Kissed by the Laird

By Sydney Sloane

Desperate to save his clan and holdings, Ian MacLean listens reluctantly to his grandmother, Mo Daol’s whimsical tale of magic and myth of a Guardian. Unbeknownst to the young laird, the bone-carved key that has hung around his neck for the last year is enchanted, and will lead him to the sacred tome, the deed to Moy and the young woman who has been haunting his dreams. With the guidance of the eccentric Mo Daol, Ian is thrust in the 21st century, but will he be in time to save the mysterious woman of his dreams, his estate, and his clan?
Caroline Andrews is the sole survivor of a horrific car accident that claimed the lives of her parents. Caroline struggles with the nightmare of her past and with anxiety and guilt. To ease her pain, the young woman’s insightful grandmother assures her that fate intervened on that dreadful night. Then one night a group of strange men jeopardize Caroline’s life. It’s in those crucial moments, that she realizes her fears have kept her from truly living. Is Caroline’s will to live strong enough to break through the protective walls she’s built? Can she escape her captors, and learn to trust in life again, or will it take the honor of a handsome highland warrior to win her heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sydney Sloane
• Release date: Jul 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370527441

Sydney Sloane

Sydney Sloane is the Mom of eight, grandma of three! She loves all things Scottish! In her spare time, you can find Ms. Sloane biking, hiking, reading or doing a bit of photography! Besides her kids, Sydney lives with her husband and collie, Fionnlagh in central NC!

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Kissed by the Laird

Sydney Sloane

Copyright 2015 Sydney Sloane Kissed by the Laird Smashwords Edition

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No portion of this work may be reproduced by any means whatsoever without the explicit written consent of the author and the author's publisher. This work contains people who have been used in a fictionalized setting for the purpose of historical reference. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is used strictly for the embellishment of the story to lend creditable influence to the fictionalized work. The copyright laws of 1988, namely the Berne Convention Copyright Laws of 1988, and the Digital Millennium Copy Right Act of 1998, enacted by Congress protect this work from piracy and any transmission, trade, or sale through means electronic, printed, shared, or otherwise is strictly prohibited and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Cover art Design by Dark Water Arts Designs.

The final approval for this work was granted by the author. This book is published under Galaxy Press as a time travel romance-at Celestial Waters Publishing

Prologue

Moy Castle, 1500

Scotland

A bitter wind blew through the window of the sparsely lit chamber that held Hettie MacLaine captive. In and out of consciousness, she could not remember how many days had passed since her new husband, Stuart Campbell, banished her to the southeast tower of Moy.

Clad only in her thin wedding chemise, she lay upon a threadlike pallet with no covers. She no longer shivered as the raw ocean air connected with her delicate skin. The last of her trembling ceased hours ago, and the pains of hunger had dulled to a slight ache. The end was close. She was sure of it.

A young female voice whispered in the distance.

I must be dreaming, or perhaps my mind has finally gone over the edge.

A gentle knock came, and a tiny voice came again. "M’lady. Are ye well?

Was she hallucinating? The voice sounded familiar. She used the last of her strength to prop herself up onto her elbows. Mai… She winced when her voice cracked from the lack of use, and water.

Running her tongue across her parched lips, Hettie tried to speak. Mairi, is that ye? Just those few words angered her already irritated throat.

The little girl’s sigh of relief penetrated through the thick, wooden door. The grinding sound of metal on metal broke the silence. A few seconds later, the bolt released and the heavy door swept open. The rusty hinges screeched in protest.

At the sight of the bedraggled little girl, Hettie released tears of joy. For the first time in days, she had a sense of hope and her mood began to lighten.

The little girl hurried across the room. Within her arms, she carried several items. Once she was by Hettie’s side, she explained, Fenella gave me a book. Mairi placed the thick tome next to her on the floor. And forbid me to open it. She says only a MacLaine can beckon its magic.

Hettie eyed the cumbersome book while the little girl rummaged inside a bundled plaid. When she saw Mairi pull two bannocks out of the sack, her stomach rumbled. Lack of food for the last two days made them look like a veritable feast. Hettie devoured both bannocks and gazed over the book the Fae woman, Fenella, gave to the little girl. Once she licked every flake from her thumb, she sucked down the fresh water from the leather pouch. She closed her eyes, as the cool liquid eased her dry throat, and washed the meager meal down.

