Ina Highland Fairlings Series Book One

By Emma Ruthven-Stevenson

When passions develop between Ina and the heir of firm friends the Brothaigh's, everyone is excited at the prospect of a marriage. But Alasdair Brothaigh is two years late in returning to Ina and she is no longer convinced of his affections. Working his hardest to secure her hand in marriage the wedding preperations start. However a terrible illness penetrates the Elliot clan killing many including the Laird. Uncertain of what they are dealing with Ina orders the gates closed and orders Alasdair to stay away. New Laird, David Elliot quickly shows his cruelty as he depletes the rescources of the once affluent clan. Convincing everyone of Ina's death, he holds her prisoner using her to fulfill his perverse enjoyment of brutality. Finally being rescued by the middle Elliot child, Declan, he helps her to run to the Brothaigh lands were they hope to seek protection from Alasdair who is now Laird.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291928426

Book preview

Highland Fairlings - Book One - Ina

Prologue

Late July 1346

Alasdair stood as shocked as the rest of his men, every eye of his warriors had widened in astonishment. Visiting with the Elliot clan had always proved a challenge and yet nothing could have prepared them for this. Surely they must have somehow missed the intended humour in this unbelievable situation? Surely this must, in fact, be some odd tomfoolery concocted by his father and the other laird, Donald Elliot? Surely this was not the reason that they had been kept waiting for so long when each man gathered had been keenly anticipating this mock battle, the cumulation of the past fortnights hard training?

Alasdair looked anxiously to his father. Laird Brothaigh was still a great man and one who Alasdair was proud to call father and yet by his wide grin, Alasdair wondered if the man had lost his wits. He stood straight, his arm draped companionably around the shoulders of his good friend, Laird Elliot. Their unique friendship had been forged on the fields of battle, a tyrannical English king forming a shared enemy, and cementing in them a friendship that neither time nor distance diminished. It was a friendship borne of survival as they had fought side by side, but it was also a friendship that had weathered the years since then. Efforts had been made by each man to travel the great distances separating their lands.

Alasdair's skills had quickly delighted both his own clan and the Elliot's. Both laird's had taken pride in imparting their warrior knowledge to him, Laird Elliot taking particular pleasure in it, with his own heir showing little interest in battle techniques.

The well trodden training field was full to bursting hosting more combatants than ever before as the Elliot and Brothaigh numbers swelled within the small space. And then there was the milling people who had left their duties for today in order to come and witness the demonstration of the two clans fighting skills. And now, whilst the witness' and the Elliot men smirked at the obscurity they knew off within their presence, the Brothaigh warriors looked dumbfounded to their laird.

Alasdair's eyes narrowed as he spied David Elliot, the Elliot laird's eldest son, and, therefore, next in line to the vast Elliot holdings, approaching his father. Not overly keen on the pompous man, Alasdair nonetheless approved of his words as he spoke to Laird Elliot, even as the whining quality of his voice grated upon his nerves. He was reminded again how pleased he was that he was an only child as he had often heard the two lairds lamenting on the lack of a Brothaigh daughter to be a bride for the Elliot heir. He would have been dismayed to see any lass attached to the foolish man, let alone a sister of his.

Laird, please, David Elliot's whining voice really was unsuited to a future chief,

Surely this has gone far enough? Father, I beg of ye, ye are sure to succeed in making us the laughing stock of the entire country if ye allow this foolishness to persist. His dark eyes made no attempt to conceal his anger at this display of ultimate weakness. I beg you, sir, desist immediately.

And yet Laird Elliot assessing blue eyes turned on his son, a frown turning down his mouth at the insolence of his eldest son's visible displeasure, When, David, ye are laird, ye may do as ye please, he turned away once more to face the waiting men. Although the man's words were spoken calmly they held a definite undercurrent that all knew meant he would not be discouraged by this.

Alasdair caught his eye, the twinkling gleam in them doing nothing to hide the older man's pleasure at the current situation. It seemed nothing could dampen his spirit.

