Highlander’s Mysterious Lady (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Page 3

  Back when her family had the time and money for such things, she and Helena had first met at an embroidery circle for young ladies. Helena took a seat next to Beatrice, made a snide comment about how much she hated embroidery, and they had been friends ever since. Helena was the only one in whom Beatrice had confided after her father’s fortune began to dwindle. Helena was the one who helped Beatrice add embellishments to old dresses and mend petticoats. She snuck new stockings and hair combs in Beatrice’s drawers when she wasn’t looking, reasoning that Beatrice needed trinkets and baubles like anyone else. She took Beatrice on outings each week to ensure her friend did not “waste away in that old house all by yourself,” ferrying her to bookshops and teashops all over London. just to put a smile on her face.

  Helena was the most loyal, caring person Beatrice had ever met; at least, until she met James. Beatrice loved her like a sister, and while she had been overjoyed that Marcus Paterson—a Scottish nobleman and the younger brother of Brodie Paterson, Laird of Eilean, the largest landholder in all of the Scottish highlands—was courting Helena, she had been terrified that Marcus would take her friend away from her. And he did: at the beginning of Helena’s fourth season, when Helena was twenty-two, and six months after the night they had first met at Lady Wilfield’s ball.

  Beatrice had sobbed so hard the night of her friend’s wedding, she had given herself a nosebleed that ruined her favorite nightdress. Without Helena, she had no one and nothing. Her father was dead, and she was practically destitute, living with just one maid in the rambling, run-down ruins of her family estate.

  But she needn’t have worried about never seeing her friend again, for Helena made sure to take frequent trips to and from London, accompanying Marcus on business and sometimes making the trip by herself. Unlike Beatrice, Helena found travel by carriage perfectly comfortable, even when it lasted for days on end. It was on one of Helena’s visits when she met James at the bookshop—and after that, Helena’s absence had been far less noticeable in her life.

  However, this was the first time Beatrice would see Helena after over a year and a half—which was criminal for two friends who loved each other so dearly. Beatrice knew it was her own fault that the time between visits had been so drawn out. Helena had traveled down for James’ funeral and begged Beatrice to come back to Scotland with her.

  “Please come. We’ll spoil you rotten. I’ll stuff you with Cook’s shortbread, and we’ll go for long walks, and in the evening, sit by the fire and drink claret. It will take your mind off things, Bea. I don’t like thinking of you in this house all by yourself,” she said, shaking her head.

  Beatrice knew she ought to have accepted. Wandering around the house and thinking about how cold and empty it felt without James had hardly done her any good. But she hadn’t been ready to be happy yet, to be distracted.

  There was also the matter of propriety. As a widow, she was required to spend a year in mourning, wearing only black and not attending any functions. And while Helena had encouraged her to flout convention and escape to Scotland, at the time, Beatrice had felt like societal conventions were all she had left.

  Excepting their treatment of their servants, James had always wanted to do what was proper, what society dictated. He was so afraid of besmirching the good name of Kingwood, and Beatrice had been riddled with that fear as well.

  I am still riddled with it, she confessed to herself. She was so afraid of making a wrong move, of becoming an object of gossip in society. Staying at home and conducting all her business from there allowed her to stay out of society’s prying eyes.

  But her mourning period was over. She was allowed to travel to visit friends and family, she reminded herself. Widows were meant to be biddable, but they need not be recluses.

  And you are not a recluse, not anymore, she reminded herself. They went over a bump in the road that sent her flying toward the ceiling. Her head barely missed knocking against the roof. Beatrice sent up a prayer to a God she had long ago stopped believing in that she arrived at Castle Eilean in one piece.

  Her prayers seemed to be answered, for the next few hours of the trip were smoother than those of the previous two days. As dusk began to fall, Beatrice started to look for the inn where they were planning to stop for the night. The horses needed to be changed, and she and her men needed a good meal in their bellies to fortify them for the last leg of their trip.

  The inn in question, The King’s Arms, was supposed to be roughly three miles outside the town of Auchter Hills. The town could apparently be distinguished by the large population of cows scattered about the fields, over whom the auchters, or night-minders of animals, presided. Beatrice had just spotted the first of what she assumed was a vast bovine contingent when the carriage abruptly came to a halt that threw her from her seat.

  Her shoulder hit the opposite wall, blasting into sparks of pain that traveled down her arm and back.

  What on earth happened? Beatrice wondered as she struggled to right herself. The carriage was still at a slightly odd angle, as though it had toppled into a shallow ditch. Beatrice had to heave herself off the wall, pushing with her hand—which, she now realized, was dumb of feeling.

  The sudden shout of voices from outside drew her head out the window. What she saw, however, sent her recoiling into the carriage. But it was already too late.

  The highwaymen had dark cloths covering the lower halves of their faces. Combined with hats pulled low over their brows, it made their faces nearly impossible to discern.

