Page 1 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

1

The sun was blasting against the water, creating ripples of glittering light as the waves rose and fell in a constant rhythm. The view caught Margaret off guard, for it was so rare that the sea here in Thurso, nearly as far north in the Scottish Highlands as one could get, was ever anything other than an ominous gray. Her eyes became entangled in the waves as they rose up to white peaks before caving in upon themselves, dragging her thoughts with them as they plunged into the sea.

“Margaret! Get moving or I’ll take it out of yer pay!”

Margaret Gunn snapped away from the spell of the sea, uttering a few quick apologies before she rushed back along the dock, rejoining the herd of men moving back and forth between the dock and the ship pulled up alongside. Piled high on the dock were hundreds of freshly tanned hides, all bundled together so they could easily be sold to shops all throughout Europe. The men, and Margaret, were hired by the merchant to see that the ship was properly loaded with his wares.

Two men, a pair of new hires, sneered, watching her as she crouched and wrapped her arms around one of the bundles. Their sneers lessened only a bit when she stood, lifting the bundle with the same ease as any of the other men.

Margaret ignored their stares. If she stopped to care about every man’s opinion, to verbally correct their misjudgments, she would never have time for anything else. The rest of the men on the dock had already learned that she was a hard worker, not lessened at all by her gender. These men would, eventually, do the same.

But, of course, they would sneak in whatever jabs they could in the meantime.

“Pissing away the day watching the sea… Tis all he could have expected from a woman,” one of the new hires said to the other as they walked ahead of her, laughing as they crossed the gangplank and then descending down into the ship’s hold.

The scent of leather and sweat filled the small space, penetrating her nose even though she had not dared to take a breath. The bundles of hide had been stacked carefully, with each pile reaching the ceiling before the next one was started. On a ship like this, space was precious. Every inch needed to be filled.

“Well, lad, do you ken how the wee lass will get her stack all the way up there? Tis quite a bit taller than her,” one of them said, casting a glance back in her direction, an aggravatingly smug look on his face.

“Perhaps she’ll give ye a kiss if ye offer to help her,” the other man replied, the condescending look on his face equally aggravating.

Margaret stopped her march and glared at them both.

“Ach, look! We made her mad. Donna ye look so upset, lass, ye’ll ruin yer bonny looks.”

Margaret lifted the bundle above her head and, with a soft grunt, let it fly through the air. The two men ducked as it flew overhead, looking up only just in time to see it land with a satisfying thud at the top of the stack.

Margaret curtsied and left the hold, unable to contain the satisfaction that bubbled up to crack open a wide smile on her face.

It took an hour to finish loading the hides, and another hour after that for the merchant to approve the work and pay them. Margaret watched as the sun began to sink in the sky, transforming the blue into a mixture of golds and oranges that would, under other circumstances, threaten to steal her breath away. But, for once, she had to try and keep her thoughts trapped safely inside.

Remember to buy candlesticks. Remember to buy candlesticks. Remember to buy candlesticks…

Margaret recited the reminder like a trance as she ran from the dock, the jingle of her pay comforting in her pocket. The evening traffic of Thurso was maddening, and Margaret had to dodge this way and that on the grimy cobblestones in order to get anywhere. All around her, fishermen were shouting their prices for the daily catch, merchants were rushing their carts this way and that—not caring about anyone or anything in their path—and large clusters of women stood over large dye baths, pressing freshly woven linens under the solution until the color was perfected. No one noticed the lass in a lad’s clothes as she rushed past.

Margaret sighed when she reached the town square, realizing that some orator had gathered a crowd, further congesting what would have already been unbearable to navigate. As his booming voice pinned the crowd in place, Margaret did her best to slip through the clusters of transfixed listeners, for once grateful for her smaller frame.

With one final push, Margaret stumbled out of the crowd on the opposite end of the square. She glanced up and found that the dark and penetrating gaze of the candlemaker was already upon her. She sat in her usual place, perched at the seat of her small wagon, as if she was willing to whip her horses and ride off at any moment. The cart was laden with candles of every shape and size, sorted into small and efficient baskets throughout the cart. If a customer approached with a particularly large purse, the candlemaker would even lift her seat and reveal another basket, one that was filled with candles that had been set with flowers and dyes before being carved into intricate patterns.

It had been a long time since the woman had ever presented Margaret with that basket.

“Trousers again, lass?” the candlemaker asked as she reached back and picked up a pair of plain, thick candles that were cracked and rippled from quick, uncaring dips in the wax buckets. They were the cheapest she had, and they were all Margaret could afford.

Margaret forced a stiff smile to her lips and nodded, feeling suddenly conscious of her heavy brown trousers and blue linen shirt. She wished that there was another candlemaker in Thurso. One who didn’t know her and the heights from whence she had fallen.

The crowd saved Margaret from vocalizing a response. Split in two, half of the people gathered were suddenly cheering, while the other half groaned and shook their heads angrily. The candlemaker’s eyes slid up to the orator, her usual frown tilting upward with bemusement.

Shoving her thumb in the direction of the orator, Margaret asked, “What’s the occasion?”

“You havena been listening? Course not. Well, twould seem that Queen Mary has finally decided how to punish Clan Gunn for their part in the Gordon Rebellion.”

Margaret felt her breath catch as her heart began to race. When whispers of a possible Gordon-led rebellion against Queen Mary had slipped through the Highlands, her clan had openly declared support for the rebels. But, before the men of her clan could march south to join the Gordon forces, the news arrived that the queen had already defeated them at Corriche. It had been hundreds against thousands—a battle lost even before swords had been drawn.

Though the Gunns hadn’t had the time to move against the queen, their intentions had been too clear to go unpunished. So, the questions of what the punishment would be and when it would arrive had turned into an all-consuming conversation between her clansmen. The questions had been suffocating them, infecting every conversation and moment of idle thought.

Would the queen demand hostages?

Would the laird be summoned to court for a trial and inevitable execution?