Mistress of the Keep

Mistress of the Keep

Time Travel Historical Romance

by

Sherry Boardman

Copyright 2012

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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From the Author

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters and locales, other than those specifically researched and listed in the source reference section, either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Image: Courtesy of Mapichai, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Cover Design: Sherry Boardman

Prologue

Scotland Highlands

Summer 1650

She dodged the deluge of arrows, darting from tree to tree. Why had he done it? He swore he would wait for the rest of them before heading into the melee that would mean certain death if the clan’s warriors did not arrive soon.

Where was he? Her shaking hand swept away the sweat dripping in her eyes and wiped it on the threadbare sleeve of her blouse. The clans had stupidly planned ending the idiotic argument on the hottest day in July. Hiking up her skirt, she grimaced while shinnying up the nearest tree when a splinter of bark dug into her thigh. She scooted out to the tip of a branch that appeared to be strong enough to hold her slight weight and stared at the mixture of bodies in mortal combat. It would be a battle to death for one side or the other. No enemy would walk away today.

Eyes searched the blood-soaked plaids. Surely he would stay on the outside of the fray and keep his back near a thin copse of trees. Then, she saw him. The double-sided claymore swung in a wide circle, cutting down anyone who dared to near its blade. Deafening battle cries sounded over and again until she wanted to shout for them to stop. But any sounds beyond those being bellowed below would be blown out to sea.

When she glanced back over her shoulder, a line of horses in the distance pounded their way to the battle line, the sun glinting off polished shields. A deep breath of relief escaped, but she held onto the branch rather than climb down and become a target. The flapping blue and green banner symbolizing Callaghan castle’s clan was soon within sight. Help had arrived. But were they in time?

Her head swiveled back to the sight before her. More bodies littered the ground. Her eyes searched once again to distinguish her father amidst those still standing. Just as she located him, one on horseback charged from the trees and struck a fatal blow to Laird Ranald Barclay. Cathella watched the juices of life flow from the giant of a man who feared nothing. Staring in disbelief, she tasted blood from biting her bottom lip rather than screaming and hardly noticed when her father’s horsemen dismounted and continued the battle until victory was theirs to celebrate.

Chapter One

Callaghan Castle

Crathie, Scotland

July 1652

Cathella turned from the window and brushed away the tears streaking her face. It would do her no good to continue dwelling on what could not be changed. This second anniversary of her father’s death had not lessened the pain. She still missed his warmth, the way he ultimately gave into her whims, the love they shared after the death of her mother, and so many other things for which she would offer her thanks if only there were one more moment to share between them. But, the opportunity had passed to relate how much she admired and missed him during the majority of her growing-up years. Daily, she practiced her writing skills he had continued teaching after her few years in an English school. Now, often at night, she would compose special words and kiss the vellum in hope he would be watching over her and know she had not forgotten him. The castle was full of servants, yet, so empty.

Dismissing the thoughts, she glanced at the bailey where men were stripped to the waist heaving heavy claymores to strengthen their warfare skills. Had it not been for her father’s constant push, the skirmish that stole his life that fateful day would have been lost for all. Beyond the clangs of steel were three recently added small buildings built with the plenteous gray granite in the Aberdeen region of Scotland. The spiraling wisps of smoke from the chimneys indicated the vats were being filled with a new batch of Callaghan brew. Several years prior, her father had decided to experiment with making whiskey and came up with an idea for a primitive still. Barley fields were planted, and water from the fresh spring near the castle enabled him to test several recipes before deciding his favorite. Her mother argued against the process, that it was just a waste of time. However, when he poured up the first under-fermented sample, her attitude tempered. After word was passed around, occupants of surrounding areas showed up at the door to trade something of value for a pint of the malted whiskey, even though the fermenting process had been short of what it should have been for a smoother product. Now, years later, large casks sitting and aging were being opened. Coin was presently required when possible for the rich golden nectar. Money was scarce in Scotland, but was asked for before bartering. With the income as well as from a few crops and hogs and some sheep being sold, Callaghan was considered prosperous. And the new items added to the castle’s decor was proof enough. In the spring, Cathella had seen to the lawns being landscaped immediately beyond the doors. Visitors were quick to praise her efforts in providing a more contented atmosphere around the cold gray granite walls.

Sighing, she picked up the list of complaints to be addressed at the afternoon’s gathering of the clan’s elders. It was short this month. Yet, two items would cause some harsh words. The line had been drawn, and the number of members was even. It was she who would make the final decisions, and she detested the meetings when put in this position. She had just turned twenty-one and was still becoming used to being the mistress of the keep. The lineage was dying out, as smaller septs ultimately did. It was now her lot to hold the title of laird, although her advisers were always at her side. Rarely did she require the few families remaining to address her formally. Mistress of the Keep fit her quite well. The paper floated back to the desktop.

