Read Box Set: Highland Flings: Scottish Historical Victorian Romance Taboo BDSM Erotica Online
Authors: Bonnie Brand
Box Set: Highland Flings: Scottish Historical Victorian Romance Taboo BDSM Erotica
Part Two - THE BLACKSMITH'S DAUGHER
Part Three - THE LAIRD'S NEW BRIDE
HIGHLAND FLINGS: EROTIC SCOTTISH STORIES
Bonnie Brand
Copyright © 2015 Bonnie Brand
All rights reserved.
Logo Image © photochatree,
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Cover Image © darkbird,
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From
The Highland Rose
‘So how long do ye plan to keep me trussed up for like this, like a common criminal?’ I said, trying to show a little defiance in the face of this man’s authority.
‘I’m no’ quite sure, ye see, I’d not really worked out what ma plan would be. I was thinking of tying ya up then ravishing ye on that bed.’ I felt a rush of blood to both my face, and to the little space between my legs which I sometimes touched when I was alone. No man had ever seen that space, let along ravished it. My mother had warned me away from boys, particularly those from the fort.
‘Ravish me?’ I said, panting now, terrified and aflame with desire.
‘Aye, if ye’ll have me,’ he said, ‘but ye’d have to be a touch miserly to not want to lie with the man who saved ye from wolves, and from a night a’ boredom all by yerself.’
‘Ye didnae save me from the wolves, that was,’ I started.
‘Oh I didnae? Ye’d have been just fine without this hut I suppose, which I built and furnished with my two bare hands?’
‘Well I suppose…’
‘No. You’d be a pile o’ bloody gore or some wolves bowel movement by now missy, an’ you know it’s the truth,’ he said, a cruel curl in his lip. ‘But that’s not why ye should let me ravish ye, oh no. Here’s why: Ye’d like it. I’m a true highlander, a man o’ the mountains and o’ the streams. My appetite is insatiable and I haven’t seen a woman like ye let alone in months, I haven’t seen as pretty a rose as ye in my whole life. I want to show ye how thankful I am for ye comin’ by here, I want you to let me worship your tight, young little body with mine, I want to make ye happy that ye ever chanced upon me cabin. I want to fuck ye like a beast.’
From
The Blacksmith’s Daughter
I passed his drink to him and he paused a moment before he took it from me. I could see his eyes trailing over my ripped, brown dress, the very same dress which I had been wearing since I was fifteen, and, truth be told, was really far too small for me now. My breasts had shot out in the last couple of years, and almost hung out of my bodice. The people of the village had known me since I was a wee girl, and I think they barely noticed me, but seeing him seeing me made me suddenly aware of myself all over again. My hands shot to my cleavage, trying to cover up my buxom breast in vain.
The stranger smiled. ‘One is a dirty little wench, isn’t one?’ he said, and then he took the drink and drained it in one gulp.
As the heat from the brandy poured down the stranger’s throat, I felt as though it were I who had drunk the brandy, as I too felt a heat spread up my neck, across my throat and my cheeks, causing a fierce red blush to glow ablaze across my pale, freckled skin.
‘I’ll wager one is a lot of fun between the sheets,’ said the stranger, firmly but quietly, so no-one else in the inn could hear.
From
The Laird’s New Bride
‘Before I can welcome ye into my hoose, I’m afeart that we have the small matter of yer punishment to discuss. Do ye really think that the way ye acted when I came to meet with ye was appropriate? I gave ye direct instructions to wear the dress that I graciously bought for ye, out of my own pocket, so that ye’d feel comfortable in my presence. However, ye disobeyed me, yer new husband. Is that the way that wee lassies are meant to act?’
I was so close to him now that I could almost smell him, his regal, masculine scent.
‘No, your excellency,’ I said, my voice trembling with fear.
‘That’s quite right. Now, I am afeart that I am going to have to punish you. It’s for your own sake, Caitlin.’ When he said my name, he moved his legs so that they were slightly apart from each other. I wondered, if I bent down a touch, if I might be able to see his sausage poking between his thighs… But of course I didnae dare do any such thing.
He lightly tapped his knee with an open palm. ‘Come here. Come and lay across my lap.’
I hesitated for a moment. Was this really happening? Was he really going to make me lie across his lap and then, was he really going to skelp me?
This book may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the copyright holder. This story contains explicit content that is intended for adult audiences only. All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older.
PART ONE
THE HIGHLAND ROSE
Past the bustling, smoking metropolises of Glasgow and Edinburgh, past sleepy villages where fishwives and farmers mill and chatter all day long, even further, past the tilled fields and tended crops of wheat and barley, past the wild places, the towering grey rocks and fierce bushes of thistle and dandelion, past the shrubs and the grass and the pale, frosty heather, that’s where you’ll find me, striding o’er the landscape with a knife in one hand and a basket in t’other, lonely and shivering, but happy and free.
