Bride From The Sea

By Frances Housden

From best–selling author Frances Housden comes a brand new historical romance about a Spanish señorita and a strapping Scottish hero... 

Celestina is a survivor: she escaped the firestorm of the Armada, she outwitted superstitious sailors bent on her murder, and she swam through a vicious storm after leaping into the sea. When she comes to her senses on a beach, wrapped in the arms – and plaid – of a huge, Scottish laird, she needs only embrace one small lie to ensure her existence: impersonate the mythical Selkie that her rescuer believes her to be. But falling in love with her big Scottish Highlander might be the one thing she won't be able to survive.

Since he first heard the stories from his nurse as a child, Niall has known that Selkies are real, and when he finds one on his own beach, it seems as if she is there to answer his prayers, to cure his loneliness, to bring magic into his life. But Selkies aren't meant to be land–bound, and when Niall finds himself falling deeply in love with his Celi, he knows that he must make the ultimate sacrifice: his happiness for her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jan 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781489236166

Frances Housden

Frances Housden lives in New Zealand-a beautiful country not so very different from Scotland, where she was born. She began her career as a published writer after winning Romance Writers of New Zealand's prestigious Clendon Award. She went on to pen six very successful novels for Silhouette Books, where she merged her penchant for characterisation with her love of suspense. She is now delving into the world of historical romance, using her love of history to take her readers on an exciting trip into the lives of memorable characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Celestina

Coward! She bit her tongue on the oath balancing at its tip.

Angry or not, Celestina still felt the blood drain from her face as she blanched at the news, her rage white-hot. El Teniente—her father’s devious lieutenant, a man without courtesy—had left it to the cabin boy to deliver the dreadful note, probably because she had rejected his advances.

Her breath seized in her throat, she squeezed her eyes closed against the hurt.

Clutching the note to her breast as if it could erase the pain—the fear, the heartfelt sobs begging for release—she gathered herself together and, blinking back tears, looked at her maid. ‘El Capitan, mi padre, he is dead,’ she told her, voice rough with grief yet well aware she had to be strong for Rosalina, for herself.

Rosalina’s moans began from low in her throat, rising higher as she sank to the floor on her knees, but then she was ever contrary. ‘Madre de Dios. We are destined to feed the fishes. Did I not always say so? Women are bad fortune aboard a ship. We are the reason for this storm. Everyone says so.’ Rosalina grasped Celestina’s skirts as if her weight added to her words would convince her mistress.

Of course by everyone she meant the crew. ‘Nonsense. That is but superstition. As if two small women could be responsible for the whole Armada being blown off course. The San Miguel is but a tiny portion of the ships with which we sailed out of Coruña.’

Celestina’s chest quivered on a sigh, a betrayal of her anxiety as she reached for the edge of the table to steady her balance. Quelling the urge to totter across the deck as it shifted beneath her feet, she hammered home her point. ‘Are we laden with cannon and soldiers as the galleons are? No. If God wished to punish Spain He would surely direct His displeasure toward those ships intent on destroying England. The San Miguel carries only supplies for those who could not bear to miss the comforts of home—of Spain.’

But now her father was dead, washed over the side by one of the towering waves—huge swells of water that still tossed the ship from wave to wave like flotsam. She too felt fearful—fears too many to list—but, unlike Rosalina, she could not let herself give into them. As his only heir, Celestina must stand in her father’s place.

Locking her fingers around Rosalina’s wrist, she attempted to drag her unwilling maid to her feet. ‘We must go up onto the deck now, Rosalina. If we stay down below we will surely drown.’ No matter what her maid thought, there was nowhere to hide from the storm, below decks or above; it would find them, but she refused to go down without a fight.

Celestina turned to the table and pulled her rosary into her hand, wrapping the red coral beads around her fist until the silver cross bit into her palm.

As she swung around, her skirts didn’t follow, so she kicked out, catching Rosalina with her toe as the maid sank to her knees again. It was all too much. A mixture of grief and rage rose inside Celestina, blinding her to the strict code of manners that had been instilled by her mother all through childhood. As Rosalina clung to her, she spat, ‘Don’t be stupid. I must climb up to the deck, with or without you. The choice is now yours.’

