Page 1 of Highlander’s Wild Lass (Wild McLeans #1)

1

Scottish Highlands, 1705

“Y e daft goat, always causin’ trouble,” Celestia said as she came upon the young goat with its horns stuck in one of the fence posts. She stepped through the pen, her long skirt tied up high enough to avoid the dirt and dust.

She stepped up to the animal—her twin brothers called this one Clyde—and gripped his horns firmly at the base of his furry head and tugged. There was no give at all.

“What did the fence ever do to ye, Clyde?” she muttered to the animal, still trying to wiggle him loose.

She heard shouting and laughter coming from the woods behind her family’s home, from the footpath leading through the woods to the village. Turning, she saw her young brothers, Chester and Hugo, laughing and running into the yard.

She let go of the goat and grimaced, frustration filling her chest. “What have ye two done now?” she called to them.

The boys’ smiles slipped from their faces when they saw Celestia.

“Nothin’ bad, daenae worry!” Chester said loud enough for her to hear. Behind him, Hugo’s face doubled over in laughter.

“Get wee Clyde unstuck, please. And when you’re done with that, refill the pigs’ feed and come inside for lunch,” she said, brushing the dirt from her palms onto her apron.

“Aye, mistress, ” Hugo said solemnly and sarcastically, but as soon as she turned her back, she heard the twins snickering as quietly as they could.

Back in the house, all was quiet. She walked down the short hallway to her younger sister’s bedroom. She knocked but didn’t wait for Auralia to answer before opening the door. The room was bright, the shutters had been thrown open since this morning. She found her sister nestled in her bed with a book.

“It’s nearly midday, will ye get out of bed to help me with lunch?” Celestia said, pushing the bedroom door open all the way. She picked up the pile of skirts that lay on the floor and turned to her sister. “Get the kettle on and start makin’ some porridge, please.”

“Porridge again?” Auralia said, peering over the top of her book.

A pang of guilt struck Celestia’s heart at her sister’s words. Porridge had become a main form of sustenance for the McLean family since her father first fell ill. It was one of the ways Celestia tried saving money due to her father barely being able to work.

“Go ahead and see if there are any eggs in the chicken coop,” Celestia said, forcing a small grin.

“But…what about sellin’ them at the market this week?”

“The chickens will lay more eggs by then, daenae worry,” Celestia said, before going to check on her father. He was at the end of the hallway, in the main bedroom.

This time she waited for a response when she knocked on his door.

“Come in,” he said, his voice hoarse. He had always been a soft-spoken man despite his great ability to persuade clients and buyers in his line of work, but now his voice was always weak sounding.

Celestia opened the door slowly, partially not wanting to look at her father’s features. He had seemingly wasted away in the last three moons, and it was difficult to look at him. The village healer was in and out of their home weekly, tending to him, but he never got better. Just last week, the healer told them that their father didn’t have long. Maybe three months, and if they were lucky, then half a year.

“Da, do ye need anythin’ before lunch?” she asked, stepping into the room. She looked to see if the fire was still burning from this morning; it was.

She finally looked at her father. The covers were bundled up to his chest, and he was still wearing his favorite thick woolen winter jumper. And like Auralia, he had his nose in a book.

“Can ye open me window? It’s a wee bit dark in here; the words are hard to make out,” he said, flipping to the next page.

She was hesitant, but she knew the sunlight and fresh air would be good for him. “Only for a wee bit, then.” She pulled the curtains aside, dustier than she would have liked, and pushed open the shutters. The view was of the front yard and the path that led to the main road—which would take one either north to Castle Ferguson or south to the village.

Their house, the McLean homestead, was on the village outskirts in the woods. Her father was a well-known and respected whisky merchant and had purchased a fair bit of land when he was young. He always said he loved dealing with people but didn’t like seeing them all the time.

“Lunch will be ready soon. De ye want me to bring it in to ye?” Celestia asked, turning to look at her father. He was smiling at her, enjoying the beam of sunlight that had fallen over the bed.

“I’d like to take lunch outside, enjoy the sun while I can,” he said.

