Hard-Hearted Highlander--A Historical Romance Novel Read online

  No wonder Avaline was so shaky.

  He didn’t say a word, but continued to stare at her, and she could feel that look piercing clean through her as a muscle worked in his jaw, as if he was biting his tongue. Bernadette stared back at him. Did he want to speak? Then speak. Did he want something of her? Ask. Was he perhaps only surprised to find her here? Or did he always stomp about looking so displeased and disgruntled?

  Barabel returned to the kitchen, dipped a curtsy to him and spoke in the Scots language. He responded with few words in a tone so low and silky that Bernadette suppressed a small but surprising little shiver. Barabel disappeared once more, and he sidled up to the table, staring down at her plate. He picked up a piece of chicken and ate it.

  Well, then. She could add ungentlemanly to her growing list of dislikes about him.

  “Have you had your fill, then?”

  The beast spoke after all. No, she hadn’t had her fill, and yes, she was still hungry. But she resisted the urge to look longingly at her food. “Yes. Thank you.”

  He ate another bite, then folded his arms across his chest and turned away from her a moment. Then back again, those dark eyes piercing hers again. “Is it the custom in England for a servant to invade the kitchen of another man’s house?”

  Invade? He made it sound as if she’d entered with an army demanding bread. “Not at all. Unfortunately, I missed—”

  “Aye, my brother has told me.”

  Then why, pray tell, did he ask? “I beg your pardon,” she said, and moved to pass him. But he shifted slightly, blocking her path. Bernadette lifted her gaze to his—she could see nothing but hardness in his eyes, could feel nothing but coldness radiating off of him. There was something very dark about him that Bernadette was certain there was not a bit of kindness in him. She thought of Avaline, how gentle and young and naive she was. To be married to this man? She couldn’t help herself—another shiver ran down her.

  He noticed it. “Do you find the Scottish night too fuar for your thin English blood?”

  “I hardly know what that means. But I will own that my thin English blood finds churlishness to be jarring.”

  Her remark surprised him, clearly—she saw something spark in him, and one brow rose slowly above the other. “You are bloody well bold for a maid,” he said, his gaze moving over her body, taking her in so boldly and unapologetically that she could feel her skin begin to heat under his perusal.

  “And you are bloody well discourteous for a gentleman,” she returned. She tried to slip past him, but he refused to move, and her arm brushed against his chest as she maneuvered around him. Once clear of him, she refused to sprint, as she very much wanted to do. She walked calmly away from him in spite of her racing her heart, her back ramrod-straight, her chin lifted. She could feel his gaze on her back, could feel it slicing between her shoulder blades and piercing her through.

  It is no small miracle that Bernadette found her way back to her small antechamber. She dressed for bed and collapsed onto the straw mattress, her heart still beating faster than it ought to have. She tried desperately to sleep, but she kept seeing his dark eyes, the color of a stormy sea, boring into her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE TERMS OF the tochradh, or dowry, were agreed upon the next morning while Bernadette was at breakfast, a meal she was determined not to miss.

  She noticed that the other people in the hall sat as far from the Kent party as possible, looking askance at them if acknowledging them at all. She had never in her life met with such inhospitable surroundings and was quite relieved when it came time to gather her and Avaline’s things and depart that gloomy castle.

  The Kent family, including Bernadette, would travel to Killeaven by means of an old coach. She couldn’t guess where his lordship might have come by it, but it looked ancient, the paint having faded and the wheels on the verge of rot. The rest of the party, including Avaline’s uncle and the servants, would come by foot and in a wagon. The furnishings they’d brought with them would be carried up from the ship in a separate transport.

  Lady Mackenzie had introduced them to Niall MacDonald, who was to accompany them on horseback. She explained that Mr. MacDonald had been dispatched from Balhaire to help them settle in. He appeared younger than Bernadette’s twenty-nine years, and had a bad eye that wandered aimlessly as the other one looked directly at you.

