The Lady and the Highlander

By Lecia Cornwall

Laire MacLeod’s father has married a mysterious widow who is a vain beauty that deals with potions and spells. Laire does not drink them with the rest of her family and is the only one who could see through her stepmother’s games. When Laire flees to find help from her Uncle, the Lady’s huntsman follows her with orders to kill. Laire must survive in a dangerous new city and find the antidote to a poisonous potion before it is too late.

Iain Lindsay is cursed. He is bound for seven years to be the hunter of a Lady who uses him to bring back birds to use in her potions. When Laire MacLeod escapes the Lady’s nets, Iain tracks her to Edinburgh, where she’s found shelter with an unusual band of thieves, but he cannot bring himself to harm her. Instead, he finds himself falling in love with the MacLeod beauty.

But a Highlander’s oath is his bond, and the price for helping her is death, both his own, and of those he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781250111630

Lecia Cornwall

Lecia Cornwall lives and writes in Calgary, Canada, in the beautiful foothills of the Canadian Rockies, with five cats, two teenagers, a crazy chocolate Lab, and one very patient husband.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Glen Iolair, early November 1709

It was her wedding day—again.

Bibiana stared at her beautiful face in the mirror. She’d been through many weddings—thirteen, to be precise. She’d always made a lovely bride. A new start was always exciting, and the anticipation of this new match fluttered in her breast.

This time, her groom—who had himself been married eight times before—had a dozen lovely daughters, all fresh, pretty, charming, and young.

And that was precisely why she’d chosen Donal MacLeod.

Bibiana was older than her new husband. Far, far older—though he’d never know. She smoothed her fingertip over her flawless face and paused. Was that a small line beside her eye? She turned to her servant Terza and snapped her fingers impatiently. The wizened handmaiden dropped the gown she was holding and crossed to pour ruby liquid into an exquisite Venetian glass goblet.

Is it fresh? Bibiana asked, taking the glass and holding it up to the light. The light merely glinted off the surface, unable to penetrate the black heart of the drink.

The game was caught this morning, Terza said. And I made the potion myself not two hours past.

Bibiana watched herself in the mirror as she sipped. She felt the potion slide with seductive ease into her belly, warming her at once. She quaffed the rest in two gulps and wiped a drop off her lower lip with one long fingernail. She leaned closer to the glass. The tiny wrinkle was gone, and she felt a shiver of pleasure, of power, run through her. She was beautiful—the most beautiful.

’Tis nearly time, Terza said behind her, her ancient voice like the rustle of dry leaves. What will you wear? The blue brocade is charming.

Bibiana glanced at the gown Terza held up. What colors would Donal MacLeod’s pretty daughters wear? Several of them had blue eyes. Their indulgent father kept them clad in the finest silks and velvets his money could buy, but it was a simple thing to look beautiful when one was young and untouched by life. Bibiana was a woman of experience, and women of experience could not compete with youth.

They must outdo it with utter magnificence.

No, not blue. Or red, or green, or pink. What else is there?

You’ve been through almost everything in the wardrobe. Terza grumbled as she ran her gnarled hand over the blue brocade once more. This would be pretty enough, if you ask me, for a dreary place like Scotland. Wear it with the sapphires. You wore blue when you married the count in Italy . . . Or was it the duke in France?

Bibiana glared at her. It was the duke. Pretty won’t do, Terza. Not today. Not any day. I must be beautiful beyond compare—lovelier than any other woman here, more breathtaking than any of Donal’s past wives, or his daughters.

Terza went back to the wardrobe. They call them lasses here in Scotland. Bonny lasses. Donal MacLeod has had eight wives before you. There’s no way of knowing if his other brides were fair or ugly, though if they looked like the lasses— She drew a sharp breath when Bibiana crossed the room and pinched her into silence, hard enough to bruise, her nails biting into the old woman’s skin. Terza knew better than to show fear or pain, but Bibiana saw her lips tighten and felt a moment’s elation.

Perhaps if you selected the jewels first it would make the choice easier. Terza said, humbled. The rubies are magnificent, and they make your hair shine like spun gold. Whatever you wear, you will be the most beautiful.

Bibiana drifted back to the mirror. She opened her robe and noted that her breasts were flawless—plump and firm and high as a young girl’s. She could hold her own with any bonny lass, or even a whole roomful of them.