Celestia nodded. “Aye, I’ll send in the twins to help ye out of bed.”

He nodded and Celestia made her way back out to the hallway and into the kitchen. Auralia was standing over the small fireplace that lined the wall stirring the pot of porridge over the steel griddle her father had made years ago, her book just far enough away not to catch fire.

She turned at the sound of Celestia’s footsteps on the flagstones. “Almost done.”

Celestia was about to thank her when someone pounded on the front door. Both sisters looked at each other, Auralia’s eyes wide, Celestia’s heart frozen. They both hoped it wouldn’t be debt collectors or one of their father’s clients. She turned toward the door, stopping in front of the mirror to tuck a few stray strands of blonde hair back into her low bun. There were bits of dirt on her cheeks from trying to free the goat earlier.

The pounding came again, louder this time, more insistent.

Must be old Gavin comin’ to convince me to let him beat the twins for whatever they did to him today.

“I’m comin’!” she shouted.

She braced herself for the berating she was sure Gavin was about to deliver and pulled open the heavy oak front door. Instead of Gavin’s old, sun-damaged face, she was met with the tall figure of the young chief of Clan Moore.

Celestia eyed him, stunned as she took him in. Chief Anthony Moore wore well-polished riding books, his plaid perfectly tucked and pinned, his dark, almost black curly hair fixed with a bonnet. She was irritatingly awestruck by how handsome he looked in the late-morning light.

She forced herself to blink, scolding herself for her thoughts. How was it that he made butterflies appear in her stomach after he’d been nothing but a snobbish prat to her their entire lives?

She looked once more at him, taking in the dark eyelashes that framed his dark green eyes.

“Good day, Mistress,” he said. He attempted a smile.

“Good day to you, m’laird,” she replied, such formalities felt strange after a lifetime of knowing one another. “What do I owe the pleasure of ye on our humble doorstep?”

“I’ve told ye time and again, ye can call me Anthony,” he said, sounding annoyed, resting his hands on his leather belt that secured his rough leather riding trews. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Celestia resisted the urge to reach out and place her hands on his muscular forearms, tanned from the recent uncommon streak of sunny spring days the Highlands had seen.

“Oh, aye, Anthony, fine, fine,” she said, nodding her head, pulling her eyes away from him.

“Have you been well?” Anthony asked, trying for a smile before it fell into a pinched, tension-filled expression.

“Aye, I’ve been well enough,” Celestia told him. “Thank ye for inquirin’.”

“Is yer faither in? I wish to speak with him,” he asked, taking a small step forward.

“We are about to sit down for lunch. So, if ye don’t mind comin’ back another time,” she said, taking hold of the door handle. She gave a part bow of her head and closed the door on him.

How can ye be starin’ at him like that, ye daft fool.

She entered the kitchen once again, trying to shake the image of his hesitant but charming smile from her mind; Auralia was plating the porridge and eggs. Chester and Hugo were coming in the back door, dirtier than they were before, hair a mess. They spotted their sister, looking very pleased with themselves.

“Never fear, Cellie! The McLean twins have saved the day,” Chester told her happily.

“Or, rather, the goat.” Hugo nodded, flicking mud off his dirt-smeared linen shirt. “Clyde’s as good as new.”

Celestia stopped them in their tracks. “Fetch Da from his room. He’s takin’ lunch outside today.”

“He is?” all three of her younger siblings said, gawking at her.

“Aye, he—”

The pounding on the door came again. This time louder and more urgent than before. Celestia noted that the knock sounded more agitated too. She smiled to herself; she was sure that no one, especially a woman, had shut the door in the chief’s face before.

“Who was it?” Auralia asked.

“Who is it?” Chester asked, sounding a bit frightened.

“What if ol’ Gavin figured out it was us?” Hugo said, eyes wide.

“We would ken if it was ol’ Gavin by now. That man screams louder than a Ban Sith,” Auralia said flatly.

“It’s only Anthony Moore, just ignore him. He’ll go away eventually,” Celestia told them.