For Celestina to tread the deck without her father or Rosalina to give her consequence would have been frowned upon, but the circumstances left her no choice. In her mind’s eye she recalled el Teniente’s face when she’d rejected his advances. He had thought her a fool who would believe his implausible lies, when in his eyes she could see the reflection of her father’s ship and wealth and an only daughter who, since her brother’s death, would inherit everything.

The three steps up from her cabin led to the master’s day cabin. Charts had slipped from the table to the floor. Her father must have been studying them, looking for a place of shelter on the wild Scottish coast—a vain attempt since it had not saved him or the ship. She walked across the cabin, stumbling from table to chair, her stomach complaining as the hill of grey water outside the window slipped away behind the San Miguel, until the sturdy craft breasted the crest of the wave. The noise of the storm, the sound of her indrawn sobs and Rosalina’s constant moans seemed to echo in a space that felt hollow without her father’s large presence.

The journey onto the deck took longer than she had experienced before, more a hand-over-hand struggle than the usual few steps. Of course she was anchored by Rosalina, her weight pulling at the tape drawing in the waist of Celestina’s skirt to fit snugly that now rested on the top of her hips, but there was no time for fussing. She opened the door, pushing it wide as the heavily beaded embroidery on her skirt scraped over the frame.

Salt water slopped across the wooden decking into the day cabin. She clung to the ornamental fretwork covering the narrow windows that had given her father a view of his crew at work. With the other hand she lifted her skirts to a level where they couldn’t trip her—an ineffectual effort that did not prevent the saturated silken hem slapping at her ankles. She stepped outside the door with Rosalina behind her, barely able to keep her footing in the wet, squealing and grabbing for Celestina’s skirts for a second time.

The scene that filled their eyes might surely be described as Noah’s version of hell. Overhead, a sailor hung from the rigging by one ankle, swaying, his wide white canvas pants ballooning in the strong wind—yet no one climbed to his aid. No one dared.

The topsails had been furled, the main, mizzen and foresails reefed in, and sailors stood by the sheets ready to make adjustments at el Teniente’s command. Naught could disguise the dark menace the lieutenant’s eyes shot in her direction.

Celestina plastered her back against the wall below the quarterdeck, while Rosalina used her mistress’ skirts to climb to her feet, the jewels and pearls from the skirt bouncing on the deck around them. Soon she was clinging to Celestina’s arm as they edged into the corner of wall and steps—a shelter only a fool would choose, but fear was a hard taskmaster. The rosary cross clutched in Celestina’s palm left an imprint, cut into her skin—hurt—a necessary pain, one needed to help her, help both of them, survive.

If not for the storm, she was certain the crew would have turned to stone, statues that could not believe their eyes, transfixed as they watched, but it didn’t last. A midshipman stumbled down the steps from the deck above them.

‘Aieeee!’

Rosalina’s scream of fear almost deafened Celestina. Worse, she broke away from Celestina, the expression in the maid’s eyes desperate. To compound her mistake, the ship lurched to port at the same moment and Rosalina staggered toward the ship’s side, making a last frantic dive to grab Celestina’s skirts. She heard them rip, pearls scattering on the soaking deck under Rosalina’s feet, sending her slipping and sliding into the rail and over the side. Gone.

The last scream was Celestina’s—silent yet loud inside her head as she hurried after her maid and saw Rosalina’s head disappear beneath the waves. No one on deck rushed to Rosalina’s aid, some gawped, some grinned like idiots, as if watching a fool cavort for their entertainment. The midshipman sprawled across the deck at Celestina’s feet. It took a moment to realise he was gathering the pearls and amethysts that had once decorated her skirt.

The lieutenant watched, arms akimbo, legs astride, his narrowed eyes, glinting darkly with satisfaction. If her father still lived, he would have run him through with his sword for such insolence. If she had confessed to her father that el Teniente had made advances toward her, the blackguard would have been dismissed from his service.

