Highland Breath: Glen Coe Highlanders

By Michelle Deerwester-Dalrymple

She doesn't want to marry him. He doesn't want to marry at all! Can they find the happiness they each desire? Or will their yearning for one another consume them both? ♥
Historical Scottish Highlander romance at its most passionate!

 

Now that his brother is married, the MacDonalds believe their rakish second son, Maddock, should wed as well. The best choice? One of the three daughters of Laird Graham, an ally and Hammer of the Campbells. An alliance with his family will strengthen the MacDonald power in the Highlands, especially with the mysterious letter still missing.

Only, getting married is the last thing Maddock wants to do.

Fair, bookish Fiona Graham has been promised that she can choose her own husband when it's time to wed. Her father goes back on that promise, yet Fiona knows that any man worth his salt will choose her more stunning younger sister. Only that does not happen.

When she accidentally meets Maddock in the woods, they strike up a bargain benefits them both. Why not pretend to be betrothed, work together to find Fiona a more acceptable husband, then go their separate ways? It seems like such a sound plan.

But even the best laid plans can fail, which is what happens when Fiona and Maddock find they cannot keep their hands to themselves. How is this plan to work if they actually desire each other?

The temptation they feel cannot be contained, and their plan seems destined for failure, until a new suitor arrives with an old family agreement in hand and offers for Fiona. This suitor seems to be exactly what Fiona needs to break this fake betrothal.

Yet, this suitor is not all he seems, and Maddock can't let go of the woman he's come to love. Will they find themselves in each other's arms again, or will the conflict in the Highlands lay their love for each other to waste?

A steamy Highlander romance with bold heroes, strong heroines, and packed with passion and adventure. Discover Highland Breath and start this Outlander-styled romance today!

The novels in this series are each stand-alone stories and can be read individually in any order, if desired. These historical romances are set in Jacobite Scottish Highlands and do not shy away from steamy scenes, occasional archaic curses, and accurate portrayals of historical violence and life!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Deerwester-Dalrymple
• Release date: Jan 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215811757

Book preview

Chapter one

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What do ye mean, ye canna find the letter?

John Dalrymple, the lord-protector of the Highlands on behalf of King William, adjusted his long, curly wig on his head. The wig was heavy and itched horribly, but as it was befitting a man of his stature and power, he endured the dreaded thing.

John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane, or better known by many in the King’s company as Slippery John, set his jaw as he glared at the lord-protector.

"My lord, Campbell snapped. Ye mean, ye canna find the letter, my lord."

Dalrymple’s hand clenched, crushing the forgotten parchment in his hand. Breadalbane might be correct regarding the address, but in John’s estimation, he was undeserving of it. The man had been tasked with securing the submission of these northern clans, a job he had utterly failed. Lochaber was littered with wild, thieving MacDonalds and Glengarry’s power continued to grow, and with it, the blasted Glen Coe MacDonalds.

Breadalbane sat across the desk, reclining in the overstuffed chair with one hose-covered leg crossed primly over the other. His own wig rivaled John’s but did not seem to bother him as much. The man exuded leisure, and John Dalrymple despised him for it. The Earl of Breadalbane, Laird of the Campbells in the Highlands, had not yet sworn any alliance to the King. He had promised, and the offer of coin had piqued his interest, but until the man’s signature was scrawled onto a parchment swearing his loyalty, John did not trust him at all, no matter how loyal he claimed to be.

The Earl wasn’t known as Slippery John for nothing. ‘Twas a name well earned.

My lord, John said, trying to keep his ire from showing in his voice, the King is most eager to find this letter. Your men said that this Gordon chap had located it, and yet ye slayed him, drove his widow into the arms of the MacDonald’s for Christ’s sake, and we still have no knowledge of where this elusive, damning letter might lie. What have ye to say about that? He paused deliberately. "My lord."

The Earl blew on his fingertips before rubbing his nails along his velvet surcoat. The bored expression on his face was not fooling anyone, least of all lord-protector John Dalrymple. He had not attained his position by being a fool. And Breadalbane would answer these questions, Earl or nay. These inquiries came directly from King William himself.

My men are searching for the letter as we speak. One of Mungo Gordon’s men informed me that Mungo kept his more precious papers in a box. Some special red-hued box. We are scouring the Highlands as we speak.

John set his crumpled parchment on his desk and pressed his hands over it, as if he might flatten out the creases and return it to its original, pristine state — a futile effort, he knew.

As are the MacDonalds and their allies, I presume. What makes ye think that ye will find this letter before Glengarry?

At this question, Breadalbane shifted in his seat.

Ahh, finally. John had struck a nerve.

We have more spies and men working for the Campbells than the MacDonalds might imagine. Those Jacobites believe they have a stronghold on the Highlands, which blinds them to the might of the Campbells. Just wait. We will return the letter to ye verra soon.