She then picked up the missive from the court. The first inclination was to tear it into shreds, but the problem would not be solved in doing so. The English government was in disarray, and all knew a new principal would soon emerge from many who sought the title. Scotland’s leaders were spreading the word to do whatever necessary to protect lands and possessions to keep them out of the hands of the English. Cathella must make a final decision to choose a marriage partner to secure hers. Without a doubt, George Cromwell would finally have his way and become the Lord Protector of England, Scotland, and Ireland. He did not approve of the independence of Scotland, and the people of her homeland despised him and the methods devised to encourage submission to his demands.

The interruption was welcomed when a servant appeared at the door.

Aye, Della?

The girl dipped a slight curtsy; her eyes lowered A caller, Mistress.

Della?

The girl’s hands clasped and unclasped more than usual. Cathella attributed it to a mere nervous habit. Mistress?

How many times have I requested you look at me when you address me?

A flush colored the girl’s face. But ye ur mah betters.

Cathella walked over to the girl and raised her chin with a tip of a finger. I am no better than you are, and I would appreciate your looking at when you have something to say. Your maw served our laird for money years afore we laid her to rest. When you took over her duties, it was an extension of her. You are a part of Callaghan and serve us well and should not feel less. Will you try a bit harder to do as I ask?

Sad, brown eyes looked up at Cathella. Aye, Mistress.

Cathella nodded. "Good. Now, about this caller?

A most unusual cheil, Mistress Barclay, the servant said while shaking her head.

Man, Della. Try to use the English?

Della lowered her head to study the rug’s pattern.

Della?

Immediately, she raised her head, an apology on her lips, but Cathella waved her off.

Go on, she urged.

Weel, he is dressed somewhat oddly an’ has a strange accent.

I see, Cathella said. "Did he mention the’ purpose of the visit?

Nae, mistress. Jist ‘at he wanted tae see th’ body in charge.

Cathella settled behind her desk and adjusted her colorful hand loomed arisaidh. "Very well, show in the chiel."

Della hid a smile when leaving the room that her mistress was mocking her.

Chapter Two

Gavin Richmond paced the granite floors of the entryway. He had no idea of why he was here or how he had arrived. The last memory was practicing for the annual medieval festival in upstate New York. The men had chided him about his well-honed skills, due much to his large stature.

You could just stare down at one of the enemy and he would drop his weapon and run, one had said with a laugh.

His height had always embarrassed him. At six foot five, many inquired why he didn’t approach one of the pro sports’ teams. The remarks amused him. He was perfectly satisfied sitting behind his desk and encouraging potential clients to invest in the firm. The stock market’s shares had fallen below where they should be for the quarter. Imports to the United States had dropped off. The world’s economy was disrupting all businesses that depended on goods from other countries. Scotland was no exception. But what was it he was concerned about? What shares? What goods? Had he become completely addled?

He looked down at his costume. Almost rags. But the research had indicated the period called for that, especially after returning from war. The sheathed broadsword was cumbersome, and he wasn’t at all certain it belonged to the 14th or 15th century, but wore what was issued. The walk up the cobbled stoned pathway required more durable shoes than the thin sandals he wore. He waved his hand to dismiss thoughts of his dress. The main concern at the moment was how he had awakened in a field of crops with none of his companions around. Where was he? Nothing looked familiar. Those he could have asked were tending to other duties and simply looked away as he passed. How inconsiderate!

Finally, he heard footsteps. The meek servant appeared and motioned for him to follow. It was an effort to keep up with her as he admired the thick wool rug beneath his feet. Huge loomed hangings adorned the stone walls. Urns of colorful summer flowers were strategically placed on eloquent tables along the walkway. Wherever it was, it was tastefully decorated.

The girl stopped at a hand carved wooden door and opened it. His steps faltered at the sight of the auburn haired head bent over paperwork. He had asked to see the one in charge, not the secretary. Resting his hand on the sheathed sword, he proceeded into the room. As the woman on the other side of the desk raised her head, he was struck dumb as he stared into crystal clear green eyes.

When Cathella lifted her head, she immediately covered her mouth to smother the laughter threatening to fill the room. What manner of man was this? Della was correct about his odd dress. Certainly not of this century.

Aye? she managed to say. "Is there something I can do for ye?

Gavin shut his mouth because no words were forming after hearing the melodious voice and the subtle burr was pleasant.

After no response, Cathella rose and reached for the bell to summon Della to show the man out. It was obvious he was quite befuddled.

Gavin saw the young lady’s action and raised his hand. I apologize. I asked to see the one in charge. Taking in the live portrait before him, he knew he was tall, but her head would easily reach his shoulder. Natural auburn curls hung about her shoulders. And he thought it most likely flowed down her back. Impeccably dressed, there was no doubt this was the lady of the house.

Cathella rose to full height and rested a hand on the top of the desk. I am the body in charge. The softness of her voice alerted Gavin to lower his tone. After all, he had no idea of where he was or the pleasantries involved to begin a conversation. Besides, where would he begin?

With a slight bow, he looked up into the engaging eyes. I apologize. I was not told.

"The title isnae oft used, but