  Avaline’s brutish fiancé did not appear to see them off, which Bernadette thought the height of uncivilized behavior. But his mother was there, and the lady was quite warm in her smiles and well wishes for them. “You will see some of our loveliest views on the road to Killeaven,” she assured them. “The glen is lush this time of year.” She took Avaline’s hand in hers. “Miss Kent, please do forgive my son’s absence this morning. Something has come up at Arrandale, our smaller estate, and where he currently resides. It required his immediate attention and he regretted deeply that he had to depart early this morning.”

  Bernadette turned her head so no one would see her roll her eyes.

  “Oh. I see,” Avaline said. But she clearly didn’t see, as her cheeks were coloring with uncertainty.

  Lady Mackenzie noticed it, too and said quickly, “But he means to call straightaway, just as soon as you’re settled.” She smiled reassuringly.

  Bernadette thought the lady’s smile was lacking something. Conviction, perhaps.

  They piled into the coach—Lord Kent going first, as was his habit. The coach lacked sufficient springs and swayed badly as each one climbed in. Bernadette sat next to Avaline, across from her parents, as they set off for the four-mile journey to Killeaven in the company of several armed men.

  “Why are they armed?” Avaline asked, looking out the window.

  “Hmm?” her father asked, distracted. He’d already been at the bottle. “Mackenzie sent them.” He shrugged, stifled a belch, then said, “Now then, girl, you’ll marry Mackenzie in three weeks’ time.”

  Avaline gasped and looked to her mother, who, as usual, remained silent. “So soon?”

  “Yes, so soon,” he said, mocking her. “Your mother and I can’t stay on forever.”

  Avaline gasped again. “You mean to leave me?”

  “Avaline, for heaven’s sake,” Lord Kent said with exasperation, and turned to his wife. “You have raised a simpleton, madam. Will you not say something?”

  Lady Kent clearly didn’t want to say anything, but she began hesitantly, “That—that is what your father—”

  “Something useful!” Lord Kent spat, and turned his burgeoning rage to Bernadette.

  “Ah...you will be married with your own house,” Bernadette said quickly. “It wouldn’t do for you to spend the first weeks or months of your married life with your parents, would it?” She glanced at Lady Kent, hoping for help, but Lady Kent had dropped her gaze to her lap, her confidence demolished years before Bernadette had come along.

  “That’s better,” Lord Kent said. “Stop weeping, Avaline,” he said, sounding resigned to it, and with a loud sigh, hunched down in his seat and propped his foot on the bench next to Bernadette. He turned his gaze to the window and closed his eyes.

  Bernadette put her hand on Avaline’s knee and squeezed tightly. She knew, after six years in the family’s employ, that nothing undermined Avaline worse in the eyes of her unforgiving father than her tears.

  Avaline didn’t stop weeping, but she did manage to stifle the sound of it.

  Bernadette turned her attention to the window, too, unwilling to talk to any of them any more than was absolutely necessary. As she watched the landscape slowly rolling along, she noticed a trio of riders. They were at a distance, but they had come to a halt, and the men on the horses were watching the coach. As the coach turned east with the road, the riders began to follow at a parallel for at least a half hour, at which point, they turned into the w
oods and disappeared.

  The coach began to slow, and they started down a hill, the road curving slowly to the floor of the glen. Bernadette could see the house on the banks of a river, backed up to a hill. She counted twelve chimneys—the house was not small. It rather reminded her of Highfield, her family’s home and where she’d happily grown up. Unfortunately, Highfield was not a happy place for her now.

  “See, Avaline?” Bernadette whispered, leaning across her to point. “This will be your house.”

  “What?” Lord Kent said, waking from his nap. He rubbed his face as he sat up.

  “It’s Killeaven, is it?” Avaline asked. She had long since ceased her tears, but her face was swollen and splotchy.

  “It is,” Bernadette said.

