The Highlander's Christmas Quest Read online

  The Highlander’s Christmas Quest: The Lairds Most Likely Book 5

  By

  Anna Campbell

  Copyright © 2019 by Anna Campbell

  annacampbell.com

  ISBN 978-1925980943

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Anna Campbell.

  Cover art by Hang Le

  E-book Formatting by Web Crafters

  www.webcraftersdesign.com

  Dedication:

  To my sailing experts Helene Young and Cap’n G. May all your voyages lead to safe harbor!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Highlander's Defiant Captive

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Bruard Castle, Western Highlands of Scotland, December 1728

  Dougal Drummond of Bruard had long understood that he was born to a grand destiny. From the moment he was old enough to know the world and his place in it, he recognized that he was set on this earth to do great deeds and earn great renown for his proud clan.

  A hundred, even fifty years ago, that grand destiny would have meant striking a decisive blow against the Drummonds’ hereditary enemies, the Mackinnons. But thanks to his father and Callum Mackinnon, the Laird of Achnasheen, peace had reigned in these wild Highland glens for over twenty-five years. So there was no glory to be won in renewing the feud. Not to mention that with so much intermarriage between the former deadly foes, he’d likely kill a kinsman if he started murdering Mackinnons now.

  In fact, this Scotland he lived in was altogether too peaceful for his liking. Especially as he had no interest in meddling in dynastic wars between the Stuarts and the Hanoverians. That seemed too sordid and worldly a cause for a man of his lofty aspirations.

  Instead, all his dreams were of an earlier, simpler age where a man could prove his mettle with dashing deeds on the battlefield or through knight errantry. Dougal couldn’t help but feel that he’d been born into the wrong time. His soul longed to be part of the stories in his much-read copy of Le Morte d’Arthur. He wanted to ride with Lancelot and Gawain. He wanted to right wrongs and defeat dragons and rescue princesses from towers. He wanted to be a gallant knight, brave and steadfast and true.

  Most of all, he wanted to do something out of the ordinary. Something that called on every ounce of his strength and heart and courage. Something that brought him danger and sacrifice and suffering. Something momentous and great and perilous.

  Something worthy of legend.

  But in this namby-pamby era of politics, politeness and financial gain, the Highlands had turned sadly civilized. It was enough to drive a braw, restless, ambitious laddie to despair.

  But then one winter’s day when he was twenty-four, he heard a man speak of Fair Ellen of the Isles, and he realized that the age of chivalry was not quite dead after all.

  ***

  Kirsty Macbain reined her mount Nevis to a stop on the headland sheltering the small harbor that served her father’s island Askaval. Below her, the late winter dawn revealed an unexpected sight. The sky and water were rosy with sunrise, but unlike on most other days when she took this ride, the wild sea wasn’t empty.

  Limping into view was a small sailing boat that had caught the worst of last night’s violent storm. Half the mast was missing, and the lone mariner had lost his sails. Shreds of dirty white hung from what remained of the rigging. He only made progress through a mixture of rowing and a tiny sail improvised from a tattered shirt that he’d pinned to the stump of the mast. Even across the distance, she could see the sailor was a powerful laddie, and his rich red hair shone like a banner in the brightening light.

  She spurred her gray horse down the brae and along the narrow track leading to the harbor. Visitors to Askaval were rare enough to make her curious, even if she didn’t need to check that the stranger was uninjured. The damage from last night’s storm surrounded her. Fishing creels scattered everywhere, and the roof had blown off Bruce’s sheepfold. Branches down from bare fruit trees, and a couple of broken fences.

  It could have been worse. The high ridge behind her had kept the worst of the weather off the village. But she dreaded to think how bad the squall had been out on the open sea. Whoever the man in the boat was, he must be a braw sailor indeed to survive the gales and currents of a midwinter storm in the Hebrides.

  A braw sailor, if not the wisest one.

  Who on earth set out in the dark months of the year, in a small boat on such dangerous seas? Why, it was less than a week until Christmas. Any sensible man would be hunkered down beside his fireside with a wee dram to keep the cold from his bones. Whatever lured the stranger to undertake this voyage must be important indeed.

  By the time Nevis clattered to a halt on the stone quay, the little boat was tied securely to a heavy iron ring set into the wall near the steps leading down to the water. The style of the craft was unfamiliar, built long and low with pointed prow and stern so it was narrow at the ends and wider in the middle. Again, she wondered that the stranger had come through the storm alive in such a seemingly frail vessel.

  From where she sat on her horse, Kirsty studied the new arrival. He had his back to her and was facing toward the stern as he stowed the oars. His red hair lay loose and wind-ruffled across his broad shoulders. A stained and ragged white shirt, twin to the one nailed to the mast, clung to his powerful back. Brown leather breeches hugged slim hips and long legs. The black boots he wore were scarred and marked, but of good quality.

  She slid down from the saddle and stood on the edge of the quay above him. "Are ye hurt?"