  Their bodies, however, were all dressed in the traditional outfits of Highland Scots. They wore kilts of deep blue plaid with white tunics under buttoned jackets. Their boots came nearly to their knees, and while their bodies were mostly obscured by fabric, their brute strength was clear from the way the fabric of their jackets stretched tight across their shoulders, as though it could barely contain their bodies. Beatrice was a tall woman, and she had once been curvy and substantial, but looking at these men, even she felt like a weakling.

  There were four of them, and her brief glimpse told her that each brandished a gun. She saw that one was pointed at the driver, and two more at the footman. She had ducked back into the carriage before she could see where the fourth man was aiming his weapon, but she had no doubt that if it were not aimed at her already, it would be soon. There was no way they wouldn’t come looking for the carriage’s inhabitants.

  This meant that Beatrice had to think quickly. Highwaymen always looked for easy spoils; they would not go for her gown, hair clips, or shoes. No, they would go for jewelry, and unfortunately, she had chosen this trip to break out much of her d finery.

  On her earrings hung the pearl drops that James had gifted her for their first anniversary; on her wrist, the bracelet Helena had given her on her wedding day. Around her neck was a delicate gold chain that had once been her mother’s, on which she had placed her wedding ring. She couldn’t bear to wear it anymore, and it was usually kept locked away in one of the lower compartments of her jewelry box, but she had decided to wear it for the trip. James had loved to travel, but his busy schedule had rarely allowed him to venture out of Yorkshire. Beatrice had wanted him—or at least, the reminder of him—to experience the trip with her.

  Our first trip together, she had thought ruefully as she fastened the necklace on the day of her departure.

  Now, however, it seemed truly foolish to deck herself out with jewels when she was confined into a rather small space, with no one to see her in all her finery. Except for highwaymen…who wouldn’t so much want to admire it as to steal it.

  Beatrice took the necklace off first, then the bracelet and the earrings. At the bottom of the carriage, there was a small compartment where food and supplies could be stored. She could leave them there, and then—assuming she could escape the highwaymen and any more nefarious activities they had planned for her and her men—she could retrieve the jewelry once she had found help, hopefully in the form of a constable or other member of the author
ities.

  This plan was ruined a moment later. The carriage door burst open to shine fading light on Beatrice crouched down on the floor, her hand buried in the floor compartment, trying to stuff the jewels beneath an old blanket down there.

  “What dae ye think yer daein, lass?” the highwayman asked, his eyes traveling from her guilty face down her chest and arm. He raised an eyebrow when he saw that her hand was buried beneath the floor.

  Beatrice felt like a child who’d been caught stealing sweets, even though the sweets in question belonged to her!

  “I was… I was…” she stuttered, trying to think up an excuse that would dissuade the criminal from attacking her. Her mind had gone frustratingly blank, however, and all she could do was stare at the man before her, praying he wouldn’t be too rough.

  This prayer, unlike her first, was answered, for though the man barked at her to alight from the carriage and keep hold of whatever was in her hand, he did not himself touch Beatrice except on the hand, which he grasped the moment she was outside.

  Her jewels were ripped from her fingers and stuffed into the man’s jacket pocket, where they would no doubt soon be sold off for money to fund whatever degenerate lifestyle he led.

  Beatrice saw out of the corner of her eye that her footmen and driver were still being held at gunpoint by this man’s companions. The driver, Harold, looked like he was closed to tears, and the younger of the footmen, Eddie, was shaking with fear. To see her servants being treated this way made Beatrice feel sick to her stomach. And it was all her fault! She had decided they should ride until dusk when the roads were quiet, and they were that much more vulnerable to dangerous instances precisely like this one. Because of her choices, they were all in danger right now.

  You stupid fool, she scolded herself. You have to find a way out of this. It’s up to you. No one else can help them.

  “Please,” Beatrice breathed to the highwaymen in front of her, who she guessed from his size and sneer had to be the leader of the pack. “Please don’t hurt my men. Take what you want from me, take my jewels, all the rest of my possessions, but please leave my men alone.”

  “There’s more?” he asked in response, his eyes lighting up with glee.

  “More? What do you me—” she began, but the man was already shoving her out of the way, sending her falling to the mud, landing on her other shoulder this time.

  “My lady, are you all right?” Eddie asked, but then Beatrice heard an “oof,” and when she looked over, she found the footman bent over double and clutching his stomach.

  “Talk again an’ it’ll be this gun hittin’ ye, lad,” Eddie’s keeper growled.

  Beatrice ignored the fear churning in her belly as she got up. Though these men were aiming guns at her men, she hadn’t assumed they would actually use them. She thought they were just supposed to make her feel threatened, so she would bend to their will. Did they actually mean to kill Eddie and Harold?

  Are they going to kill me, too? she wondered. Wouldn’t that be the highest of ironies! Trying to brighten up her life and get away from the shadow of death, only to be confronted by her own mortality.