Anger raced through Celestina’s blood. Every lesson in decorum that her mother had taught her went overboard with her poor innocent maid. Celestina’s scalp felt on fire, burning with rage. With a very unladylike growl, she snatched off her heavy beaded Spanish headdress and threw it at the midshipman’s head. Unfortunately it wasn’t hard enough. Her toe itched to kick him, but her eye caught sight of others of the crew watching with greedy eyes as her hair, loose now, blew about her head and into her eyes. While she brushed the tangle away, the sailors who had left their posts edged closer, holding their hands palms out, as if she were evil, something to be warded off. They all believed it was Celestina who had brought this disaster down upon the ship.

A solution that had been hiding at the back of her mind could no longer be ignored.

She would have to jump, and why not? From the salacious gleam in some eyes, she had nothing else to lose, but first …

Stripping the bracelets from her wrists, she threw them across the deck, causing a squabble amongst sailors who had never before laid hands on such riches.

Hurriedly stepping out of her skirt, she tossed the torn silk after the bracelets then grappled behind her to loosen the laces, her fingers trembling as at last the lieutenant began to move across the deck, eyes fixed on her struggles. Tremors of relief shook her as she wrenched the bodice over her head. The sight of Celestina in her silk shift halted the crew—even the lieutenant. They gawped at her slight body as if they had never seen a naked, or near naked woman before. Her annoyance at breasts that had barely begun to bud had become something to be thankful for since it meant she’d had no need to wear stays.

She glanced over her shoulder. The wild coast had begun to emerge from the grey haze of wind and rain. Ireland … Scotland … she had little notion which it might be. As long as it was not England, she did not care, now that her father was dead and the Armada defeated. She had but one thing in her favour: she could swim. That gave her an option more favourable than death or, worse, rape at the hands of those who blamed her for all their woes.

Before they could get over the shock of seeing her undress, Celestina climbed over the side, closed her blue eyes, the image of her English mother’s, and jumped into a world of grey.

Chapter 2

Niall

Bending his long back, Niall McDonall ducked his head and braced his shoulders against the wind. The braid his youngest daughter had insisted on plaiting down one side of his long hair slapped at his face each time he turned his head. The unfettered strands of dark hair that either sailed out behind or blinded him by turn tossed in the aftermath of the raging storm that had kept the lasses cowering round the fire for half the night.

The men of his Keep had been nae keener to venture outside, grumbling when they needed to fetch more wood to feed the flames that comforted the females of his household. Aileen, his daughters’ auld nurse, and his before that, kept them all entertained by telling tales that should have made the hairs curl at the backs of their necks. But not so; as Aileen related legends of goblins and Selkies, their squeals and giggles interrupted the flow of the papers he had been attempting to reread. Aye, it was nae secret that they enjoyed being scared.

After his daughters insisted he keep them company, he’d drawn up a table and sat there until the candles guttered, his time there mainly taken up with attempting to decipher his steward Gordon’s handwriting as he went through the accounts, amazed at the bottomless pit their silver had seemingly disappeared into. Nae wonder he had been so reluctant to hand over the final tally.

Not that he blamed Gordon entirely. He did, however, blame him for not keeping him informed of his late wife’s continued spendthrift ways. To begin with it hadnae mattered. His father had arranged his marriage to Flora—a bonnie wee thing whose image matched her name, her big, bluebell blue eyes ringed by gold lashes set in a pale face scattered with gold freckles. A bonnie wee thing, the image of gentleness belied by the bright red hair curling around her head and the temper to match.

The fall that took her life more than likely saved him a demonstration of that temper when he came home finally and was forced to take her to task.

Aye, the lass had brought a deal of money in her dowry and, after o’er many years of living in a square towerhouse on this cauld, isolated coastline, she had yet to run out of ways to spend it, mainly because of his efforts to supplement their income—an effort that had come back to bite his arse. Flora had enjoyed being at home with naught but their bairns to keep her company.

Had he loved her as a man loves a woman he hopes to spend the rest of his life with? That was a tale that would never be told. Nae. He tore his mind away from memories that made the blood in his veins thicken and slow. The time for laying blame had passed. He had his motherless bairns to think of. They came first.