  The man straightened and turned to face her, lifting his head so he could meet her concerned gaze. He seemed to have no trouble keeping his balance on the moving boat. The seas remained so rough that even in this usually tranquil harbor, choppy waves moved the craft up and down.

  She found herself transfixed by a pair of dark blue eyes, heavy with weariness but still containing a hint of a smile in their depths. And just like that, swift as a lightning strike, Kirsty fell in love.

  "Och, a few scrapes and bruises only. It was a raw night, mistress. My wee boat is in a much sadder state than I am."

  She hardly heard a word he said. Instead, she was too busy drinking in every detail of the newcomer’s appearance. In all her nineteen years, she’d never seen anything to match this young man. His features were carved with a masterful hand. Noble forehead. Straight, aristocratic nose. A long, flexible mouth that, like his eyes, hinted at smiles. A square-cut jaw.

  Dear Lord above, who was he? Whoever he was, he’d make Michelangelo weep. While visitors to Askaval might be few, she’d seen enough laddies to recognize that this one was a rare example indeed.

  The deep blue eyes leveled on her as he tugged on a coat. They were the vivid burning color of the bluebells that turned the springtime woods around her father’s house into heaven. Marked, expressive brows, a darker red than his spectacular hair, lowered in concern. "Mistress?"

&
nbsp; Heat flooded Kirsty’s cheeks. What the devil was wrong with her? She must be staring at him as if she was half-witted. The embarrassing truth was that she felt half-witted. Her heart pounded like an orchestra of drums, and she felt so sensitive to everything around her, it was as if she’d lost a layer of skin.

  "I beg your pardon, sir." She cursed her betraying stutter. "We’re unused to strangers here on Askaval."

  "Askaval?" With a smooth grace that set her susceptible heart somersaulting, he jumped from the crippled boat to the steps leading up to where she stood. "Is that where I am?"

  "Aye," she said, then all capacity for speech deserted her as he climbed up to stand in front of her.

  She tilted her head. Then tilted it some more. By all the saints, he was a giant.

  Kirsty was on the short side. Her father called her his wee squirrel. But compared to this young Hercules, she felt positively minuscule. Papa was a big man, over six feet, but this fiery-haired laddie would top the laird by another few inches.

  Now they were on the same level, the man’s shoulders appeared even more impressive. And those blue eyes were more extraordinary close up, bright with intelligence and vitality and warmth.

  He looked like a hero from an old story. Jason or Theseus or Hector. He even spoke like a hero, in a voice as deep as distant thunder and as rich as new cream. No wonder a mere storm hadn’t vanquished him.

  "That’s braw to ken, mistress." A crooked smile curved that miracle of a mouth, setting attractive creases around his eyes. "And just where on God’s green earth is Askaval?"

  She smiled back. Impossible to do anything else, really. By now, her giddy heart had stopped somersaulting. Instead it was performing an energetic jig, bouncing around like her father at the Christmas ceilidh after he’d had a dram or six. "We’re south-west of Islay."

  "I’m a good hundred miles off course, then." The muscle jerking in that lean cheek emphasized a cheekbone as hard and sharp as a clear note on a flute. "The wind has blown me south and west when I wanted to go north. I suppose I’m lucky that gale didnae carry me all the way to America."

  Another rueful smile made that impossibly beautiful male face even more beautiful. Kirsty’s stomach tightened with a pleasure in his presence so powerful, it hurt.

  A mere puff of wind had decided her fate. The thought made her painfully alert to the fragility of her current happiness. If last night’s gale had blown a few degrees further north or east, this masterpiece of creation could have ended up on some other fortunate maiden’s shore. "Where were ye headed?"

  A faraway look softened that brilliant blue gaze. While he might be standing only a few feet away, she had the strangest and most unwelcome feeling that his mind had moved to distant shores. He wasn’t focused on Kirsty Macbain at all.

  He was quick to come back to their conversation, but it had been a telling moment. He blinked and glanced down at her. "I’m heading for the Innishes."

  She frowned. "The Innishes?"

  "Aye, north-west of Lewis. Innish Mor and Innish Beag." He paused as if waiting for a response, but Kirsty had never heard of either place. "I beg your pardon, mistress. Let me introduce myself. I’m Dougal Drummond of Bruard."

  He bowed with more of that breathtaking elegance. For such a big, brawny man, he moved with astonishing lightness, like a dancer.

  Automatically Kirsty dropped into a curtsy and only then recalled what she was wearing. Her stomach clenched with dismay and embarrassment, and she bit back a groan. Plague take her, she must look the veriest hoyden.

  She was dressed for a day of hard work, in a loose white shirt and short black woolen jacket. Breeches and boots completed the unmaidenly ensemble. On Askaval, she was her father’s right hand, and it was easier riding around the island in practical male clothing. This morning, she’d tied her thick dark hair back in an untidy plait that the breeze had already played havoc with. The islanders were used to her and her ways, but to a stranger’s eyes, she must appear outlandishly unfeminine, perhaps even unnatural.

  Not that so far, Mr. Drummond had betrayed a trace of disapproval. Clearly this paragon of male beauty was a paragon of manners, too.

