here a while.’ He sat down on a stone, keeping a good distance between them, but when she remained silent, he said gently, ‘Pray continue with your music, ma’am. I should very much like to hear more of it.’

  He could not detect any fear in her eyes and she continued to regard him in an unselfconscious way. After a slight hesitation she began to play again, this time a merry reel that plucked at his memory. He sat forward, listening intently.

  ‘I recall that piece,’ he said, when the music stopped and she muted the strings. ‘My grandmother was wont to play it. I remember her telling me her father had been a fine harper and highly regarded. He played for some of the most powerful families in the land. My English mother preferred the spinet, but I grew up with Grandmama’s jigs and reels, which I especially enjoyed. I cannot recall hearing the clàrsach for many years. I have been in England, you see.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘And they do not have music?’

  Her voice was soft and lilting, with a melodic quality all of its own.

  ‘They have a great deal of it,’ he assured her, smiling. ‘Alas, on the rare occasion I heard the harp, it was played by young ladies of much fashion, but little musical ability. Nothing as good as this.’

  He saw a blush paint her cheeks before she turned her face away. She picked up a silver tuning key and began to adjust the strings, the movements of her slender fingers deft and assured. She appeared to have forgotten him and he thought with some surprise that she was not overly discomposed by his presence.

  ‘Is this a favourite spot for you to practise?’

  ‘Contullach harpers have come here to play for generations,’ she told him, waving a hand at her makeshift seat. ‘These are the harp stones, perfectly proportioned for the harper to sit on one and rest the foot of the clàrsach on the other. Even the loch is called Loch nan Clàrsairean—the Loch of the Harpers.’

  ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘How should you?’ Her unselfconscious gaze swept over him again. ‘You are a stranger to Contullach.’

  He laughed at that. ‘I am no stranger. I lived at Ardvarrick or at school in Edinburgh for the first sixteen years of my life, before being sent off to England.’

  ‘But this is Contullach land,’ she pointed out. ‘You have no authority over it and the people of Ardvarrick keep away. I doubt you ever ventured here.’

  ‘Not often, I admit,’ he conceded. ‘I am sorry to say our families were never on good terms.’ Raids between the neighbours were not unheard of, even now. Logan looked around the deserted glen and thought of his men concealed in the woods behind him. ‘Are you not afraid to be here, alone?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘Why should I be? I am Contullach’s kinswoman.’

  ‘But this is rough country. Wild and savage. I am surprised he allows you to come here without an escort.’

  ‘I can look after myself. The people know me.’ Her head came up and she gave him a challenging look. ‘It would be a foolish man who incurred the wrath of Fingal Contullach by attacking his harper.’

  Logan grinned. ‘Foolish, perhaps, but a man might risk much to steal a kiss from a pretty woman.’

  Her eyes darkened angrily and he put up his hands. ‘Be assured I would not attempt such an outrage, mistress, but there are many who might.’ He rose. ‘
I am on my way to Contullach Castle now. Will you not allow me to escort you back?’

  She shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I have not yet finished my practice. It is a rare fine day and there will not be too many more before winter.’

  ‘Aye, the winters here can be damnable, as I recall.’ He grimaced at the thought. ‘Very well, I will leave you, but I beg you will take care. I wish you good day, mistress.’

  With another bow he turned and walked back towards the trees. It went against his instinct to leave her there alone, but, as she had reminded him, this was not his land. Yet however much he told himself that she was not his responsibility, it was an effort not to turn back and look at her, especially when she began to play again, the notes falling on his ears like a siren song.

  * * *

  Ailsa concentrated on the music, keeping her fingers moving, plucking the strings of another familiar piece. She really needed to practise the tune she had composed for the forthcoming gathering at Contullach, but she could not do that until the new Laird of Ardvarrick had gone on his way. His presence disturbed her. It had been as much as she could do to play anything, with him sitting so close.

  It was his strange style of dress, she told herself. The coat, top boots and doeskin breeches were much finer than anything she had seen before and so very different from the tartan trews or the belted plaid worn by her kinsmen. She had heard talk at Contullach Castle about the new Laird. They said his years in England had made him soft, a weak Sassenach, unfit to take charge of Ardvarrick, but having seen him, Ailsa was not so sure. His shoulders filled the fine wool riding jacket perfectly and he moved with the lithe grace of a wild animal. Strong, healthy. Leader of his pack.

  She gave a tut of frustration and tore her eyes away from his retreating form. She could only be thankful that he had not looked back and found her watching him. He had said he was on his way to the castle and it was possible she would meet him on the road when she eventually made her way back. Unless Fingal persuaded the new Laird of Ardvarrick to accept his hospitality and stay the night.