Книга - Lion’s Lady

Lion's Lady
Suzanne Barclay


A Broken Promise… A Binding Vow R owena Gunn was ever ruled by these echoes from the past to protect her son and safeguard his future. But the past was now embracing her in the very present form of Lion Sutherland, the Highland laird who alone could storm her defenses and besiege her cloistered heart!Though hailed as a braw warrior, Lion Sutherland was nearly undone when his bonnie Rowena wed another. But now the fates had reunited them, and he'd be damned if anything - even the protests of the lady herself! - would destroy their newfound chance at love!










Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series (#ud4eb1a2e-8e16-5586-9c5c-60e6669b05cf)Praise (#u80bd243d-8235-5eab-b907-999a84241e47)Letter to Reader (#ude86a261-117f-58f4-acee-1a5a2b1728a9)Title Page (#u9565ac9f-541b-585b-ae11-5c3943053ab9)About the Author (#uc056e69c-9b4a-52d7-b59c-3d595bfa37d6)Prologue (#u0d359888-247f-54e2-8f8a-18c643df87e9)Chapter One (#u498af38d-1496-56d4-b519-6a19e8d6b76b)Chapter Two (#ue0f77ea9-6826-5757-aece-e85b3d954861)Chapter Three (#uef41d305-db4f-5ef2-8e09-ba6631a479a9)Chapter Four (#uebcca33b-13ca-5a9c-8989-e259b33b2c2b)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series

LION’S LEGACY

“Suzanne Barclay certainly takes her place amongst the finest of Medieval writers...”

—Romantic Times

“Magical!”—the Literary Times

“...a most wonderful tale of love...”

—Old Book barn Gazette

LION OF THE NORTH

“Pure gold! Read a Barclay Medieval and you’re reading the best.”

—The Medieval chronicle

“...brimming with the atmosphere and drama of the times.”

—Affaire de Coeur

LION’S HEART

“...a special and unforgettable work. 5


s.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“...characters so compelling they will pull you into the story and not let go...5♥s.”

—Booklovers


“Again and again, Ms. Barclay proves that she is one

of the best authors today in historical romance!”

—The Literary Times

“...richly detailed, completely believable and

totally satisfying...”

—The Gannett News Service

“...page-turning adventure...seduces your

senses and lays siege to your heart.”

—Author Theresa Michaels

“A rare treasure!”

—Rendezvous

“...a great superstar.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“...a magician with words...”

—Romantic Times

“...pure magic...a glorious tapestry of love

and redemption.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

Discover the magic.

Read Suzanne Barclay today!


Dear Reader,

If your mother didn’t tell you about Harlequin Historical, this Mother’s Day might be a good time to let her in on the secret. The gift of romance can enhance anyone’s life, and our May list promises to be a spectacular introduction. Award-winning author Suzanne Barclay returns this month with Lion’s Lady, the fourth title in her highly acclaimed SUTHERLAND SERIES. Intrigue, betrayal and passion abound in this medieval tale of a newly widowed noblewoman who travels to Blantyre Castle to secure her son’s inheritance and is shockingly reunited with the valiant warrior who is her child’s natural father.

A feisty young adventuress with dreams of the West heals the haunted soul of a handsome wagon train leader in Jeb Hunter’s Bride, the newest title from the versatile Ana Seymour. And in The Wilder Wedding, a compelling Victorian by Lyn Stone, a young heiress who believes she is dying proposes to a jaded but irresistible private investigator she’s only just met.

Rae Muir’s Twice a Bride is the second book of her captivating WEDDING TRAIL series about four friends who find love on the road to California. In this Western, a trail scout’s daughter marries a rugged hunter to fulfill her father’s dying wish—only her father doesn’t die....

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical. Happy Mother’s Day!

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont- L2A 5X3


Lion’s Lady

Suzanne Barclay




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


SUZANNE BARCLAY has been an avid history buff all her life and an inveterate dreamer since she was very young. “There is no better way to combine the two than by writing historical romances,” she claims. “What other career allows you to journey back to the time when knights were bold and damsels distressed without leaving behind the comforts of central heating and indoor plumbing?” She and her husband of twenty-one years recently moved into a new house with a separate office where Suzanne can dream in blissful peace...when not indulging her passion for gourmet cooking or walking their two dogs, Max and Duffy.