Pink after all, perhaps, with pearls. Something fresh and youthful, something innocent and sweet. In the mirror she saw the frown deepen the creases between Terza’s eyes. She spun to look at her. "I am still sweet, am I not? Youthful?"

Terza nodded at once. Of course. The laird is in love with you. You could wear anything. Or nothing.

Bibiana smoothed a hand over her flat, naked belly. He wants a son.

Terza stifled a laugh.

Bibiana sent her a sharp look and opened the jewel chest. The glitter of her treasures, the gifts of a legion of lovers and twelve adoring husbands, never failed to stop her breath. She ran her fingertips reverently over the gems. They were perfection, their sparkle unchanging, powerful, eternal, beautiful. She picked up a rare and flawless pink sapphire and watched it sparkle in the light, flirting with her, luring her . . .

Terza clasped her hands together. Don’t wear pink, Bibiana. That’s a color for untried lasses. I daresay all Donal’s daughters will wear pink. Shall I fetch the gold silk with the silver petticoat? You shall be like the sun and the moon, all richness and glow.

Bibiana dropped the sapphire and pulled out a magnificent diamond necklace. The stones caught the light, exploded it, cast it against the walls in shards of every color—the red of her lips, the dark blue of her eyes, the pure gold of her hair . . . Yes, she said slowly. The gold silk. It will dazzle them.

Terza folded her arms over her chest. Them? Or him?

Bibiana turned back to the mirror and fastened the diamonds around her neck. All of them, she said, looking at her reflection. Satisfaction made her purr.

She crossed to pour another goblet full of the dark brew, and sipped. It had cooled, and was less pleasant, less vibrant as it slipped down her throat. What is this? she demanded.

Terza was working the creases out of the golden gown, running the shining fabric through her gnarled fingers. "Swallow’s blood. There are no larks this far north. Your hunter said it isn’t the season for them here. They call him the sealgair here, by the way." The Gaelic word for huntsman was awkward on Terza’s foreign tongue.

Bibiana poured the contents of the cup into the chamber pot. Then have him bring doves or young owls.

The mirror drew her again. She was naked, save for the diamonds and the ring—an ancient crystal that absorbed and reflected the light. She never took it off. She made a pretty picture indeed, and an enticing one. She smoothed a hand over the firm globes of her breasts, which were tipped with nipples as red and ripe as new summer berries, and anticipated the wedding night. Would there be pleasure? Would she love this man at last, or would he bore her like the rest? He wanted a son, and that she would not give him. She was far beyond an age to bear children, though he’d never know. Terza would feed him with herbs and brews to stoke his passion and blind him to all but lust. Bibiana would ride him, exhaust him, and discard him. And when she was done, all he had would be hers. She’d heard he was one of the most powerful men in Scotland. But his daughters drew her here, and what she really wanted was every last drop of their beauty and youth.

She let Terza help her into the gossamer silk shift embroidered with feathers and wings and secret runes. She fastened her stockings with jeweled garters. She held the bedpost as Terza pulled the strings of the corset tight, pushing her breasts skyward. Then came the layers of petticoats, the final one silver and white with a matching stomacher. She waited as the graceful sleeves were looped up with silver ribbons to reveal the silver lace beneath. Then came the gown, so shiny that it made one squint even as their jaw dropped at the sheer opulence of it. It floated down over her body, settled against her curves, caressing and enhancing. It was a dress more suited to the grandeur of a European Court, to Versailles, Venice, or Vienna, than to a dour Scottish warrior’s stronghold. They’d probably never seen such a lovely gown before, or such a woman. This wedding would be a wonder they’d tell tales about for a hundred years. They still spoke of her beauty in the halls of the great palaces of Europe, in the sumptuous galleries she’d graced over the years. She’d felt the stares as she walked in those places, the admiration, the envy, the lust . . . She longed to feel it again, even here amongst Highland barbarians who were barely worthy to touch the shining hem of her gown.

The mirror showed a goddess, and power and joy sang in her veins. It was how a woman should feel on her wedding day—like she’d won, triumphed, conquered. She would outshine any woman. She was the fairest of them all.