  They wended their way down and onto a drive that was overgrown, the shrubs and trees untended. “Is it empty?” Avaline asked.

  “Of course it is,” her father said impatiently. “Do you think we would move furnishings into another man’s house? The Somerleds have departed for greener pastures.” He chuckled. “Chased out like the traitors they were, I’ve heard told,” he added as the coach rolled to a halt. “Now, let me see what I have bought.” He opened the coach door and leaped to the ground. He didn’t bother to help anyone out, but let the carriage man do it. But the carriage man was apparently so unaccustomed to the job that he fairly flung them out of the coach.

  In the drive, Lady Kent slipped her arm through Avaline’s and held her close—for her own comfort or that of her daughter’s, Bernadette couldn’t guess. They followed behind Lord Kent as he marched forward to the door, threw it open and disappeared inside. Niall MacDonald was just behind them.

  Bernadette paused as the Kents entered and looked up at the house. She noticed some pocks in the stone facade. The windows looked rather new to her, but the door was weathered and shrubbery growing wild. It was a curious mix of neglect and new. She started for the door, looking at the land around the house, and noticed, with a start, the three riders again. They were on a hill overlooking Killeaven, watching.

  She hurried after the others.

  She found them all in the foyer, looking around. The foyer was very grand, two stories tall, with a double staircase curving up like two sides of a human heart, meeting in a wide corridor above. At their feet there were marble tiles with some rather curious gashes and marks. The walls were stone here, too, and Bernadette noticed the same pocks as outside.

  Mr. MacDonald stood with his hands clasped behind his back as Lord Kent marched about, opening and slamming doors.

  “What are these marks?” Bernadette inquired curiously, touching one of the pocks with her fingers.

  Mr. MacDonald glanced at the wall. “Left by musket fire, then.”

  “Muskets!” Bernadette repeated, sure that he had meant another word entirely.

  He fixed his good eye on her and said, “There was quite a fight for Killeaven, there was.”

  A fight? Bernadette looked around again, noticed the pocks everywhere in this grand entry and tried to imagine men firing guns at one another in such a grand home.

  “Miss Holly!” Lord Kent shouted from some interior room.

  Bernadette went in the direction of his voice and found him and his wife and daughter in what she assumed was a dining hall. “We’ll need a mason to see to these things,” he said, pointing to plaster molding overhead, which was crumbling in one corner.

  She didn’t understand why he was telling her and looked curiously at him.

  His gray brows floated upward. “Well? Make note, make note!” he demanded, and walked on.

  But she had nothing with which to make a note.

  She followed his lordship, and in the next room, he pointed out more things that, presumably, she was to make a note of, uncaring that she had nothing with which to write his wishes, and apparently expecting her to commit it all to memory.

  When he’d toured the house he said, “MacDonald has assured me the furnishings will arrive this afternoon. Go, go, now, busy yourselves,” he said, waving his hands at the ladies in a sweeping motion. “Where is my brother? Has the second coach not come along?” He marched out of the room.

  Bernadette waited until she was certain he was gone before looking back at Lady Kent and Avaline. “So much to do,” she said, smiling a little. “At least we’ll have something to occupy us.”

  Neither Kent woman looked convinced of that.

  The furniture did indeed arrive that afternoon, on a caravan of carts and wagons. The servants who had the misfortune of being dragged to Scotland scampered about, with the Kent butler, Renard, directing things to be placed here and there. It quickly became apparent that even with all they’d brought, filling the hold in the Mackenzie ship with beds and cupboards and settees, there was not enough to furnish this large house. Three bedrooms sat empty, as well as a sitting and a morning room.

  In the evening, before a cold meal was to be served, Lord Kent called Bernadette to him in the library. Its shelves still sported some of the books of the previous owners. There was no sign of muskets in this room.

  “Make a list of all we need, then send it to Balhaire,” he said without greeting.

  “Yes, my lord. To someone’s attention in particular?”