Hettie grimaced when she shifted the heavy tome in front of her, and caressed the frayed, leather cover and read the title aloud. Tir Nam Famhair…The Land of Giants. My grandmum told me this tale, though I have not heard it since I was a small child. Looking up at Mairi, she said. It’s a treasure to be sure, but I must admit I find the key that bid ye entry to be more valuable at the moment. Where did ye find the key, lass?

Auburn curls bobbed around the little girl’s face when she shook her head. I did not, m’lady. Fenella, she be the one who gave me this key. I have never seen anything like it before. It be carved from the bone of our ancestors, and tis magic she says and will open any door ye want. Her blue eyes grew larger when she spoke of the Fae’s magic. She says the key be more powerful than the tome, and that ye should guard it with your life. It will not just open any door, but the desires of your heart. All a body needs to do is go where the Fae magic flows strongest.

Hettie’s brow drew together at the girl’s words. Magic? Desires? She wrung her hands, as her eyes looked toward the chamber door that remained ajar. Stuart Campbell, her husband, could return at any moment, but she did not have the heart to stop the excited lass.

Fenella dug the book from the stump of a dead tree. Once again, the young girl’s eyes lit up. The goddess, Nichneven, gifted the MacLaine healer with the magical book one Samhain night long ago.

As Mairi recalled the day’s adventure, Hettie absorbed the old Fae woman’s predictions. The longer she listened to the child’s encounter the more the instructions made no sense. The most important thing is she had a key. Not just a key, but an enchanted one that would open any door she desired.

Palm up, Hettie reached out her hand. May I have the key, Mairi?

Once in her hand, she closed her fist around the treasure that would grant her the freedom she desperately sought, and clutched it to her chest.

There is one more thing…Fenella bid me to tell ye, though I did not fully understand her meaning. The little girl lowered her head and shuffled her feet. The book’s magic is verra powerful. The old Fae woman said to guard the book against those who would seek to use it to destroy the MacLaine’s. The little girl gnawed at her bottom lip.

That is not all is it, Mairi?

The little lass shook her head and whispered, Another shall come and bear the mark. It will be she that will fulfill the prophecy.

Prophecy? The time to relish her renewed hope slipped away.

Aye. That is why ye must leave this realm. When the time comes, ye will know of her arrival and aid in her training. The Guardian will need protecting at all cost. Without her, the MacLaine line of Moy will vanish.

"Training? Am I to teach her how to make a straight stitch, how to do inventory on Moy’s stores?

Fenella says… The little girl swallowed and looked down at her feet. She will have the sight though the Guardian may not know it yet, Fenella says she will need your guidance.

The mark, Mairi. What did ye say about the mark? Hettie’s words of concern stumbled forth.

The Guardian shall be marked by the image of a flaming sun, and though she does not yet know it…she will have the sight.

I canno’ think on all this now. I must see Mairi is safe abed in her own cottage, and I must flee. There will be time to dwell on the Fae woman’s words at a later time.

Looking back down at the girl, she spoke. Ye need to heed my words, Mairi. Ye have done your task well, but Campbell cannot find out ye aided me this night. There is no end to his perfidy, and though I may be too late to have saved the laird…..I would not have ye placed in danger.

Tears pooled in the girl’s eyes. Hettie’s heart pinched, as her own reserve started to crumble. Nay, lass. The lump in her throat made it difficult to speak. She pulled the girl to her chest and gave her a tight embrace. Do not shed tears. Ye are a wee brave girl and ye have done all I have asked.

When Hettie pulled the girl back, she motioned toward the darkened corridor and gave her a gentle prod. Go straight to your cottage, lass, and speak about this night to no one, and I swear ye shall be safe.

Without complaint, Mairi nodded and walked to the door. An emptiness filled the hollow walls of Hettie’s chest, when the girl’s tiny form slipped through the door into the darkness. She wrapped her arms around her waist and listened to the sound of the girl’s footsteps echo down the corridor until they disappeared. Never in her life had she felt so utterly alone.

The feel of the pointed bone key in Hettie’s hand encouraged her stand onto weakened legs. Bending over, she clutched the cumbersome tome to her chest. She rose back up too quickly and paused at the onslaught of dizziness. Grateful the wall was nearby, she used it to support herself and willed the room to stop spinning.