Every person present was aware of the firmness of the successful lairds manner, it was the same method that had ensured he remained the laird of a very affluent, far reaching lowland clan. The only person who escaped his firm ways was his youngest child, his beloved daughter. It was no secret that Elliot indulged his daughter more than he should and yet he wondered how a man could allow such a blatant act of indiscretion as he presented his feisty, headstrong lass on the battlefield.

Show nay mercy, lads. Elliot's deep voice rang out clearly across the silent, open space, dinna fret that ye'll manage tay hurt my wee lass.

His voice was filled with mirth and Brothaigh's laughter joined the mumbling of the gathered crowd as the still dumbfounded Brothaigh men stood unmoving.

Brothaigh stood straighter beside Elliot, his ailing back popping noisily and a giving twinge that Alasdair immediately noticed even across the width of space separating them.

Both lairds looked towards their brave fighters as Brothaigh directed his loud words to them, Ye'll be nay receiving any mercy yourself so ye'd do well tay heed these words. His words were punctuated with a hefty slap to his friend's back in comfortable companionship, We ken ye lads, ye will need your wits. Ye have our permission tay fight tay yer fullest.

Alasdair watched dumbfounded at the dainty wee lass as she gracefully skipped to the centre of the field, her skirts swirling about her legs and her boots squelched noisily in the mud, the sound carrying across the silence. He watched as sixteen year old, Donaldina Elliot, the treasure and pride of her clan, dipped a perfectly formed curtsy and smiled widely. Joy shone, evident in eyes the same shade as her fathers as she perused the men.

Shall we? Her lilting voice sounded clearly amused as she moved suddenly.

Ina, as she was known to all, raised the blunted bastard sword and in a whirl of clever movements he could never have expected, she lightly touched the throat of a stunned Brothaigh warrior. The startled man looked at the small lass carefully, his eyes narrowing in a confusing mix of displeasure at being caught unawares and astonishment at the lass' deft, skillful moves. He dipped her a short, respectful bow and moved to the edge of the marked battlefield taking his place amongst the spectators. The agreed plan was that the men deemed 'dead' by wounding would clear the way until one lone warrior survived triumphant.

The battle suddenly raged to life as the Elliot men took advantage of the shocked Brothaigh's lack of movement. Ignoring the gasps of the startled spectators and the loud, spirited laughter of the two lairds, he let out a mighty roar and joined the rush of fighting men. He watched in pride as his Brothaigh men, finally accepting the truth of this situation hardened their stances and fought back with the ferociousness for which they were famed. He was sure that each sweating man on the field was as thankful as he was for the rigorous training they had participated in over the previous fortnight as they pushed towards untested boundaries.

As he wove through the warriors skillfully he could not help but notice the keen way all eyes shifted to the Elliot lass and his own eyes followed theirs. She was a skilled fighter although he imagined that most of it was due to the fact that no one wanted to harm the wee thing.

As the fighting raged on, the cheers of the spectator's rang loud as more of the 'dead' lined the sides than were left battling.

Every person wanted the glory of victory for themselves and he was no different. But it was with a mixture of shock and anticipation that he was left facing the final warrior of the Elliot clan.

Silence descended as sixteen year old Ina faced him across the stretch of field. He knew that his own burly, growing power made the small lass appear even smaller, and he was confident that his skill would prove the foolishness of allowing a wee lass to compete. And yet he was loathe to harm her.

Servants and warriors alike looked on as a champion of each clan, both descended from laird's, stood opposite one another. Both lairds looked on in shock and bewilderment at the outcome and then smiled secret smiles. All of this was clear to Alasdair as he looked at a way of ending this humiliating display as quickly and as cleanly as possible. He could not believe that he was expected to battle her.

He was pleasantly shocked at her easy grace and put aside his feelings of being too easy on her. If she truly believed herself to be so great then he was determined to prove otherwise.

Their dancing, light steps were punctuated by loud clangs of weapons striking each other, startled gasps came from the spectators.

But he was the more experienced warrior and the one with greater strength. It was too easy for him to reach out a strong hand and boldly pull the small figure closer to him, his teeth clenched as he moved his heavy blunted blade in defense against her unrelenting attack.