She sat before the glass as Terza piled her hair high on her head and teased ringlets and curls into a beguiling setting for her flawless face. She moved her head slightly. The diamond clips winked among her golden locks. She glimmered and shone with every breath.

Terza grinned. Perfection.

Perfection indeed. Bibiana gazed at herself in the mirror. The image of a mature woman at the height of her beauty and power, seductive and glorious, looked back at her. Yes, she’d dazzle every eye in the Fearsome MacLeod’s dreary hall. No one would even want to look at any other woman . . .

She stared into the mirror. I am fairest of all, she murmured to her reflected glory.

There was a knock at the door. Bibiana nodded to Terza, and the old servant went to open it.

In the mirror, Bibiana saw one of Donal’s daughters enter. She didn’t know which one—she hadn’t learned their names yet. Not that it mattered.

The girl stepped into the room, and Bibiana watched her reflection appear beside her own. She was young, fresh and sweet, as pure as new snow, delicate as a rosebud. It was as if a beam of morning sun had slipped into the room, soft and utterly perfect. She wore plain violet silk simply trimmed with white lace and purple ribbons. For adornment, only a silver locket on a ribbon hung around her neck. Not a single jewel graced her appearance. But of course, she didn’t need them.

Bibiana felt her stomach tighten, felt jealousy grow like a hard little egg in her throat. Were all Donal’s daughters as beautiful as this one?

Her fingers tightened to claws on the edge of her dressing table, and she hated this girl and all her sisters with pure, abiding rage. The girl stared at Bibiana, dazzled for a moment. Her expression was uncertain, her eyes darting over Bibiana’s golden gown and diamonds. Then she dropped her gaze and dipped a curtsy.

Which one are you? Bibiana asked. The girl looked up again. Her eyes were the color of violets.

I’m Laire, my lady. Papa says the priest is ready, she said in a soft, lilting tone, full of the Highlands. Devil take her, even her voice was beautiful.

Bibiana didn’t move. She stared at their side-by-side reflections in the mirror—mature beauty, power, and grace posed with untouched, untried innocence. Her belly writhed and coiled, and she felt the urge to spew Terza’s potion, to rip the golden gown off her body, tear the diamonds from her throat. She had not outdone the girl.

She couldn’t.

The mirror never lied. The polished glass reflected only the truth.

Laire MacLeod was the fairest woman in the room.

CHAPTER ONE

Laire stood with her sisters as Bibiana entered the hall on Papa’s arm. It was Tuesday, and on an ordinary Tuesday in early November, they’d be washing the linens, repairing plaids and blankets, distributing winter stores to the old and sickly members of the clan to see them through the cold months ahead. All that would be done tomorrow, of course, but that meant Wednesday’s tasks would have to wait until Thursday. She felt an anxious twitch in her chest and clasped her hands together tightly. She hoped her new stepmother wouldn’t change the routines, the traditions, the little rituals at Glen Iolair, but they knew so little about her.

Papa had gone to Edinburgh on business, as he did several times a year. But this time, on the date of his expected return, a letter had come instead, announcing the happy news that he was bringing a bride and directing his daughters to make ready for a grand wedding a fortnight hence.

It had set the whole castle into a spin. There’d been days of speculation about who the lady might be, and just how Papa had met her and fallen in love so quickly. The haste of it made Laire uneasy, but Papa had been married eight times before. If anyone recognized love at a glance, it was Donal MacLeod.

They’d known Papa would remarry eventually. He wanted a son to become the next laird of Glen Iolair, the next Fearsome MacLeod. But with twelve daughters and only two married and gone, their father had despaired of any woman accepting his hand in marriage while the castle was so full of females. Laire and her sisters had come to believe that Papa intended to wait until a few more of his daughters—say eight or nine of them—were wed before he married again.

The lady’s stunning beauty when she arrived in the glen on Papa’s arm, with three servants in tow, had been yet another surprise.

And now, on this happiest of days, Donal’s daughters sighed like an autumn wind at the pride and joy in their father’s eyes as he entered with his bride. He looked every inch the nervous bridegroom, though this was his ninth wedding.

She’s beautiful, whispered Cait to her sisters.

And look at her gown, Meggie murmured.

Papa’s new bride glittered in the candlelight and the sharp shards of light that emanated from her made people squint as she passed by. It was impossible not to stare at her jewels, at the delicate embroidery that covered her garments, at the youth and grace of the bride.

