The Laird's Widow

By Amanda H. Williams

When gut-wrenching grief leads to an everlasting love.

 

As Ian mourns the love of his life, the young laird works to shoulder the mounting pressures of running an estate and leading a clan.  To maintain and build clan relations, Ian must choose a new wife and mother for his heir.  

 

When unexpected Isobel Mackay appears on his estate, Ian confronts challenges from family and foe.  Will he be able to navigate a potential war to secure a chance at happiness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Feb 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957228877

Book preview

The Laird’s Widow

AMANDA H. WILLIAMS

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

The Laird’s Widow

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2023

eISBN: 978-1-957228-87-7

Copyright © 2023 Amanda H. Williams All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Melody Pond

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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To the love of my life, Jeromy.

Prologue

Scotland 1729

Isobel Mackay refused to die.

How much time had passed since she’d been hoisted by the roots of her hair and mercilessly yanked up the jagged concrete steps of Craig’s Tower? A day? A week? A fortnight?

Despite the incessant throbbing in her temples, flashes of memory assaulted her addled, sleep-deprived mind. Isobel gagged as she remembered Laird Craig’s sour, rancid breath hot against her cheek.

After trying to escape her captors, she’d been tackled from behind and tied up in the wagon. Do it again, and I’ll make you the whore to my men, but not before I have you for myself. Dirty fingers traced the tops of her breasts as he continued in a low whisper, And I promise you’ll never see the light of another day. The water beast has a ferocious appetite for lassies who forget their place.

The wad of spit—impressive as it hit the corner of his mouth—was worth the swift kick to the gut, providing her a welcome but temporary state of oblivion.

Trapped in this God-forsaken place, she prayed, Still my thoughts and clear my mind. Had she spoken aloud? She hauled herself against the cold stone wall, crying out in pain.

Do not lose consciousness.

Isobel gritted her teeth as raw, bloody fingertips dug into stone divots. With all her might, she bit her bottom lip, then pulled until she could peer through the slats of the boarded window, blinking at the harsh rays of dark-dispelling light. Broad swaths of pinks, oranges, and blues painted the sky. Morning birds sang.

Sunrise.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and slivers of hope filled her lungs as the sun’s rays warmed her face once again.

I’ll be damned if this tower is the setting of my last breath.

Determined, she glanced around the circular room with grainy eyes, taking in the outline of a four-post bed with a straw mattress, two trunks, and a bureau. She shuddered. How many women had been held captive there?

Wincing, she bent over, fighting the cocktail of dizziness and pain that shot through her entire body. Anger churned her gut.

That bastard had broken her ribs. With all the strength she could muster, she ripped the hem of her shift and bound her mid-section, just as her Granny had once instructed.

Voices from down below spurred Isobel back toward the window. She managed to kick one of the battered trunks until it rested under the sill to get a better view.

On tiptoe, she took in the scene at the foot of the tower. An older man stood facing Craig. She pressed her ear to the opening.

Damn it to hell, Craig. Laird Hunter won’t stand for this. What are you trying to do playing both sides of the coin? The last thing either of our clans needs is a war!

Craig leaned forward, inches from the other’s face. You tell your young laird he can kiss my wrinkled arse. I decide where my loyalties lie, not him or anyone else. The Hunter clan will be easy prey without the support of my men.

What makes you think Hunter will stand alone? My bets are the other clans will side with him rather than walk between two fires.

You have no idea what alliances I have, he said. With a jerk of his head and a quick nod, he added, Now go, Clyde. Get off my land.

With all her might, Isobel let out a high pitch, strangled plea. Help! Help me, please! Again, she spit blood. It hurt to breathe, much less to scream.

Craig glanced up at the tower, releasing a nervous chuckle. Sounds like one of the farmhands is enjoying himself a bit too much.

Clyde stared at Craig with unfettered disgust, then shifted his gaze back to the tower. Aye. His gaze narrowed at Craig before he turned to leave and said, You’ve been warned.

Isobel slid down the wall and buried her head as angry tears ran unchecked.

Had her last chance at escape walked away?

Footsteps!

Someone was ascending the stairs. Rapid beating reverberated throughout Isobel’s chest as her gaze searched the room for a weapon—anything to defend herself. She threw open the trunks and gasped. Lengths of linen, those she had seen in her mother’s birthing case, piled one on atop another, along with men’s clothes and a belt.

She folded the thick leather in half and backed herself into the far corner behind the trunk. The clanging of keys proceeded a young maid, a child. From the looks of the trembling tray laden with food, the girl was anxious to complete her errand and flee.