Yield tay me, fair one. His voice was soft but in the unnatural stillness of the afternoon the words carried easily.

Never!

Wresting herself out of his arms she quickly returned her attack, focusing what must have been all of her power into defeating him.

He intended to make sure that she would be unable to.

With their lunges and strikes growing in intensity, Alasdair finally spotted an opening and quickly forced the lass' sword from her hand. Unaware any more of their witnesses, he caught her as she stumbled at the impact and instinctively he pulled her soft form tightly into his frame. Pleased surprise coursed through him as the lass' hidden curves flattened against him and he found himself curiously looking down into her ocean coloured eyes before jerking his head back in disbelief at the sharp pain under his chin.

Pushing away from the triumphantly smiling girl Alasdair placed disbelieving fingers to his tender flesh and studied the small drops of blood that stained them.

He raised his eyes, claiming hers once more and was astounded by the glee he saw there as she raised her small, tightly clenched dirk, his own blood was visible on the blade. Holding her gaze, he easily breached the gap between them. He dropped his weapon to the ground and he used both hands to haul her trembling frame into his tight embrace forcing her head back as he roughly claimed her lips with his, much to the shocked gasps of their witnesses.

With a hand that spanned almost her entire waist moving slowly up her back, he pulled her closer still, deepening the kiss and running his tongue over her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut and unsteady hands came up to clutch at his shoulders as she submitted to his onslaught. With both hands holding tightly to him, her dirk was dropped and forgotten in the power of her first kiss.

Smiling against her lips. Moving his mouth away, he heard the angry approach of both her father and his own. He looked once more into her deep eyes. His smile lifted as the realisation of their situation became clear to her outraged senses. His own dirk was held above her throat, her discarded one was now in his hand and resting above her heart.

Grinning widely, he slid both small weapons into the pocket created by his plaid. Turning away as the two lairds helped the stunned lass to her feet, he called back, Ye fought well. But ye still be just a lass.

He laughed at her agitated shriek and continued towards his cheering men.

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Chapter One

Ye should nay have done it, Brothaigh, the slight, dark haired lad muttered to his larger, more muscular friend as they passed a drinking skin between themselves, She is gonna be hell tay live with now.

Alasdair laughed and pushed back his mane of unbound, long blonde hair over his shoulder in a gesture that proved a habit for him and had the lasses swooning with delight, Well now, Declan, ye and yer da should nay be encouraging her tay fight. Tis nay seemly. Lasses belong sewing or some such other nonsense as that.

Nay seemly? Declan's voice raised, Were it that seemly when I spied one of the kitchen wenches sneaking frae yer chamber this morning? Declan raised his eyes, holding his friend's sight only to be met with a disinterested shrug of the shoulders as Alasdair took a further deep gulp of the appropriated uisge beatha.

Yer letting yer jealousy show. Ye would ha' had her if ye werena so feart of yer da finding ye.

Aye well, it is all right fer ye, but my da would skelp me if he found me dallying with the likes. He hasna many rules but idling with the staff is one thing we are nay permitted tay do.

Och, Declan, I wasna dallying with her. I wasna being idle at all. Yer da need not ken if yer about wanton wee coquette as the lass last night. But we werena speaking of tupping the help were we. We were talking of the wee hellcat ye deign tay call a sister.

Alasdair ye can call our Ina whatever ye like but ye canna deny her skill. She bested many of yer da's finest men today and she nearly bested ye too.

Alasdair took another gulp of the fiery liquid allowing it to burn a heady warmth through him., Aye yer right, she did and I am nay best pleased about that. I shouldna have regarded her as a lady and instead recognised her fer the sidh she is.

Declan laughed., I dinna think ye thought of her a lady when ye had her pinned to ye and yer lips upon her, Smiling at the strange blush colouring Alasdair's cheeks he continued, By all rights I should be knocking ye upside the head fer even thinking to take such liberties with my wee sister. What if I had done the same, but she were yer sister?

Alasdairs blushes receded as he glared at his good friend., If she were my sister then she wouldna be fighting.

"Nay, Alasdair yer right. If she were yer sister ye'd ha'