In Laire’s opinion, all that flashing sparkle made it impossible to see her, the bride, the person behind the finery. Was she pleased to be marrying Papa? Was she as in love as he was?

Papa looks so happy, Jennet sighed. How fortunate at his advanced age to find such a lovely wife.

Laire frowned slightly. No, he wasn’t getting any younger, but he wasn’t in his dotage. She felt the hope he carried in his breast, that this time he’d breed a fine, strong, strapping son. He had a son once, Laire’s own twin, but the boy had died when he was only five. A misadventure, they called it. A tragedy. Laire felt a twinge of guilt now, a familiar companion. It had been all her fault . . . She bent to pick up her youngest sister, Annie, who was five herself now, so she could see the bride better, and held her tight.

Aileen, Laire’s eldest sister, dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. I wish we’d had time to know her better—this all seems so sudden. Papa goes to Edinburgh twice a year, and he’s never come back with anything more exciting than ribbons and sweets before now.

And books, Gillian added.

And fine gowns, Meggie sighed.

He said it was love, Jennet whispered. Where did he say she was from?

Italy, Isobel said. Her maidservant told me so.

Her manservant Rafael said Spain, Aileen said.

I understood it was Egypt, Gillian said. They all glanced at the bride again, standing next to Papa, smiling as she received the congratulations of the clan.

Her servants were passing among the MacLeods with trays of wine instead of whisky, ready for toasting the happy couple.

Wherever she’s from, she’s beautiful. And rich. Meggie said taking a glass of the deep red wine. Have you tasted the wine she brought? A dozen casks of it have arrived already, with more to come. Her maidservant mulls it with spices and herbs and secret things. I’ve never tasted anything so fine. She drank deeply and held up her glass to be refilled, and Rafael filled it to the brim. Her eyes shone, and Isobel giggled. So did Aileen, and Jennet . . . All her sisters were giggling.

Laire looked around the room. The whole clan was merry on the fine wine. It was red as rubies and apparently as sweet and heady as the rich autumn air.

"You are not drinking, mademoiselle," Rafael said to her.

I drink only water, she said. He made a moue of disappointment and held out a glass anyway. Take just a sip to wish the bride happy, he said. Laire looked into the depths of the liquid. It was as dark as the loch at night, and it smelled sweet, like spring flowers. But underlying the fragrance was a dark, metallic tang that made Laire recoil. Rafael’s jaunty smile faded. Take the glass, mistress, he said, his eyes as hard as pebbles, and Laire felt a chill sweep over her.

She took it and held it, but Annie grabbed it in her small hands and drank deeply before Laire could stop her. Annie, no, she said, but Meggie laughed.

Oh let her. What harm can it do? She’ll fall asleep before she’s had more than two sips.

Annie squirmed to be released, and Laire set her down, watched her dart through the crowd.

The noise in the hall rose as one toast followed another and the clan celebrated. The wine flowed and cups were filled and refilled until cheeks and eyes shone. Donal gestured to the pipers and the music began, and folk danced with wild abandon. Laire backed out of the onrushing stream of people and found a safe place by the wall. Still the drink flowed, an unending river of it. Lads kissed lasses, and the lasses kissed them back. Papa would never allow such impropriety in his hall, but he was oblivious to all but his new bride. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

Laire supposed Bibiana’s servants thought it odd she didn’t drink ale or wine or whisky. They probably thought she didn’t wish her father happy, but she never drank anything but plain water. Not since her brother’s death. She did wish Papa happy . . . She looked around the hall at her delighted clan and saw the last of Bibiana’s servants standing in the shadows just as she was, outside the party, watching.

Bibiana had brought three servants. Terza was as old and lined as the hills, but her black eyes were as sharp as a bodkin. The French manservant, Rafael, was handsome, quick of wit, and as charming as summer wine. It was his job to anticipate anything that Bibiana might want, and provide it before she even had to ask.

But this man was most intriguing. He was simply called the hunter, the sealgair, and by no other name. Laire looked at him from under her lashes. He neither ate nor drank, and he hadn’t dressed for the wedding, but wore the same black leather he’d worn since his arrival at Glen Iolair. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak, it was with the gruff brogue of a Highlander.