John pointed at the Earl. Unread. The letter is to be sealed and brought directly to the King so he might destroy it himself. Upon the threat of death, no one is to read the letter.

Breadalbane bowed his head lightly, knowing as well as John that such a request was as futile as flattening out the paper. ‘Twould be well-creased before John finally got his hands on it.

"My lord, the Earl intoned again. Ye forgot my lord."

John narrowed his eyes. "Have a safe journey back to the Highland, my lord."

And with those final words and a sneer, the lord-protector dismissed the Earl, who rose easily from his chair and strode from the room.

John held his breath until the man closed the study door, then exhaled as he whipped his wig off his head.

As the king’s eyes and ears in the Highlands, John loathed the MacDonalds and their duplicity. It bordered on treason, yet the MacDonalds ran wild in the Highlands as though they had more power than King William himself, all of which caused more headaches for John. Why could they not just make their oath to the king?

The sooner these wild Highlanders bowed to the banner of King William, the better. And it could not happen soon enough.

Chapter two

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Archie Graham drew in a deep breath and called his daughters to the main room of the Graham manse. His house, a larger blackhouse, but nothing resembling a large stone tower or a keep, was more than enough for him and his three daughters. As a bonnet Laird in the Highlands, he had a bit of land and a few tenant farmers to help raise cattle and sheep and plant small plots of oats, flax, and vegetables, but naught much more.

What gave Graham a decent measure of respect with his peers was his ability to halt Campbell encroachment on his and other nearby lands, the lone James supporter island in the sea of pretender king loyalists. His position as the Hammer against the Campbells had enabled him to provide a fine living for his daughters, especially once his wife, the fair Marie, passed from fever a half score of years ago.

With the help of a house maid turned governess, a young wife of a local tenant farmer, he raised his daughters in the warmth and safety of his lands. The stable hands had taught them basic riding skills, and the young governess had helped the girls learn their letters and sums.

They would make fine wives, Graham believed.

Well, at least the younger two.

Anna and Jemma were mirror images of their mother, with light blonde hair that fell to their waists, proper manners, tidy clothing and persons, and pleasant smiles that matched their temperaments. Truly, any man would be fortunate to have either for a wife.

As his daughters strode down the wooden stairs, his gaze fell to his eldest daughter, and he shook his head. Fiona, on the other hand . . .

‘Twas as though Fiona was going out of her way to make herself as unappealing as possible. She cared little for her dress, oft wearing a kirtle until it had the appearance of mere rags. And why, when she had kirtles to choose from and a house maid to help her keep them clean? And her personality . . . Archie shook his head. She loved her books more than her family, it seemed. More than was good for any lass, in Archie’s estimation. What lass read to distraction like Fiona?

None that he knew.

And few men wanted a reader, nay a thinker, like Fiona, to wife.

Archie loved all his daughters, but Fiona . . . He sighed. Unassumingly beautiful as she was, Fiona would never find a husband, he was sure of it. Archie had already resigned himself to her living with him until he passed into the Lord’s domain, then she would be the burden of her sisters. Not fair to any one of them, but ‘twas the way of the world. What man would want a quiet, distractible lass like Fiona?

Which only made this conversation he was about to have with his daughters all that more difficult. To solve the issue of Fiona and make his daughters happy, he had promised them they would have their pick of husbands, not any arranged marriage.

Graham swallowed the lump in his throat. He guessed it was the purview of fathers to lie to his daughters.

Fiona was the eldest and traditionally should wed first, but Archie was a fair man and would not place that onus on her, nor hold back opportunity from his other daughters if it arose.

And oh, did such an opportunity make itself known. Archie believed he might burst with excitement over the message he had received less than a sennight ago.

What is it, Father? ever curious Jemma asked, her bright blue eyes wide. Of all three daughters, she resembled their mother the most. What news have ye to share?

She’s still too young, Archie thought. He flicked his eyes between Fiona and Anna. ‘Twould have to be one of these two.

Which meant Anna.

His second eldest pulled her shoulders back, trying to make herself as tall as Fiona. She reminded Archie of a painting he had seen once of an odd, colorful bird called a peacock. Between her coloring, her slightly hooked nose, her full pink lips, and her creamy gown trimmed in blue, she could be a human version of the bird in that painting. She herself was a work of art. She also kept herself neat and was not the avowed reader her sister was. Aye. Anna would be the perfect match.

I have good news. The Laird of Glenachulish reached out to me, looking for a match for his son.

Seamus MacDonald was as blessed with sons as Archie was with daughters. And as a powerful Laird among the Glen Coe MacDonalds with ties to the Laird of all MacDonalds, Glengarry himself, such an offer was worth more than all the gold in the Highlands.

I thought Reade had wed? Fiona interjected.