It felt as though she were in a dream, and stood outside her own body, as the last few minutes played out before her. A frigid gust blew in, and broke through the thin barrier of her chemise, as the cold mist from the loch cut deep into Hettie’s flesh. Her head pounded, as her body swayed back and forth. Bright shards of lights sparkled out the corner of her eyes and intensified as she pitched forward. The book fell from her hands and sailed across the chamber. An eerie, green glow encompassed all that surrounded her, as she waited for the leaden weight of her body to slam onto the unforgiving stone floor. It never came.

Through slit lids, she was met by the face of an angel. A rich, dark-eyed angel chiseled from stone. The angel of death was a man? The scent of sweat, salt air and sandalwood teased her nose and caused her limbs to relax. Her time had come, and she would embrace it.

Chapter One

Mounted upon his destrier, Ian MacLaine paused at the top of the grassy knoll. He looked down into the glen below, and scanned the valley and hoped that the dark-haired beauty returned. His eyes drifted to the swaying ancient alder tree. Ian released a pent up breath when he spotted her shiny brown locks glistening in the afternoon sun. She read beneath a giant alder tree with her legs crossed. She was back.

Ian gave his horse’s flank a kick and slowly descended the hill. His eyes took in the sight of the rich, green grass that blanketed the glen below. Careful not to frighten her off, Ian dismounted when he reached the bottom of the hill and crossed the field that was dotted by the pale yellow color of primroses. He bent over and plucked several of the dainty, fragrant blooms. All women loved flowers, didn’t they?

When Ian closed in upon her, the lass lifted her head and their eyes locked for several heartbeats before he spoke.

"I am…" Ian’s voice cracked. His throat went dry from having her near. She was truly the loveliest creature he had ever seen. She pushed the leather bound book from her lap and stood, her eyes locked onto his own. Ian’s palms grew clammy and he tugged at his tunic. Her eyes narrowed, before she took a step back.

Ian swallowed. Nay. His voice filled with panic. She could not leave him. Not before he got her name. I mean ye no harm, lass. He extended his arm and offered the tiny primroses that were still clutched in his fist.

Her hands twisted in front of her, as she stared at his meager peace offerings for several moments. Ian’s frantic heartbeat increased as each silent second in her presence passed. Then a slow, gentle smile spread across her face. She took a timid step forward and took the flowers from his hand.

The woman brought them to her nose, closed her eyes and inhaled their sweet scent. Thank you.

"Ye are quite welcome…"

"Caroline. Caroline Andrews."

Ian dried his sweaty palm down the front of his trews before he took the delicate fingers of her free hand. Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Caroline.

He raised it to his mouth and brushed his lips upon the soft, ivory skin of her hand. Then from out of nowhere, a strong gust of air bore down upon them, and the sun disappeared. The limbs of the alder swayed like giant arms, as though they warned of an approaching danger.

A fluttering sound drew his attention toward the tome, and Ian followed the sound with his eyes. Still lying beneath the tree was the heavy book Caroline was reading, the pages blown open by the force of the breeze. Compelled by a powerful pull toward the tome, Ian released Caroline’s hand and approached. Getting onto his haunches, Ian touched the worn leather edges of the cover. At his touch, thunder shook the ground beneath his feet and gave him a start. Dark clouds raced across the sky threatening to open the heavens up at any moment. He turned back to where he had left Caroline and his horse. Both were gone.

Ian MacLaine awakened for a second consecutive night by the peculiar dream. Even now in the daylight, Ian could envision the dark-haired beauty who haunted his dreams. Her silky tresses fell over one shoulder, as she read beneath an alder tree. The dreams never lasted more than a few moments, but were powerful enough to stir him from his slumber.

A rest before the mid-day meal was exactly what Ian needed, especially after his boorish demeanor at breakfast and then the rigorous training in the list. Even his clansmen skirted out of his sight when they saw him coming. If he were honest with himself, Ian hoped to fall fast asleep and visit with the irresistible beauty again. Caroline.

Ian shook his head at his last thought and muttered under his breath. "I’m starting to sound daft as Mo Daol.

Sleep would have to wait.

Ian had bigger problems. His cousin, Tam had just informed him that there was a Campbell in his keep requesting an audience. Rest would have to wait and would come easier once the scoundrel was gone.

Even as Ian MacLaine placed a hand on the brass knob to enter the room, he could hear the snide remarks from his men on the other side of the door. If he had not been awakened before the sun again this morn, Ian might have a taunt of his own for the unexpected guest.

The sound of his cousin, Tam’s voice shook Ian from his thoughts. He listened to Tam hurl another insult. Though the thought of his guest’s discomfiture pleased Ian, he knew he needed to put a stop to it.