He was dangerously dark, long, and lean. His sword hung low on his hip, and there was a dirk in his belt and another in his boot. Even in the midst of such revelry and merriment, he looked like a hungry wolf—a predator coiled to strike. She swallowed and ran her hand along the side of her skirt. She couldn’t seem to look away. Was he dangerous?

He turned, and she felt the moment when his eyes met hers like a touch. A jolt of surprise shot through her. His eyes stopped her breath, arrested her, made her lips part in breathless surprise. They were as hard and gray as polished metal. He was a bonny man, she noted, the realization striking her like a whip and making him all the more disconcerting. Her belly tensed, and her breath left her body. Slowly, those clear gray eyes gaze moved over her, taking in her violet silk gown and the locket at her throat. Awareness of him heightened every one of her senses. She could feel the softness of the silk against her skin, smell the damp stones of the wall beside her, hear her heart beating. It skipped a beat as his eyes stopped on her lips. She watched his mouth tighten slightly, saw his throat work. She flicked her tongue over her lips, suddenly thirsty.

She forced herself to smile, to offer him a brief and polite welcome to Glen Iolair, but he didn’t smile back. He looked away to scan the crowd, and she felt as if a candle had been snuffed out, leaving her in the dark. She kept her eyes on him, waited for him to look back at her again, but he did not.

He was watching Meggie, who was very merry, and Isobel, who was tipsy and giggling, and sensible, steady, matronly Aileen, who glowed under the effects of the potent wine. The sealgair looked away again, frowning.

Laire felt an angry blush rise from her breasts to her hairline. What right did this man, this servant, have to judge the MacLeods? It was their laird’s wedding, a joyous event indeed. There was nothing wrong with a glass of wine or two. Or more.

She looked at him again, willed his eyes back to hers, and raised her chin. He glanced at her again, a mere brush of his eyes before they moved on. She sent him a sharp look to remind him that she and her sisters were the daughters of the Fearsome MacLeod, while he was just—she paused. No. He was more than a servant, that was clear. Something about the way he stood, the proud set of his head or the easy lines of his body, told her that. But what was he otherwise?

He was alone, and he was a guest—of sorts. She turned to take a glass from Terza’s tray, not for herself, but for him. Her hands shook a little, anticipating what she would say and how it would feel to stand beside him.

But when she looked up again, the shadows were empty. Bibiana’s sealgair was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

Iain Lindsay pushed back the black hood that covered his head and looked around the forest that surrounded Glen Iolair. He breathed in the rich, pine-scented air of Scotland and let himself relax for a moment. He’d missed Scotland, even though he’d hardened his heart against ever coming back to his homeland. It had been nearly seven years. He’d missed the rocks and the hills, the purple of the heather, and the unsurpassed blue of the sky more than he’d known until this moment. The air held the tang of the sea, the freshness of the mountains, and the sweetness of the peat-rich earth. It was a perfume that was unique to the Highlands of Scotland.

He frowned. Nay, it wasn’t his home. Not anymore. He had no country, no plaid, no clan, no home, and no name. He was the sealgair, defined by his hunting skills and nothing more.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, the brilliant yellow of the last autumn leaves so bright they were almost painful to behold. Or perhaps it was the long-forsaken emotion the sight of them stirred in him.

He had no right to such feelings. He was naught but a servant now, and his job was to kill the birds Bibiana craved and play her bodyguard when she required that—which wasn’t often. Bibiana was a woman of independent wealth, wit, and charm. She was no man’s victim. Some called her a witch, some a seductress. She took what she wanted, swiftly and without mercy.

He turned his face up to the sun filtering through the trees. The air was crisp and cold. It was early November, and he knew there wouldn’t be many more days like this one. Winter would soon close in on the Highlands, and deep snow would lock the land in an icy grip. Cailleach, the winter hag, would reign. But that witch had not met Bibiana . . .

It wouldn’t snow today. Yellow leaves floated down around him like forgiveness. But redemption was impossible. His heart was as black as the clothing he wore, black as the dried blood on his sword and the barbed tips of his arrows.

By spring, his sworn service to Bibiana would be done. She would try to beguile him to stay, promise him his heart’s desire if he remained with her. He wondered now if that was why she’d come to Scotland—to remind him of who he’d been, what he’d been, and what he was