Archie cut Fiona a hard glare. Of course she knew about that wedding. Her nose may be ever in a book, but she had a brilliant mind from all her tomes and a quiet manner whist reading. She eavesdropped all the time, much to his chagrin.

Pushing her eavesdropping out of his mind, Archie plastered a wide smile on his face and focused on Anna.

Aye. No’ for Reade. His son Maddock is of age and since the eldest is wed, MacDonald believes ‘tis time for his second son to take a wife, for the good of the Highlands.

Anna and Fiona shared a high-browed look. Fiona barked out a laugh while Anna’s mouth fell open.

Maddock? Anna asked, disbelieving.

The MacDonald rake? Fiona added, her laughter uncontrollable.

Archie narrowed his eyes at Fiona before turning to Anna again. He softened his expression, hoping it would calm her. He knew too well of the lad’s reputation. So did everyone in the Highlands, and probably the Lowlands as well. Graham made the simple deduction that ‘twas one of the many reasons MacDonald wanted to marry the lad off — to get him under some kind of control.

Whether it was true or not was another matter, but men often did not receive such reputations without reason. And the lassies gossiped about both his reputation and the handsome face that helped create it. Archie had heard Maddock’s name on his own daughter’s lips more than once.

Aye, but even a rake must find his redemption in a wife, eventually, Archie countered. I’ve heard that he’s a light-hearted man with an easy-going demeanor. He will make a fine husband.

So, when is Anna to wed? Jemma asked.

When Archie didn’t respond right away, Fiona’s laughter abruptly ended.

What is it? Isn’t Anna the one to wed?

Archie cleared his throat and tugged at the high neck of his sark. His words needed to be kind to soften the blow. While ‘tis logical to think she will be the first to wed, given young MacDonalds, uh, supposed proclivities, Laird MacDonald has asked that he be permitted to choose his bride.

His words were met with hard silence. Anna and Jemma were wide-eyed, but Fiona’s icy blue gaze bit through him like a winter wind.

Surely ye jest, she told her father.

Archie grumbled as he searched for the right thing to say. Fiona never anticipated marrying, and if she did, she was supposed to choose her husband, that he also well knew. Learning she was to be put on a block to be offered up as a bride had to gall her.

Jemma is too young, Fiona told him. And I dinna want to wed that rake. So that leaves Anna. Why do we need to be here at all?

Jemma is young, but she has passed her seventeenth year. So she may take a husband. And as for ye –

Dinna speak it, Fiona snapped. Ye may request my attendance at this farce, but I will no’ show. I’ll not be sold off like chattel. Ye promised.

Ye are no’ chattel, Archie argued.

Anna glared at her. Is that what ye think of me, Fi? I’m naught more than a fatted calf for sale? That ‘tis good enough for me?

Fiona took Anna’s cold, clenched hand in hers. Nay, sister, but ye are ready and willing to wed. Ye would have the choice of the best of men to pick from, and the son of a powerful laird is just that, disregarding any weak gossip. And with your beauty, we all know he shall select ye. So why the guise?

Fiona’s gaze turned to her father and hardened into a ferocious glare. Anna followed her sister’s lead and also glared at Archie.

He sighed heavily and dropped his forehead into his palm.

’Tis not ideal for all three of ye, this I know, but if the MacDonald lad desires a choice, then he will have it. No more argument.

He despised the tone of his voice, but he was so tired of the conflict Fiona gave him. Mayhap ‘twas why he didn’t mind her reading as much as she did.

A bold-mouthed lass was not well-received in the world.

If her nose was in a book, then her mouth was shut.

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Fiona glared at her father for the space of several heartbeats before whirling around and storming up the stairs. In his full sleeved léine and full kilted plaid, he might have appeared the full Highland warrior, but for his daughters in this moment, he was naught more than a weak pawn in a horrible game.

A gilded cage, she burned in thought as she hurried away. Full of weak promises and pretty things, only to be sold to the highest bidder.

Fi! Wait! Anna called out to her.

Fiona lifted her hand as she marched up the steps, dismissing Anna’s plea. No matter what her sister said, nothing would soothe the fury boiling under her skin. She was angry for both her and Anne, though her sister would not understand. Anna was the more composed daughter, after all.

For years since her mother had died, her father had vowed that his daughters could wed at their will, choose their own husbands, and have some measure of a voice in their futures. Now here she was, standing next to Anna, being paraded about for a husband and told that she was up on the chopping block, along with wee Jemma.

Jemma!

Had her father lost his mind? What had the politics of Scotland wrought? To affect even so small a clan and bonnet laird as the Grahams?

She slammed the sturdy wooden door to her small chambers. Her father had given each daughter her own room, and while Jemma’s chambers were not much more spacious than the kitchen buttery, it was her place, her sanctuary.