He had learned that lesson well. Ye had to be kind to lasses, for a cross word might mean they would up and die on ye, the way Flora had. Before he had left on his last journey to France, he and Flora had exchanged heated words. Heated … they were like to take the roof off. The last words he had said to her before he rode away still rang in his memory: ‘I’m a warrior, not a lapdog trained to sniff around a lassie’s skirts. If it was dancing ye wanted ye should have stayed in Stirling town and not come to Inverbrevie. And nae, Gordon cannae take ye in my stead. He has more than enough work to do here.’

He had ridden away with but one last glance over his shoulder at Flora. She’d been crying into her kerchief, holding it to her mouth, as she was wont when she couldn’t get her own way—a not uncommon sight. That had been in early March while the roads were still iron hard and not up to the horse’s fetlocks in mud. When he returned at the end of June, Flora had been dead three long months. Niall pushed those memories back down, swallowed hard to clear his throat, and yelled against the wind: ‘I am Niall McDonall. I will always be a warrior.’

Using one hand, he captured his kilt to prevent it ruffling up his long legs as he strode across the cliff top. At this part of the coast, the sea had bitten deeply into the cliffs, and the bay nearest the house formed a long finger of water, sometimes blue and sparkling, sometimes steel grey and dull, the way he’d felt himself when he returned and saw his poor motherless bairns. And here he was again, thinking on things he couldn’t change.

Intent this morning on examining the cliff, his eyes scanned the ragged edge, on the lookout for an auld Scots pine. One of his shepherds told him the cliff had collapsed in the storm, taking with it an auld tree that had seen better days. Niall couldn’t deny that the same could have been said about most things around the property of Inverbrevie. The place, neither house nor land, had been any sinecure when ceded to him on his marriage to Flora as part of her dowry.

He shivered, and not just from his thoughts. The cool Scottish summer had lasted long enough to fade the tan burnt onto his face by the French sun during the months he had spent there as a mercenary. At moments like this, he almost wished he were back in France, instead of stuck at home, a widower with three unruly daughters, but he found it difficult to chastise them, fearing a repeat of what had happened to Flora. Mayhap his father had the right of it: he needed another wife to tend to the house and his bairns.

His father—the McDonall chieftain—would lash him with scorn at giving Aileen leave to let them run wild, but then his wife hadnae done much better. And he couldnae let Aileen take the blame. At her age she should be sitting at the fire, a shawl tucked about her rounded shoulders, hair getting greyer by the day, instead of being worn out by running after young legs she hadnae a hope of catching. He had barely recognised her on his return; lines bracketed grey eyes, and her once beaky nose drooped towards her top lip as if she belonged in one of the tales she told the lasses.

Niall could see the pine up ahead. It had never been much to look at, battered by every gale that skelped across the cliff, and even now it clung to the edge by the tips of its roots, the way he had been doing to his independence lately.

Peering through the twisted branches, he considered giving the tree the final push to topple it on to the sand and God help anyone beneath. He could imagine it happening when his daughters were racing along the beach chasing the gulls that wheeled overhead this morning, mewling and diving, swooping above the sands where a small seal lay adrift at the high-water mark.

The creature nestled on spume dried into salty lace that tangled with seaweed and flotsam, as if yesterdays’ storm had had the better of some passing ship. He had a sudden vision of the seal’s struggle to reach the shore.

He knew all about struggle. He’d fought most his life to retain his independence and had thought long and hard before following his father’s advice and marrying Flora for the dowry and Keep it had brought him. Since he had become laird of Inverbrevie, the folks here had looked to him for guidance. Mayhap, he should take the same advice again, if only for the sake of his lasses. In his heart, all he wanted was to make sure his family and the families of his clan Sept were kept safe from harm, that everyone was kept fed and warm through the worst of the winters on this wild shore.

Without a second thought, Niall found himself running along the cliff edge toward a path cut into the cliff that sloped down to the bay at an angle—a path his daughters were accustomed to take as they made their way down to the water. As he ran, the notion crossed his