My name’s Rosa, like my grandmother before me, and I know the bare beauty of the Highlands of Scotland like no-one else. I live at the court of the Laird at Fort George, ten miles from Inverness, and I’m a herbalist by birth. My education started as soon as I could walk. My ma was a hard woman, and she didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact she didn’t suffer them at all. She taught me that the best way to know for sure if a plant stings is to ‘grab it wi’ yer hands’. And a lot of the plants I’m after sting like buggery. My mother had died only three year ago, when I was but sixteen. Losing her has been like losing my heart, but she’s always taught me to be tough and strong in the face of misery, so after grieving, I just carried on with life. I never knew my da, so now the court of the Laird was like my family.
Milkthistle, St John’s Wort, Rosehip and Lovage; those were the tools of my trade. I’d be sent out by Rory MacGregor, the Laird’s master of stores, into the wilderness to restock our supplies every few weeks, depending on our needs. I used to live for my trips away, because the work I completed from day to day in the fort was so boring that it fair drove me round the twist. I would either spend time grinding herbs in the pestle and mortar, or drying them by the furnace in the feasting room. Sometimes, if the weather was fine (which was of course an unusually rare occurrence) I could dry my herbs outside, on racks in the courtyard. Spending time out there wasn’t so bad, although I’d often get hoots from the stablemen and the other brutes that inhabited the fort.
You see, I was what you might call a ‘bonny wee lass’. That means I was young, and not so hard on the eyes. My hair was deep copper red and my eyes were green, and because of my hard labour, I had a strong young body with an ample bosom and pert backside. People used to tell me that I must be descended from the faeries or, if they were feeling cruel, the kelpies. I was no princess, that’s for sure, but compared to a lot of the other serving wenches round here, I was a beauty queen. You might think that that’s a good thing, but it caused me no end of trouble. I got cat calls and vulgar demands shouted at me almost every time I crossed the courtyard. The men all asked for a ‘keek at yer snatch’ (which has such a disgusting meaning I’ll spare your blushes), and then usually would ask me to ‘drop yer breeks’ (again, I’ll leave this to your imagination).
I’m sure you can understand quite why it is that I’m happiest out in the wild, rooting around for plant and bud.
It was on one of those trips out into the wild that I discovered something remarkable. I remember the day so clearly because unlike almost every other trip I’d ever made; the sun was fat in the sky and the clouds (my almost constant companions) were nowhere to be seen. I’d decided that because the weather was fair, it’d be safe enough to search for bog myrtle in the marshland to the east. It wasn’t somewhere I’d been to many times in my young life, but I knew that we were dangerously low on astringent herbs, and the bog myrtle would be invaluable to old man MacGregor.
When I finally crossed the stream which marked the start of the marshland, I noticed something in the distance that I’d never seen before. It was a dirty looking hut, not big enough to be anything more than a single room, really, but it looked sturdy and, yes, there was a plume of smoke curling from the chimney on its roof. Obviously someone lived here, or at least stayed here sometime. I immediately felt excitement pluck at my heart. I’d been looking for somewhere, anywhere to stay on my excursions into the wilderness. If I was lucky, I could speak to the owner of the hut and negotiate it as a place to stay on the odd time that I’d come out this far. It would mean that I’d be able to gather that many more herbs, and I’d be just a little bit less tired when I returned to the fort. I picked up my skirts and got myself ready to cross the oft-treacherous ground of the marsh.
The marshland was surprisingly firm underfoot, and although I felt the wet squelch of the muddy ground a few times when I stepped slightly awry, I managed to make it across the boggy ground without so much as a slip or a mishap. There were clear patches of very soft ground though, which I avoided like the plague. I shuddered to think how treacherous it would be out here, late at night, with the Highland fog descending and visibility poor to non-existent. With rain in the air it would be even worse, with one wrong foot-step sealing your fate at the bottom of the slimy bog.
When I came close enough to the hut to examine it a little, I was surprised to see that by its side was a section of tilled land, which had been planted with crops. I recognised potato plants, lined up in neat rows, and a brace of cabbages, also growing big. Whoever lived or stayed here was quite the adept farmer. The hut seemed quaint to me, somehow, and friendly, as though it had been well looked after. Indeed, rather than being made from festering old beams of wood, which would not have surprised me given the shack’s environs, the quality of the timber was excellent, and the little abode looked dry and quite cosy.
I circled around the building, peeping in at the window, trying to see what was inside. I was hoping that someone didn’t live here all year round, as that would mean I most certainly would not be able to stay here on my nights away from the fort. As I approached a window on what was the backside of the structure, I saw that there was a gap between the hanging curtains which I could sneak a look through. Inside the cottage was the warm glow of a dying fire, and I could make out what looked to be the shape of a bed, and perhaps a cabinet or table of some kind.
I surveyed the area, and was saddened to see no obvious signs of bog myrtle. The lush green little tufty plant was quite obvious for someone as experienced for me to spot, and try as I might, I could see none of it. It struck me as strange, as the last time I was in this area, I most assuredly found a few shrubs of the plant, and took half a sack’s worth with me. Perhaps whomsoever lived here had been harvesting the local herbs, as well as running a well appointed farm.