Damon was nephew to the Tenth Earl of Argyll, and like all the other Campbell heirs before him, their greed knew no bounds, and they were notorious for always coveting what did not belong to them. Now the bugger stood in Moy’s study and requested to speak to him in regards—as the man put it— to a matter of utmost importance. There was a Campbell in his keep, and Ian knew from history this was no social call.

Seamus, I think some puir lad at Inverary must be running around bare-arsed. Looks like m’lord Campbell here has nicked the boy’s pants.

Ian bit back the urge to join in their mirth when the sound of raucous laughter penetrated the door.

The boisterous banter settled down, and he could hear the deep baritone of his captain, Seamus MacLeod’s admonish his cousin. "Haud your wheesh’d Tam!" They did as commanded, though Ian could still hear a few snorts linger afterward.

Another low-pitched brogue spoke out, so deep Ian felt the thick wood quake as it penetrated. Ivor. The man was wider than he was tall and like all highlanders, his hatred of all things English ran deep. Ivor had caused many fist-crunching brawls with his forthright speech and ability to prick a nerve.

Ivor’s words came forth, before Ian could even place a hand on the brass knob that would allow him entrance.

Your uncle, the earl is nothing but a traitorous whoremonger. Tae side himself with that usurper King Billy and that bitch of a wife. She is no lady, to sneak around behind the king’s back—her own da—and have him ousted, and why…for a few Protestants too worried about their own necks. The sound of boots scuffling filled his study, but as soon as Ian walked through into the room, everyone froze in their places.

Ian spied Seamus with his bulky arms wrapped around Ivor’s middle, while Tam struggled to hold the outspoken warrior’s arm back. Argyll’s men were doing much the same for the man who would have met with Ivor’s meaty fist.

Though Ian agreed with Ivor’s opinion with the precarious situation between Scotland and England, he didn’t need a brawl in his keep. Enough! His voice bellowed over the din.

As though he could command his emotions with a wave of a wand, Ian’s visage returned to his usual calm air of confidence as he crossed the room, all the while he scanned for Campbell. The man was not hard to spot. One look at his absurd attire and Ian knew the reason for the brash remarks from his men.

The commotion was settling, but Ivor continued to stand nose to nose with the Argyll solider. The last thing Ian wanted to do was give his men any reason to resume their insults, but it took his entire muster to contain his own mirth. Ivor?

Aye, m’laird? The man’s eyes never leaving his adversary.

Did ye not hear my command? Enough. Though we are of a like mind, I will not have my study torn to shreds, nor would I have ye taint Moy by spilling the blood of cowardice traitors upon her floors."

At Ian’s remark, another scuffle ensued, as one of Argyll’s men said, Ye MacLaines’s are not even fit to lick Argyll’s boots. We are no’ traitors!

Doing all he could to keep his legendary temper under control, Ian took several breaths before he responded. Argyll seeks to line his own pockets with English gold, and is blinded by his own greed. Any Scot that thinks they can trust the words of an imposter…and I assure ye…he is an imposter, he is a fool. The true King of England is a Stuart. Those of ye who lay your trust in this William of Orange are fools. Ye side with an enemy that seeks a bigger prize. Scotland! All went silent as Ian spoke the words in earnest.

A murmur started to rise amongst the warriors within the study and then he said. Has he not already proven he will betray a king, his own father by law to get what he wants? There was a pause and then he finished. Argyll and the rest of ye Campbells are nothing but marionettes to England, and never forget they will forever hold the strings once their prize has been gained.

Then before anybody could gainsay his orders Ian bellowed, Everyone out, except Campbell and one of his men. The captain of Moy’s guard opened his mouth to protest his order, but he cut him off. Seamus, ye will stay after ye have seen the rest to the bailey. When his captain nodded in acquiescence, Ian turned toward Damon and his man-at-arms.

He waited for the room to clear, as Damon continued to stand in all his pomp on the other side of the study. The earl’s nephew availed himself of another dram of whisky though it was a bit early in the day to imbibe such a strong drink. Ian shook his head as he examined the man’s clothing. He wore a doublet in a powder-blue damask with breeks to match. Very short breeks. The hem of the elaborate trousers tapered just below the knees and the bottom half of the leg beheld white silken hose. The man had taken to aping the bloody English. It pricked a nerve with Ian—and many a proud highlander—that these Scottish nobles could easily toss aside their great plaids, to mimic the very men who’s subtle plans was to strip them of their lands and heritage. It was another fissure enacted by England to influence a division between Scotland and her nobles.

