Page 2 of Highland Vows of Betrayal

“Find her a home,” the woman said, sighing with relief at his acquiescence. “Give her tae someone with compassion, love. Maybe the village healer or a family that cannae have a child of their own. I cannae live happily to ken she might go somewhere without love.”

The man pocketed the money. He had to know one more thing first, for his own peace of mind. The two bairns were so alike in every way, he had to know why this particular one was being surrendered.

“Why this one?” he asked, listening closely.

“Because it must be one of them,” the woman said. A silent tear slid down her cheek; she made no effort to wipe it away. “She was the second born. Please, tell me ye will help her. Please?”

The man paused only to shift his weight between his feet. When he heard the bag of coins move in his pocket, he knew he couldn’t refuse, no matter how mad the situation seemed.

“Ye have my word,” he promised. The woman smiled as another tear fell, bending down to look at her second daughter one last time.

“Goodbye, my love. I hope ye will learn one day how much yer mother loved ye.” She pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead and stepped back, her feelings giving way to sobs at last. “Farewell,” she bid the man. “Thank ye.” The latter was barely heard, so lost was she in tears. She turned and fled through the trees.

When the sound of her footsteps disappeared, the man turned to the bairn sleeping blissfully, her eyes half-lidded. As he adjusted her wrappings, a glint of gold flashed at her neck. He shifted the blanket just enough to see a finely made necklace. Wherever the woman had come from, it was a position of some wealth. The necklace was a gold chain with a thick locket at the center, too big for a newborn. In the center of the locket a name was engraved: Scarlett.

“Well, Scarlett,” the man whispered. “‘Tis good tae meet ye. Let us find ye somewhere tae live, eh? A home tae call yer own.” He glanced at the shadows where the mysterious woman had disappeared. “And let us hope that if yer a witch’s daughter, the curse will follow ye nae more.” Turning his eyes to the new moon, he shuddered, wondering if all his mother’s warnings and superstitions were coming true. He fled, holding the babe tightly, making his way through the night. Despite his haste and the cold, Scarlett didn’t cry once and continued to sleep soundly in his arms.

CHAPTER ONE

Lochgoilhead, Highlands, 1760

“In the name of the wee man, Scarlett, would ye hurry! My old bones are weary; they’re calling for me bed.”

Scarlett turned away from the deep voice, raising a hand to play absentmindedly with the necklace around her neck. Every night, it was the same. Athol was as irritable as ever, insisting on her working while he sat back and did little to maintain his tavern. Scarlett looked over her shoulder to see age finally taking its toll on him. His long dark hair was greying and he wore it loose around his shoulders. Scarlett assumed he was attractive when he was younger. These days, he appeared haggard, his face sagging with time past.

“Scarlett!” he snapped.

“Keep yer hair on,” she muttered, her tone as sharp as his. “Shouting at me willnae make me move quicker, though ye like tae think it does,” she spoke bitterly, hearing him grunt once as always.

Long ago, she had learned that keeping quiet was not an option as no good came from silence when there was much to be said. Athol once told her that her spirit was as fiery as the color of her hair.

Aye, maybe it is.

She turned away and cleared the last few tables in the tavern. The tallow candles burned down to the last wax stumps beaded as hot wax dripped on the tables. Scarlett blew out each one in turn, gradually darkening the space. Soon, the only part of the room illuminated by candlelight was the corner where Athol sat.

On one side of him was a drunken friend, Patrick, a regular at the tavern and a gambler. On Athol’s other side was one of the many ladies of the night that frequented the place. She peddled her trade well, for Scarlett had observed over the years how she was never short of customers despite her age and the pox scars on her skin. Athol was undoubtedly one of her best.

“Ye nearly done, Scarlett?” Athol called, his head inclined to the woman as she kissed his neck. She touched Athol’s shirt and reached beneath the ties, reaching for his skin.

Scarlett looked away, her cheeks burning at the mere thought of what the courtesan dared to do in a public place. Such heated touches weren’t things she knew of, though plenty of men had tried their luck over the years. One or two had mistaken her for a courtesan and tried to persuade her to join them in their beds. When they became too forceful, she’d pull a knife to make her refusal plain. She touched the knife resting in the belt that hung securely around her waist.

If I don’t protect myself in this world, nae one else will do it for me.

She'd mastered the knife long ago. It was necessary when working in such an environment. She'd once seen a soldier turn the knife in his hand several times before throwing it across the tavern and landing perfectly in the center of a timber beam. After that, she'd practiced with her own knife, throwing it across the courtyard behind the tavern. Days became months, then years, and she could now throw a knife perfectly at any target.

She stepped behind the bar and dipped the empty tankards into a bowl of soapy water to clean them of any leftover ale or spittle. She'd done it every night for years.

One of her earliest memories was standing at this bar, peering over the edge with her nose just above the wooden counter, watching the courtesans and drunkards pass by. At first, she mistook Athol for a fatherly figure who watched over her, but it quickly became clear that this was not the case.

He was her guardian, yes, but not a father. Not at all. Three years ago, when she turned sixteen, one of the regulars tried to buy her for the night. Athol had gladly taken the money, ready to sell her. It was only Scarlett’s wit and her quick use of the knife that saved her. That night she’d thrown so many curses at Athol that whatever tenderness or kindness might have existed between them vanished completely.

“Ah, tae be far away from this place,” Scarlett whispered as she turned her attention to the tankards and washed them clean. Most evenings, she dreamed of faraway places. Somewhere far from the stench of the regulars who never bathed enough and far from the overly-perfumed women stinking of bergamot and pungent fruit. If only she possessed the freedom to go wherever she liked. She longed to know what the borders of Scotland looked like, maybe the ocean too.

“How much longer, eh?” The sudden voice so close to her made Scarlett jump. Not wanting Athol to know how much he startled her, she barely avoided dropping a tankard in the water.

“I will finish shortly,” she said tightly, glancing at him over her shoulder. It was plain obvious that he wished to see her gone so as to bed the courtesan as soon as he could. “Ye can retire if ye choose. I will see tae the last,” She nodded at the last few tables.

Athol needed no further encouragement. He smiled a wicked grimace that revealed his toothless gums, then he took the lady’s hand and disappeared. Scarlett practically gagged as she imagined what they would soon be doing. She thrust the picture from her mind and went over to Patrick, still sitting drunkenly in the corner.