“The chief?” Auralia asked, brows coming together in confusion.

Celestia nodded.

“And…ye shut the door in his face?” Hugo asked incredulously.

“Oh, aye,” Celestia said pleasantly, nodding her head and grabbing up two plates to bring them to the back garden. “Auralia will ye grab up a couple and follow—”

Chester shoved into Celestia as he pushed passed her and made his way to the door. “Ye cannae shut the door in our chief’s face, Celestia. Are ye mad?”

Celestia tried to block his path, but he was more agile than her balancing two plates of food in her hands. “Leave it be, Chester. He has no business with us.”

“He must if he’s here, Cellie,” Chester retorted.

Hugo followed closely behind, forgetting that they were supposed to be helping their father out of bed. “I daenae ken why ye hate the man, woman. He’s nice enough.”

“A bit of a know-it-all though. At least that’s what Da says,” Auralia said only loud enough for Celestia to hear.

Celestia mashed her lips together to keep from laughing.

Chester ripped the door open to find Anthony Moore standing with his fist lifted to bang on the door again. “What a pleasure—”

“Yer sister said the same thing before she slammed the door in my face,” Anthony said, placing a large hand against the wood panels so that it couldn’t be shut again.

“I dinnae slam the door. I simply shut it,” Celestia said, now standing behind her brothers. She had left the lunch plates behind on the kitchen table.

“How can we be of service, m’laird?” Hugo asked.

Anthony took off his bonnet and stepped into the doorway, a distrusting hand remained on the door. “I’ve come to see yer faither. I’ve been away on clan business for nearly two months, and I heard he’s not been well.”

“Oh, aye,” Chester said solemnly, bowing his head to hide his grin. “He hasn’t, but ye’re too late.”

Anthony’s face fell. “I dinnae ken. My condolences, he was a good man who made good whisky.”

Celestia smacked the back of Chester’s head. “How dare ye talk of Da that way, ye wee fool.”

Chester grasped the back of his head, rubbing it viciously.

“Brannan McLean is nae dead, then?” Anthony asked, his eyes looking from one sibling to the other until he held Celestia’s gaze at last.

“Aye,” Celestia said seriously. “He still lives and breathes. We’re about to have lunch though, so, please come back at a more convenient time.”

* * *

“Please, lass, can I see yer faither? I have important business with him,” he said with a heavy sigh. Celestia had a way about her that always got on his last nerve.

“He hasnae had much to do with his business these last couple of months and he—”

“I ken, woman. The castle didnae receive its monthly whisky order. Nor has there been the usual delivery of goat’s milk to old Mrs. Duncan, the castle’s housekeeper.” Anthony took a step closer to Celestia. He gave credit to the woman, she held her ground and was glaring up at him.

“I ken who the woman is, Anthony. She practically raised us when our faithers were too busy with business and drink. But we sold all but one of the goats. Apologies for nae sendin’ word to yer housekeeper, but I daenae love airin’ my troubles.”

Anthony could feel the frustration growing in his body. He clenched his fists and exhaled. “Can I speak to yer faither? I willnae ask again, Celestia.”

“Oh, fine, come on,” she said, turning abruptly and leading him down the hallway. “Mind ye, be quick. His energy doesnae last long these days.”

“Aye, ye have my word. I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, giving her a brief smirk before knocking on Mr. McLean’s bedroom door.

Celestia grimaced. “Da!” she called, “Lunch needs to be postponed a wee bit. Cheif Moore wishes to speak to ye.”

“Och, my heavens, the chief is here?” he called from behind the door, the surprise in his voice clear.

“Aye, sir, I need a moment of yer time,” Anthony answered.

“Come in, come in, please!”

His voice seemed strong enough to Anthony. So, he gripped the door handle and turned to Celestia. “Ye would think ye’d learn some manners from yer dear ol’ faither.”

“The pot callin’ the kettle black, now?”

With that, Celestia simply walked away, leaving him to his dealings with Brannan McLean. He opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle the man. He was unsure of what sort of illness Mr. McLean had, but he still wanted to be as respectful and careful as he could.