As the eldest, Fiona had the largest room, right off the top of the stairs with a window view of the rear gardens, a brazier to keep her warm on wintry nights, pretty linen curtains, a plush bed, and a finely hewn bookshelf with several books, for which her father had paid dearly.

Everything a lass’s heart might desire.

She flopped face first onto the plaid coverlet on her bed.

Everything but a say in her future.

A faint ray of light trickled through the muntin-bar window and shone in a rainbow on her hand. Fiona stared at the light dancing across her skin.

As much as she hated to admit it, she understood the reason for her father’s change of heart regarding his daughters. Since King James abdicated the throne and his daughter, Mary, and her German husband, William, became queen and king, all of the Highlands were thrown into upheaval over loyalties and alliances.

She had overheard her father more than once talking to other bonnet lairds, larger clan lairds, and local merchants at Bealach. In their hushed tones, they spoke of allying with other clans, joining in a Jacobite force, and Slainte for the king across the water.

Fiona knew what king that was. King James. Saying the king across the water was a way to invoke the name of the true king of Scotland without attracting the attention or the wrath of the Campbells or other Whigs. To buttress support for King James, her father was selling his daughters to the highest bidder and reinforcing his own alliance with the Jacobites.

It would also serve to protect himself and his small plot of land against surrounding clans who aligned with the foreign king, which included Archie Graham’s northerly neighbors, the Campbells. Her father had managed to keep those blood-thirsty, encroaching clans at bay, which gave him the title the Hammer of the Campbells. Well earned, but now she was carrying the brunt of that claim.

At least ‘tis no a Campbell, she thought bitterly.

The prospect of being tied to one of those prissy foreign king lovers made her skin slither across her backside. She had seen enough of the foppish, entitled Campbell lads and young men at the village and the markets to last her a lifetime. If she or any of her sisters ended up with a Campbell . . .

Fiona shuddered to think on it.

A faint knock at her door drew her from her brooding thoughts.

Come in, she called out, rising from the bed.

Anna entered, her beautiful face tight with worry. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a loose queue tied with a rose-colored ribbon that flattered her creamy bodice and muted red plaid skirt. That was the only color on her, though. Her skin was shockingly pale, her normally sky-blue eyes gray.

What does Father mean, bringing a man to choose one of us, like we’re sheep in a pen? Anna burst out.

Her demure voice was impassioned, angry, and something that struck awe in Fiona. Had she ever heard Anna speak with such ferocity? Nay, she didn’t believe so.

He seeks a strong alliance. Fiona despised speaking with such rationality she did not feel. Ye know what concerns are on the minds of the Highlanders.

Anna joined Fiona in her bed and mimicked Fiona’s earlier move, flopping onto her back. She threaded her fingers across her waist and stared up at the ceiling beams, a wistful expression on her face.

I fear I may have been fanciful, hoping to choose my own husband. I know what the world is and my place in it. Yet, I was hopeful. Father had promised after all.

Fiona laid back on the bed with Anna.

Aye. Me too. But the world is oft no’ kind to lassies. At best, mayhap Father finds us kind, well-placed husbands. He wouldna attach us to betrotheds that are no’ kind.

Anna snorted. I know Father believes me to be flighty, especially compared to ye, but Father will choose husbands with coin, position, and influence. Kindness is no’ his concern.

Fiona was not going to say it, yet hearing Anna state the truth so pointedly made her heart ache. Fiona had come to understand the odds of her finding any husband were slim, and after a time, she had come to prefer that circumstance. Anna, on the other hand, should have her choice of men, and it pained Fiona to think Anna might not have the most loving and joyous wedding imaginable. A lass as beautiful and kind as Anna should have her pick of men. Fiona took Anna’s hand in hers.

The MacDonalds of Glenachulish are renowned for their fidelity and family, Fiona commented. I’ve seen the mother and the sister at the market in Ballachulish once, and they were smiling and kind. And I think I saw him with them, and he appeared handsome enough. I canna imagine their son would be a vile man, coming from such pleasant stock.

Anna squeezed her hand. He might select ye, ye know.

Fiona snorted so loud it echoed in the room, and Anna burst out laughing at the sound. We both know who the MacDonald man will choose, Fiona said. I just hope he’s a fine match for ye. I have heard of the Glenachulish MacDonalds, as have ye. Though close kin to Glengarry, they are no’ weak, courtly fops. And Sorcha MacDonald, she reins in her men with a loving but forceful hand, I’ve heard the women in town say. She’ll no’ tolerate a weak or harsh-tempered son.

Anna turned to her side and tucked her hands under her cheek. Her blue eyes sparkled in the brilliantly cut light, resembling waves on summery loch.

So she was interested in the MacDonald for a husband! Fiona smiled to herself. ‘Twas good, since she was probably going to end up as his choice for marriage.

What do ye know of Maddock MacDonald? Other than his rakish disposition?

Fiona could not control herself and barked out another