Please. Wait, Isobel begged.

The girl stopped but didn’t turn around.

Desperate, Isobel reached out an arm. Help me, she whispered.

Miss, don’t make noise. They’ll come sooner if ya’ do, she replied before disappearing behind the door.

I’m begging you. Please.

Then, slowly, the door cracked open. The girl stepped out of the shadows and reached out a hand. Isobel released a grateful sigh and trembling, took it.

My name is Tilly. I’ll be back before the sun rises. Just stay quiet and bide your time, the girl said.

True to her word, before the sun rose, Tilly had returned.

It will hold, mistress. You’re so slight. It won’t break, she said, tugging on the rope of bedsheets fastened to the bedpost.

The young maid had become Isobel’s lifeline to freedom.

She gave a tight smile to the girl that had risked her life to help her hatch a plan to escape. Aye, and to be honest, I’d rather fall to my death than risk another night. She squeezed the girl’s slight hand. Come with me, Tilly. To Hunterston House.

Tilly shifted from one foot to another. Oh no, miss. I’d slow you down. Besides, I’m scairt of the dark and woods.

I can’t leave you here, Isobel pleaded, afraid for the young servant.

Tilly stuffed stolen provisions in a bag. You must. I ken where to hide, ma’am. All will be well. Now, you’ll leave tonight after the men have gone with ale.

Isobel nodded while heavy steps echoed through the hall. Frantic, she whispered loudly, Hide Tilly!

The girl crawled under the bed as the door flew open to reveal Craig’s youngest son, a lad no more than five and ten.

Still drunk from the night before, he teetered and scanned the room as he unfastened his britches. I’ll not wait another day, whore. Get on the bed.

The boy was larger than Isobel, but slight for a man’s build. As she was planning her next move, Tilly crawled from under the bed with a large Bible. Before Isobel could scream, the girl walloped the young master atop the head, causing him to fall.

Go mistress! she yelled, tossing the linens out the window.

Tilly, I can’t—

Go!

Isobel grabbed the rope, closed her eyes, and held on for dear life.

Chapter One

Icy gales rushed through the silver hoarfrost-covered birch trees atop the gray mountainside where the Hunter family cemetery lay. Evidence of generations of lairds, ladies, and children dotted the ten acres set apart from the central portion of Hunterston House. On this sacred, snow-covered ground, only the wind had a voice—whooshes of dashed dreams mocked amongst the stones of those resting in supposed peace.

Like a bronze statue staring at the burial ground where his beloved wife, Aileen Bram Hunter, lay, Laird Ian Hunter stood erect and motionless. Flakes of snow stuck to exposed skin. Immediate stinging, followed by numbness, matched the state of his soul. A smoky coldness infiltrated his lungs, burning them.

How could he be drawn to a place that he loathed? Mother, father, and wife memorialized in dirt and moss, fodder for those that prey on the dead. Nausea welled up inside of him. He clenched his fists at his side, wadding the wool fabric of his kilt until his knuckles turned white.

A sudden movement shook him from his stupor. A pine marten with its chestnut-brown fur and creamy yellow bib hopped from a rocky outcrop to the space between his parent’s graves. Typically skittish around humans, the creature stared at Ian as if waiting for him to answer a meaningful question. Finally understanding he would get no reaction, the curious creature bounded into the forest, leaving tracks in the snow.

For two years, Ian made the three-mile trek every Sabbath to pay respects. Or that was what he told the people who worried for him. Truth was he had a morbid desire to be near those he had once loved—those who had wrapped him in a loving embrace, tousled his hair, whispered guidance, and imparted the wisdom of how to be in the world. And those whom he had pledged his life. His love. He swallowed the bile provoked by the reality of his life, a daily existence defined by the absence of touches, voices, and truths once bestowed.

The endless hours he had spent under the instruction of Father Gerard came rushing back to Ian as he remembered the prophets who tore their clothes and put on sackcloth and ashes. As a boy, he had not understood such an extreme demonstration of emotion. As a man who had witnessed too much death, the temptation to follow the examples of the ole’ wise men of the Scriptures were only assuaged by what his tenants and household might think of such a dramatic display.

But how else did one express the loss of one’s soulmate? Ian had vowed to love and cherish until death parted, but no one ever explained how to stop loving and cherishing the person once they had departed the confines of this earth. No one ever talked about how to continue living with half a heart.

