Page 2 of The Cursed Highland Bride

Katarina Buckland smiled as she watched her two younger sisters, Idalia and Leonor, dance around the fire in the center of the encampment. Their eyes gleamed in the fire’s light as their hair whipped around in glorious cascades of ebony. Her father was playing his favorite instrument, a stringed piece with a bow called the Lira da Braccio. It had been given to him by Sixtus IV when he had performed for the Pope in Rome. Her mother’s beautiful voice filled the night air with the sweetest melancholy.

Katarina’s eyes lingered on Idalia, and her heart lightened in relief at her sister’s joy. They had just barely escaped with their lives. Idalia had been promised to the son of another Romani family, August Raymond, but their father had learned the truth about August’s violent nature and had refused to honor the engagement. The Raymond family had attempted to exact retribution, but the senior Buckland had known what was to come and had escaped with his family into the night. They had left England and traveled the length of Scotland to find a place of refuge. On this night, they had stopped to camp beside Loch Naver.

“Come join us,” Leonor urged Katarina, eyes dancing with delight.

Smiling, Katarina stood and joined them. Throwing herself into the music felt liberating. She twirled and whirled in abandon, letting the world and its cares fall away. We are safe. No one will find us here.

A cry broke through the night, silencing the music. Katarina stopped twirling to find a line of soldiers, twenty-four in number as far as she could see, encircling them. They were all wearing blue tartan trews and deadly expressions. Katarina met her father’s eyes across the fire. “Run,” he roared as he dropped his instrument to take up his sword.

Katarina immediately obeyed, grabbing her sisters by the hand, and raced into the darkness. Finding a hollowed-out tree trunk, she shoved her sisters inside. “Stay here and do not utter a sound,” she commanded as she turned back in the hopes of helping her parents.

What she saw upon arriving back was unlike anything that she had ever witnessed before. Blood seemed to rain from the sky as the soldiers slashed their way through the camp. Katarina saw her father and mother fighting back-to-back in the center of the encampment—her grandfather was sitting on the ground, sobbing and holding her dead grandmother in his arms. Before Katarina could utter a warning, a soldier’s blade pierced her grandfather’s back, and he slumped over in death, still cradling his beloved.

In outrage, Katarina stooped to pick up the sword of a fallen soldier and waded into the fray. She had been trained to fight from a young age for her own protection, but she had never fought an enemy like this before. The men fought with a well-trained ferocity that was brutally efficient. They were well beyond her skill level, but she did not let that stop her. This was life or death, and she would die to protect her family if that was what God demanded of her.

Engaging with the closest soldier, she got a good slice into his neck before he even registered her presence. Katarina felt the sword make contact, and her stomach rolled as blood came spurting out to soak her face and hands. The soldier fell to the ground, dead upon impact. His cold empty eyes stared up at her in accusation. Bending over, she vomited into the grass, unable to stop herself. Swiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she stood just in time to see a soldier charging toward her.

God in heaven, save us!

This time, she did not have the element of surprise and was quickly overpowered. In three blows, the soldier had disarmed her. With a punch to the face, he brought her to her knees. Another blow to the head made her vision blur and her body sway. She could feel herself falling between the lines of consciousness and the realm of the dead. As she lay bleeding in the grass, she saw her father turn to help her, but he was cut down mid-stride. Her mother screamed in agony at the sight and fell to her knees beside him. One of the soldiers grabbed her mother up by the hair and dragged her to the tree line. The woman fought with all of her strength, but it was to no avail.

Katarina lay frozen in horror upon the ground as her mother was brutally raped by one soldier after another. She attempted to rise, to fight, to somehow save her life, but she could not. Her body had sustained too much damage, and she was too weak to move. She could not even move her head to look away.

When her mother’s screams stopped, Katarina knew that she was gone.

The soldiers continued to rape her until the last one cut her throat for good measure, then moved on to another woman. When they came for Katarina, she braced herself for the end, praying that they would kill her first before defiling her body. To her surprise, the soldier who lifted her skirts was stopped by what appeared to be the group leader. “Stay yerself, Hamish. Virgins are worth more intact.”

Growling, the one referred to as Hamish dropped her skirts and hauled her up off of the ground. As Katarina could not walk of her own accord, the soldier was forced to carry her. She attempted to grab for the man’s knife, but her coordination was altered by the head wound. She could not manage it. The soldier tossed her into the back of a wagon, and her head hit the hard wooden floor.

“Katarina!” Her sisters’ voices crying out her name was the last thing she heard before the world went black, and she slipped into blessed oblivion.

* * *

Alistair Morgan stared down at the women in his prison cell and snorted in disgust. “How are any o’ these pitiful creatures supposed tae pass for my bonnie daughter?”

“My laird.” His master of arms bowed in respect. “Bathed and mended, they will make for an acceptable alternative. Nae one outside o’ our own people and the nuns o’ the nunnery where she was hidden away has ever laid eyes upon Lady Katherine. She is known for her beautiful eyes, but that is all that is kenned o’ her.”

Alistair stood, considering the words. He nodded, then motioned to one of the girls lying on the floor unconscious. “Pry open her eyes.”

One of his soldiers, Hamish, moved to obey. “They are green, my laird.”

“Out o’ all the lassies, she looks the most like my Katherine.”

“Aye, my laird.”

Alistair made a sound of self-satisfaction. “Have her bathed and dressed in Katherine’s clothes. I wish tae see for myself that she is a presentable decoy.”

“Aye, my laird.” Hamish let the young woman’s head fall back to the stone as two of the other girls cried out in protest at the rough treatment. “What should we do with the rest o’ them?”

Alistair waved a hand as if they did not matter. “After I am satisfied that I have found a replacement for Katherine, they can be sold, distributed among the men, or killed. I care not. The young boys can be trained to join our fighting men. In time, they will forget their life as luchd siubhail.”

Alistair left the cell and climbed the steps to the great hall. He found his daughter sitting beside the fire, working on her latest tapestry—her needlework was exquisite, just as her mother’s had been. She looked up and smiled at his approach. “Faither, have ye enjoyed a productive day?”

Alistair bent to kiss her forehead and nodded. “Aye, I do believe that I have. I have found a way for ye nae tae have tae marry that brute o’ a man from the north.”

She smiled in gratitude. “How?”

“I have found a lass who will take yer place in the marriage bed. She is nae as bonnie as ye are, but she will suffice. She is one o’ the luchd siubhail.”