At the sound of his footfalls, Campbell spied over his shoulder toward him and spoke. I hope ye do not mind, MacLaine. He filled his glass with the smoky, amber liquid until it was to the rim.

Nay. Ian started to proceed toward the floor to ceiling bookshelves that made up the entire wall behind his desk. Within three strides, he stood behind it and waited with a dark visage for Damon to explain his presence.

The study’s décor was as masculine as the man who had commissioned its design. His grandfather, Hector MacLaine. Heavy, dark green draperies framed the only two windows in the room. A golden sash to allow the afternoon sunlight to overcome the normally dank atmosphere pulled each back midway down. It was a rare occasion that the sun’s strong rays burned off the early morning mist, as it did this day. The bright light filtered through the windows and cascaded across the wooden planks for the study.

It took several minutes for the Argyll and Moy men to filter out of his study. His men would have to wait for their hapless leader in the bailey.

Feet shuffled out of the study, as men murmured their displeasure. Ian stood behind his desk with his hands upon his hips when his cousin Tam MacLaine’s ribaldry began anew. Tam passed by the unwanted guest and grinned, Ian knew a sarcastic retort was about to be delivered to Campbell.

Tam stopped before Damon and mocked the Campbell’s haughty tone. My lord, if I may ask… It was proving difficult for his cousin to bring forth his jibe as he bit back his building laughter. Where would one come by such umm…finery? Could I trouble ye for the name of your tailor?

It was obvious to Ian, when Damon gave his calm response that this was not the first time the man’s attire had been at the center of scrutiny by another highlander.

This attire was quite expensive. Damon looked down at the brocade sleeve of his doublet and adjusted the cuff. And no doubt worth several years of your own wages. Ian didn’t miss the smug smile Damon directed toward his cousin as the man continued. In Edinburgh, not far from the castle, there is a small shop owned by Pierre Dubois.

Thank ye, m’lord. Tam’s shoulders shook with pent up laughter, and started to retreat again.

Ian raised his eyes toward the high timbered ceilings of his study, thankful the bantering was over without the two men coming to blows with one another. Then he heard Argyll’s nephew question his cousin.

Do ye not wish to know its location? Damon gave the warrior a confident sneer.

Tam would not leave before having the final word. Nay, m’lord. I am afraid ye misunderstand. I’ve no wish to wear pants made for a wee lad…or clothes made from a fabric best left to the women. A true highlander wears his clan’s colors with pride. Good Scottish wool is worth its weight in gold.

His cousin did not give Damon a chance to respond and passed through the exit. The sounds of their laughter faded moments later, leaving Ian and Seamus MacLeod to stare down Damon Campbell, and his lone guard.

An awkward silence filled the room for a brief moment, but as soon as the door to the study closed behind the warriors, Damon broke the silence. "Ye have an ill-bred lot, MacLaine.

Refusing to let out the retort that dangled at the tip of his tongue, Ian pinned Damon with a satisfied smirk. The man was a prig, wearing a powdered wig like the bloody Sassenachs. No honorable Highlander would wear such a ridiculous get up, noble or not. True, honorable highlanders wore their clan tartans with pride. Each sett of plaid was unique to its clan, and designed to recognize friend or foe in the heat of battle. Made with the finest Scottish wool, it also offered protection from the unpredictable weather of the Highlands.

Ian smirked before he replied. I cannot say as I blame them. Ye look more English than Scots with your foolish attire. There was a bit of mirth in his response.

Ian did not have the time for games, and as far as he was concerned, he had no business to conduct with the Earl of Argyll, or his nephew. I am verra busy, Campbell. Get to your point or get out. He confidently stood to his full height of six feet, three inch frame, as his bulky arms crossed in front of his chest and waited for the man's reply. His body honed from his many years of sparring in the list and in battle. However, Damon was a formidable warrior known for his skill with a blade. Ian pierced the arrogant man with an intimidating glare, and was pleased when Damon tugged at the collar of his linen shirt. However, his discomfort did not last long.

Damon shot him a sardonic grin and then took a sip from his dram of whisky. Campbell exuded too much confidence for Ian’s liking, and it set him on edge, but he would sooner cut off his sword arm, before he let Campbell see his concern. Ian motioned with an impatient tilt of his head, and prompted the man to say