To his surprise, he found Mr. McLean sitting up in bed looking much thinner than when he last saw him, but he looked alert and well enough as Celestia said.

“Please, take a seat,” Mr. McLean said, gesturing to the armchair nestled in the corner of his room by the fireplace. “What brings ye here today? Business, I hope. I’m goin’ mad doin’ nothin’.”

Anthony walked across the room, pulling the chair a bit closer than before, and sat. “Well, I heard ye were nae well and wanted to check in on ye and yer family.”

Mr. McLean smiled, but his eyes gave away the truth of the situation, they held sadness and shame. “Aye, the healer thinks it could be an affliction of the lungs.”

“Is there anythin’ the healer can do?” Anthony knew the answer before he asked the question.

“Nay, there’s nothin’ to do but wait now.” Again, he smiled, but it did not hold the usual warmth that he was used to seeing in the man. “Although, the healer has been kind enough to give me some extra pain relief when I need it.”

Anthony mirrored his smile and quickly looked down at his boots. He was never quite good at dealing with dying men. He could not even bear to visit his father before he died.

“I want to apologize about the lack of whisky and milk. My apprentice I have workin’ in my absence is still learnin’ what needs to go where. And I feel bad for the poor sod, I havenae really had the chance to train him up well.”

Anthony looked back up at the man and waved his apology away. “Nay, please, ye daenae need to apologize. I have been made aware of yer family’s financial situation and yer illness for some time now. News reached me on the road.”

Mr. McLean laughed unexpectedly at this, heartily this time. “Oh, I’m sure Mrs. Duncan wrote to ye and told ye about the missin’ orders. She doesnae miss a thing.”

“Nay, she certainly doesnae,” Anthony said. “Especially when it meddles with her drinkin’ and her cookin’.”

Laughter filled the room until Mr. McLean’s deep chuckle caught in his throat, and he started coughing. He coughed until he was red in the face. Wordlessly and frantically, he motioned to his handkerchief that lay on the bedside table. Anthony swiftly grabbed it and placed it in his waiting hand.

He hacked into the piece of fabric and soon the coughing attack subsided. Mr. McLean looked down at the handkerchief and quickly tucked it away from sight.

Blood, surely.

“I thank ye, lad. I haven’t laughed like that in some time,” he said, voice rough. A few more coughs bubbled forth before he was able to regain total control of his breathing again. “Now, what did ye come all the way here to discuss if it is nae the whisky?”

Anthony nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I wonder how’d you feel if I were to ask for yer daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Mr. McLean laughed again, much more subdued now. “Did ye just come to make me laugh, lad?”

Normally, Anthony would not have allowed anyone to refer to him as lad now that he was chief. But due to the friendship Mr. McLean had with his father when he was alive, he permitted it.

“Aye, as much as I enjoy seein’ ye happy, my words are true.”

“Ye ken it would be easier to marry Queen Anne herself than my Celestia,” Mr. McLean said, crossing his arms as he observed Anthony closely. “Ye two butt heads more than ye seem to agree on things.”

“I ken we do, and in time, I believe we could be able to get over that. Will ye agree? I can help yer family, sir,” Anthony said earnestly. “I’ve heard that ye’ve been sellin’ off yer animals and the lasses have been sellin’ the food from yer own farm along with their knittin’. Most troublin’, the boys have been seen pawnin’ the silverware.”

Mr. McLean’s face didn’t give away much.

He must ken what the boys have been doin’.

“Yer acquainted with my daughter, aren’t ye?” he asked.

Anthony nodded, unsure if this was a rhetorical question, but gave an answer regardless. “Since we were bairns.”

“Ah, well, then ye ken her character.”

“Aye,” he said slowly. He and Celestia had spent more time together than he had with any other child in the castle, aside from his own sister and Sebastian when he came to live with his aunt, Mrs. Duncan.

Brannan adjusted himself and pulled the covers close. “As much as I would love to see the two of ye together and my family well taken care of before I leave this earth, ye won’t be gettin’ my blessin’ until ye can get one outta her.”