  Never before had Kirsty wanted to be pretty for a man. But standing here, she wished that she was wearing silks and pearls and that she knew how to flirt. She wished so hard, the wishing was agony. While she might be a dab hand with a troublesome ewe or a tangled fishing net, she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to attract a male’s attention. And for the first time ever, she desperately wanted a man to look at her with desire.

  One red brow tilted in her direction. "And who may I say I have the pleasure of addressing, mistress?"

  He might be a paragon of manners. Clearly she wasn’t. She should have told him her name straightaway. But the first sight of him had left her floundering and chased anything like common sense all the way to Edinburgh.

  "I’m Kirsty Macbain." She felt her rare color rise once more as she responded, flustered, to the question. "My father Augustus Macbain is laird of this island."

  Mr. Drummond bowed again. "I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Macbain."

  If only that was true and not just polite folderol. She bit back a sigh. "Let me take ye up to the house." It was almost a relief to start thinking about practicalities. "After the night you’ve had, I’m sure you’d like a wash and a good meal and a bed."

  "Aye, thank ye." That charming smile reappeared. "I’ll accept with pleasure, and perhaps your father can supply me with the materials to fix my boat. I’d like to be away as soon as I can, especially as the weather looks set fair now the storm has passed."

  Away as soon as he could? Those words sent Kirsty’s frail pavilion of dreams crumbling to dust.

  Because if Mr. Drummond had been as struck with her as she was struck with him, he wouldn’t be talking about a quick departure. He’d be talking about staying long enough to make his mark with her. She wasn’t versed in flirtation, but even she knew that if a lad fancied a lassie, he’d be in no hurry to take to the seas to escape her.

  Kirsty, ye wee fool, why the devil would such a man notice you? Except to see that you’re rag-mannered and turned out like a navvy, and your hair looks like eagles have been nesting in it.

  She told the spiteful voice to shut up. I dinnae care. He hasnae noticed me that way today, but that doesnae mean he never will. Papa says I look like Mamma, and everyone tells me she was beautiful. Perhaps if I put on a dress and wash my face and ask Lucy to do my hair and…

  But by then Dougal Drummond would be gone.

  "Where is Bruard?" she asked hesitantly.

  "Inland from Skye, well north of here."

  So no chance of any casual meeting once he left.

  And this mysterious Innish he aimed to visit, that was even further away. Without the storm, she’d never have met him. The storm or fate.

  Having flung him before her like a gift from the sea, fate now seemed determined to send him away again. So cruel.

  "Did ye leave your wife at Bruard?"

  She feared she was being obvious, but his ready answer gave no hint that he questioned her motives in asking. "Och, lassie, I’m no’ married. No’ yet."

  That was a relief. At least there was no Mrs. Drummond at home who owned his heart. "Do ye have family on Innish?"

  The faraway look appeared again. "No."

  She had a horrible suspicion that there might be a lady on Innish, a rival for his affections. When he’d spoken of marriage, the "not yet" betrayed future intentions, she couldn’t help thinking.

  Kirsty told herself it was daft to be so convinced that this was the laddie for her after just one meeting. But her stubborn heart wouldn’t listen to reason. When she looked at Dougal Drummond, her stubborn heart said "mine, all mine."

  Around them, the village and small harbor started to come to life. At this time of year, there was little fishing, but on a fair if cold day like this, the old timers liked to sit in front of the small tavern and watch
the world go by. Johnny Garrett had already found his place on the bench and observed Kirsty and Mr. Drummond with unconcealed curiosity. The stranger’s arrival would soon be news throughout the island. And Kirsty had no doubt the crofters would guess just what made the laird’s daughter blush and flutter.

  "The house is at the end of the village. Will ye come away with me now, Mr. Drummond?"

  "With pleasure, Miss Macbain. And I appreciate your kindness to a chance-met stranger."

  "It’s the Highland way," she said dismissively. "I’m sure if I washed up at Bruard, you’d do the same."

  Could she follow him back to his home and engineer another meeting? What use, if his heart was engaged elsewhere?

  "But he belongs to me," said that insistent little voice in her heart.

  No, he’s leaving. And he’ll never come back. Instead, some horrible witch who lives on Innish will get to enjoy all his kisses and his sweet declarations and his smiles, while I’m left bereft and lonely, here on Askaval.

  Life just wasn’t fair.

  Chapter 2

  Dougal watched the unusual lassie strut ahead of him, leading her pony. He’d never seen a girl in boy’s clothes before. The effect should be shocking, but something about the way the doeskin breeches clung to her graceful curves fascinated him. Which was odd, because until now his taste in females had tended toward the helpless and feminine and clinging. Pretty wee flibbertigibbets who appreciated a strong man’s arm to support them as they tottered through life.

  His gaze dwelled on the sway of Miss Macbain’s hips as she walked. Until he reminded himself that he was a knight on a holy quest and lusting after nubile maidens in tight clothes did him no credit.

  It took more effort than it should to drag his attention up to consider his surroundings. And just in the nick of time, too.