  Banging and rustling within the carriage reminded Beatrice that she had other, albeit far lesser, worries to consider. The highwayman had already taken her jewels, and if he were rifling through her trunk as she suspected he was, then he would also find her hair clips, her beautiful gowns, and the treasured few books she had brought with her. All of which James had bought her at one point or another. She had a habit of reading them when she needed comfort. She had tried during the trip, but the rocking motion of the carriage combined with the small words on the page had made her so nauseous, she had been forced to abandon any attempts at consuming literature until she reached terra firma.

  He’s going to take everything that ever reminded me of James, she realized with a start. The ring, the books. And while Beatrice knew this was silly, considering she had an entire house in Yorkshire filled with things touched and picked out by James, she couldn’t hold the house in her hand. Not the way she could with those books and that ring.

  In a fit of foolishness which Beatrice would later sorely regret, she marched toward the carriage.

  “Excuse me?” she said to the highwayman’s back, which was facing toward her while he was bent over her trunk, a growing pile of valuable objects at his side.

  “Lass, can ye nae see I’m a mite busy here?” he asked, not turning around.

  “No, I can see you are very much occupied taking all my valuable possessions,” she replied, knowing that insolence would do her no favors in this situation, but unable to find it in her to care.

  The highwayman did not respond, but Beatrice could see his hands rooting around in her trunk. She saw the moment his fingers brushed against the spine of collective Shakespearean romances, which James had bought for her after her first miscarriage. The book brought back memories both good and bad. She had been so desolate after losing their first child, but she had refused to allow herself to grieve. There had been so much to do, for it was just before Christmas. There were what seemed a thousand balls to attend, not including the one she and James were throwing. There was so much to do that she did not have time to think about the small little thing that she had lost, that little six-month babe she had already named and imagined teaching to walk and talk.

  And James had seemed so adamant that they would try again and be successful.

  “It is a hardship, to be sure, but we will get through this. We will have children; I am sure of it.”

  James was so set on the idea of an heir that Beatrice often wondered if he thought he could will the child into being with sheer belief.

  After the second miscarriage, she had seen his hope waning, and it painted her to know she was shattering his idea of their perfect life. Rumors started about their relationship, about their life in the bedroom. It had been humiliating for both of them, but perhaps James most of all. His family legacy was hanging in the balance, for it was before the Married Woman’s Property Act, and he knew that if Beatrice did not conceive, the dukedom would eventually go to Frances. And even James knew this would be most dreadful.

  That this barbaric criminal had his hands on that book and those memories associated with it, both good and bad, made Beatrice angry. She had not been angry in so long, had not felt much of any emotion beyond grief and sadness, that she welcomed the ire that now heated her blood.

  This same ire had her grabbing the highwayman by his shoulders and ripping him away from her trunk, from those few possessions she treasured. Beatrice reared back and landed what she thought was a rather forceful blow to the Scot’s cheek.

  “Get out of my carriage! Leave my men and me alone!” she screamed in his face. The Scot looked visibly shocked for a moment, clearly having not expected her to talk back to him, let alone commit violence. But then his face quickly donned its glaring mien again. He raised his hand, and then Beatrice was falling backward, hitting her head on the cushioned carriage seat. The world went black; all noise, all thought suddenly gone.

  Chapter Four

  Beatrice woke an undetermined amount of time later to find herself shrouded in darkness. She also had a piercing headache, and when she tried to move, found both her shoulders and back extremely sore.

  The soreness brought the memories of earlier that night back to her. Eddie and Harold being held at gunpoint, the highwayman stealing her jewelry, rifling through her belongings.

  Did I really punch him? she thought, unable to believe herself capable of such a thing. But when she flexed the fingers of her right hand, she found pain there.

  She couldn’t see much of her hand; her vision was still adjusting to the darkness of the carriage and the night beyond.

  Eventually, as her vision adjusted, she noticed the trunk across from where she was lying. It was open on the seat across from her, but all the dresses, petticoats, and such that had stuffed it to the gills earlier were gone. A lone piece of cloth was dra
ped over the side. Beatrice squinted and thought it might be a stocking.

  A lone stocking without its mate. What a fitting metaphor for my life, she thought bitterly as she sat up.

  Her body ached as she moved her skirts underneath her and stretched her legs out. Her neck was stiff, no doubt from lying on the floor for hours, but when she tried to stretch it, tipping her head to one side, she felt a sharp pain from the back of her head.

  Reaching up, she felt a lump the size of a small rock underneath her hair—which was tumbling down her back, clearly having fallen out of its coiffure.

  Beatrice’s hands dropped to the square neck of her gown, and she was relieved to find no rips or tears in the fabric that might indicate that strong hands had tried to pry the dress from her body, whether to steal it or her dignity.

  At least they didn’t ravish me, she thought. She had heard horror stores of highwaymen taking advantage of the noblewomen they came across, raping them, and then leaving them aching and vulnerable on the side of the road.