  “Naturally, to someone’s attention. The laird there.” He perched one hip on the desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Now, listen to me, Bernadette. You’ll have to do the thinking for Avaline.”

  “Pardon? I don’t—”

  “She’s a child,” he said bluntly. “She can’t possibly run a house this large, and her mother has been an utterly incompetent teacher.” He leaned forward, reached for a bottle and poured brandy into a glass. “You need to prepare her for this marriage.”

  Bernadette swayed backward. “I can’t take the place of her mother.”

  “You’ve been doing it these last few years,” he said. “And you have experience in this...inexperience,” he said, flicking his wrist at her. “I doubt her mother can recall a blessed thing about her wedding night.”

  Bernadette’s face began to warm. She was very uncomfortable with the directions of this conversation.

  “Come now, I don’t say it to demean you,” he said impatiently, trying to read her thoughts. “I say it to point out that you know more than you think. Teach her how to present herself to her husband. Teach her how to please a man.” He tossed the brandy down his throat.

  “My lord!” Bernadette protested.

  “Don’t grow missish on me,” he snapped. “She must please him, Bernadette. Do you understand me? As much as I am loath to admit it, I need those bloody Mackenzies to look after my property here. I want to expand my holdings, and I want access to the sea. Why should they have all the trade? If I fail to have them fully on board with me, I will not make these gains in a pleasant way, do you understand me? I am trusting you to ensure that little lamb knows to open her legs and do her duty.”

  Bernadette gasped.

  He clucked his tongue at her. “Don’t pretend you are a tender virgin. It was your own actions that put you in this position, was it not? You have benefited greatly from my employment of you when no one else would have you, and for that, you owe me your allegiance and your obedience. Do I need to say more?”

  Bernadette couldn’t even speak. She thought herself beyond being shocked by anything that happened in the Kent household, but he had shocked her.

  “Good. Now go and make sure her mother hasn’t frightened her half to death. And send Renard to me—surely we’ve brought some decent wine.”

  Bernadette nodded again, fearing that if she spoke, she would say something to put her position in serious jeopardy. She was shaking with indignation as she walked out of the library.

  It had been eight years since she and Albert Whitman had eloped, but sometimes
it felt as if it was yesterday. So desperately in love, so determined to be free of her father’s rules for her. They’d managed nearly a week of blissful union, had made it to Gretna Green, had married. They were on their way to his parents’ home when her father’s men found them and dragged the two of them back to Highfield.

  Bernadette had mistakenly believed that as she and Albert had legally married, and had lain together as husband and wife, that there was nothing her father could do. Oh, how she’d underestimated him—the marriage was quickly annulled, and Albert was quickly impressed onto a merchant ship. There was no hope for him—he was not a seaman, and was, either by accident or design, lost at sea several months later.

  She had learned a bitter, heart-rending lesson—a father would go to great lengths to undo something his daughter had done against his express wishes. A vicar could be bribed or threatened to annul a marriage. Men could be paid to impress a young man in his prime and put him on a ship bound for India. A woman could watch her reputation and good name be utterly destroyed by her own actions, and a father’s invisible shackles could tighten around her even more.

  After that spectacular fall from grace, everyone in and around Highfield knew what had happened. No one would even look at her on the street. Her friends fell away, and even her own sister had avoided her for fear of guilt by association.

  No one seemed to know about the baby she’d lost, however. No, that was her family’s secret. Her father would have sooner died than have anyone know his daughter had carried a child of that union.

  “Bernadette! There you are.”

  She hadn’t seen Avaline, who appeared almost from air and grabbed her hand. “I don’t like it here,” she whispered as she glanced over her shoulder at Mr. MacDonald, who was standing in the entry. “There is nothing here, nothing nearby.”

  “I’m sure there is,” Bernadette said. “I beg your pardon, Mr. MacDonald, but there is a village nearby, is there not?”

  “No’ any longer,” he said.