His knees buckled, landing him on the mourning bench he had built beside her resting place. The texture of the cold stone against the back of his thighs was somehow satisfying. Yet, an eerie stillness overtook him as he allowed himself to lament and remember. The time it took to conjure an image of her face troubled him.

Had he forgotten the tone of her voice, the touch of her skin, the passion she inspired with a glance? Like a drowning man gasping for air, he pressed his eyes closed, willing a memory to bring her to life for a handful of moments.

He and Aileen had been childhood playmates, her father’s lands neighboring Hunter boundaries. She was the only daughter in a family of sons, and he supposed their parents must have been hopeful for a potential match. Bonny summer days full of adventure and mischief, golden times pretending to be Vikings on a ship bound for new land or swordplay out at the old abbey’s ruins until twilight, had ended much too soon.

The summer after he turned ten, he left for Glasgow to begin his formal instruction as a gentleman. Seven years of correspondence dotted with occasional visits home defined their relationship. Receiving a university education, he had studied the classics, Latin, French, and Mathematics. None of it relevant to the running of an estate, but he respected his parents’ wishes.

Then, just as Ian anticipated taking his place at his father’s knee to learn firsthand what his life as a Scottish laird would resemble, the patriarch of the Hunter clan fell ill.

Laird Robert Hunter insisted that Ian foster with a distant cousin to prepare him to take over the estate’s running. For months he busied himself with learning crop rotations and the importance of keeping accurate ledgers. There was so much to learn, and his cousin’s estate was minuscule compared to Hunterston.

When his mother sent for him to return, his father, consumed by an illness of the lungs, had only days to live. Ian’s goodbyes were hurried and jumbled amid the mourning of family and tenants who adored their beloved laird.

Ian entered the laird’s chambers, shocked at the sight of the frail, emaciated outline of the larger-than-life man he had idolized—his father.

The dying man motioned him close, and whispered, "Cursum Perficio."

I accomplish my course. Their clan motto.

Robert Hunter squeezed Ian’s hand and added in a strangled whisper, Run yours.

He stared out his father’s window over the vast estate as the servants prepared the body. How would he finish a course he hadn’t been shown? The keyholder to the map lay dying. Who would help him?

Certainly not his mother.

For weeks, Lady Hunter faded from this world. Grief-stricken, she took to the bed, refusing to eat or drink. Ian begged her to fight, to resist the urge to follow his father to the afterlife.

Kneeling by the bed, he kissed her knuckles and choked the words through sobs. Mother, stay. Please. I need you. How am I to be in this world?

Blue eyes, matching his own, brimmed with tears as she held her late husband’s pillow tight to her chest. No matter how much she wished to be a mother for her grown son, the idea of existing in a world without her beloved was unfathomable.

She wasn’t strong enough, and within a month, gone. The foundation of his world, decimated.

Ian functioned but was overwhelmed by a dark cloud of grief.

Immense responsibility had overtaken the remainder of his youth.

He was a ghost, encumbered with the oppressing weight of his clan, household, and tenants.

The relentless sun, continuing to rise and set without his permission, propelled him forward. Still, he trudged through the day to day. Tending the lands, settling disputes, collecting rents—he proved himself a capable laird, wearing loneliness as a cloak.

Until family intervened.

Graham, a first cousin on his father’s side, convinced him to leave the walls of Hunterston House behind long enough to attend the Hogmanay celebration at Bram Manor. Letitia Bram, the lady of the house, had created a fairyland to boost the community’s morale amid a hard winter. The music, the food, the drink was intoxicating.

Tenants spilled onto the front lawn, dancing and celebrating the season until the late night. Laughter and abounding joy echoed through the hills. Yet all Ian could do was think of how to escape into the solace of the night, until a playful voice interrupted the turnings of his mind.

As soon as you move, you ken that wall will be collapsin’, and ma’s party is ruined. That’s not how you were raised, aye? One blonde eyebrow cocked with playfulness.

Shadows of his childhood friend were encapsulated in the form of the most stunning woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Tall and regal, Aileen Bram embodied the Viking warriors’ heritage they had once emulated as children.

The lifting of his heavy heart caught him off-guard as a rare lightness punctuated his reply. Oh, aye? And what am I thinking, lass?

A smile that warmed him from the inside out lit up her countenance. You haven’t changed so much, Ian. Besides, they are countin’ on your presence for first footing. She eyed him from top to bottom. Tall, dark-haired, a picture of luck.

He tensed at the irony. Anything but.

Yet, he’d asked Aileen to dance, and six months later, they had been married before the parish priest.

A shattered heart had cried out for partner, lover, and mother for his children; she had answered as if God had created her to fill every empty space in his existence. But the brevity of life snubbed out their future. And now, the cries of his motherless son echoed through the open cavern left in her absence.

Thriving, Bobby was a picture of health. In the last two years, he had grown sturdy, learning to walk and talk. Ian openly doted on the boy. Some had feared he would blame his son for his wife’s passing, though he never did. Perhaps the power of her final words compelled him to take care of their son with her dying wish. He would not turn his back on that promise or any other promise he’d made in those final moments.

Bobby needed a mother, one with a beating heart who would shower never-ending adoration and attention. Aileen would have been the best of mothers, the perfect mix of affection and discipline with every interaction. But she was no more.

Ian rubbed his chest as if to massage the gaping hole. This had not been the plan. They were supposed to grow old together, sharing fifty years of sunrises and sunsets.

How could you? How could you leave me? His gaze swept the three side-by-side plots. How could you all leave me? He huffed. Useless questions with no answers.

With one final look, he rose and began to hike the trek toward home. He had to yank himself out of this valley of despair to go on with a plan to finish the course. A fresh wave of anger crept upon him.

Why was he the one left to fulfill dying wishes? What about what he wanted? No one had ever asked him that question. His course had been set in stone before he’d taken his first breath. Such was this miserable life.

As he raked fingers through tousled hair, Ian closed his eyes to focus on the future. The pressures from the clan to marry again intensified by the day. The last rising had passed a decade ago. The failed attempt to restore James Stuart to the throne of Britain had left an indelible mark on Scotland. Alliances were sought after to achieve strength in numbers as English occupation grew in the Highlands. An advantageous marriage would strengthen what would one day be his son’s. But what of other children? Would Bobby be doomed to live the life of an only child as Ian had?

And what of Hunterston? The future of his estate and clan depended on Ian’s offspring.

His cousin’s words from his last correspondence echoed in his ear. Be strategic, Ian. Plan this next move to benefit our family. Aileen was the right choice. Continue to choose well.

The process of courting and finding a wife made him want to crawl out of his skin with revulsion. How could any woman take her place? Aileen had been a favorite among the tenants and neighboring clans with her gracious manner and gentle ways. Besides, she had overtaken his heart, filling every conceivable space. Would the memory of her suffocate the possibility of loving another?

It didn’t matter. He had not promised love for himself, only for Bobby. A marriage contract did not translate into a love that would place his heart in danger. Unity as a business transaction was more common than naught and much less risky.

There could be no more excuses. He needed a wife, and his son needed a mother. Ian had to go on with living and honor Aileen’s final wish. But how and with whom?

Like peering through the fog searching for a muted sun, his future was obscure. The density acted as an impenetrable wall.

The sight of Hunterston House in the distance set his mind at ease. The estate was small in comparison to others, yet productive. They kept cattle and sheep and had been blessed with a generous harvest of wheat and barley, among other crops. Generations of tenants had been with his family and were unparalleled in their loyalty to the clan and to Ian as an individual. A sense of guilt knotted in his belly.

Gratefulness for his son, his people, and the very air he breathed through his nostrils should be flooding his bones. How dare he dwell in this sea of despair, drowning while helpless others stared from the shore. They needed him, and he refused to succumb to selfish desire like his mother.

God, forgive me for my anger.

The stone chapel nestled in the upper meadow prompted him to pause. Father Gerard was doing his rounds for the next couple of months, but that didn’t stop Ian from seeking a sense of solace in the place his ancestors sat and worshiped for over a century. At the altar stood a Celtic cross and above the pulpit, a cut out of stained glass depicting the last supper.

Ian took his place—front row, right side—and bowed his head to pray. Sweet, honey-laden scents of frankincense, myrrh, and tobacco lingered in the air, providing him with a sense of calm. In a whisper, he prayed, Lord Jesus Christ, I beg for mercy. Thank you for the blessings You have given me. Protect my son. Grant me wisdom and determination. Help me to finish the course. Enable me to keep impossible promises. He paused, then added, Make a way where there is no way. Amen. A meager offering, but all he had.

For a long while, he stared at the etched glass, admiring the vivid colors in the otherwise gray surroundings. With bone-deep effort, he rose and continued on the way home.

How would he begin? He supposed he could consult his cousin, Graham, as to eligible women in the neighboring clans. One or two daughters came to mind. At five and twenty, Ian was far from an old man. Yet in his spirit, he’d lived three lifetimes. Most women his age were married with children.

Several families had sent gifts of condolences, mentioning the single female in their household in a note of