Suzanne has prepared a comprehensive Sutherland family tree, detailing the marriages and progeny of all the Sutherlands, even those who did not star in their own stories. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.


Prologue

Highlands, July, 1384

He wasn’t coming.

Rowena MacBean closed her eyes, her head bowed by a pain so sharp it was physical. Her hand fell reflexively to her belly. Flat still, it was, but if old Meg was right about what she’d told Rowena this morn—and the midwife usually was about such matters—it would not be flat much longer.

Rowena was pregnant with Lion Sutherland’s baby.

The joy she’d felt on hearing the news had faded to fear and finally gnawing panic as the hours waned and Lion didn’t arrive. A shudder worked its way through her as she imagined the confrontation to come when she returned home.

“Fool,” her mother would cry. “What were ye thinking, carrying on with the likes of him? He’ll not wed ye, ye know. When he takes a wife, the heir to the high-and-mighty Sutherland clan will wed a lass as wealthy and noble as himself, not a lowly MacBean. And why should he, since ye’re willing to give it away free?”

Rowena would likely get her ears boxed for good measure and have to endure the pain in her older brother’s eyes and the sneers of the lads she’d snubbed.

“Lion isn’t like that, Mama,” she whispered now, pressing her back against the aging pine for support. For two months—ever since their meeting at the clan gathering in May—they’d secretly trysted here, in the woods halfway between Tarbert Keep and the Sutherlands’ fine castle at Kinduin.

He’d come. Lion always came. Though born into wealth and privilege, he was a man who put honor before all things. He’d said he loved her. He’d promised to wed her in three years when he returned from France with the education his father insisted upon. “You’ll be ten and eight then,” Lion had said, holding her close to his naked body as their racing hearts slowed. “Together we’ll rule my wee tower at Glenshee.”

The memory of their loving warmed her chilled blood, gave her heavy spirit a glimmer of hope.

Lion loved her. He would come. He was just late.

He had never been late. Not once in two months. More often than not, he’d met her just out of sight of Tarbert, being so anxious he’d come all the way instead of half. He’d have come to her front gate if she’d allowed it, but fearing her mother’s wrath, Rowena had insisted they meet in secret.

Preparations for the journey to France must have delayed him, for he was due to depart in a fortnight.

What would her announcement do to his plans?

Her faith faltered, then steadied as she recalled Lion’s face when he kissed her, his mouth curved in a heart-stopping smile, his brilliant amber eyes warm with love. He’d not fail her, her rugged, black-maned Lion. He would convince his parents to let them wed. He’d take her with him to France. The court would surely be grander even than Kinduin’s fine hall, but with Lion beside her, she’d brave the stares of the foreign nobles. She’d sew herself velvet gowns of the sort worn by Lady Elspeth, Lion’s mother. Rowena would even tame her unruly blond hair beneath a stiff headdress such as fine noble women wore. She’d work hard to become a lady so she would not shame her Lion.

Her Lion.

Aye, he was that. Recklessly brave, hot of temper, quick to anger, quicker to forgive. Yet so incredibly gentle and tender with her. The memory perked up her spirits. He loved her.

Rowena pulled her cloak a little tighter and watched the trail. An hour passed. And then another. Her shoulders slumped. Four hours she’d been waiting. Soon it would be nightfall. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be riding home in the dark.

As the sun sank slowly behind the majestic mountains, Rowena untied her pony’s reins from the branch and mounted. She felt as creaky and stiff as an old woman, as though someone had been beating her. Well, she’d get that beating soon enough, when her mother found out she was carrying a bastard child.

It was fully dark by the time she approached the wooden gates of Tarbert. Toothless Will poked his head over the wall and scowled down at her.

“Out late ye are, lass.”

“Aye.” She was so cold it seemed her feet were made of ice as she dismounted in the courtyard. Tarbert Tower glowered down at her in the gloom, stern and disapproving. Light shone from the narrow arrow slits in the great hall a story above. Her kinfolk were at supper. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t face them. Instead, she sneaked in through the kitchens and up the back stairs to her small wall chamber.

Shivering, she undressed in the dark and crawled under the scratchy blanket. Then and only then did she let fall the tears that burned the back of her eyes. She wept as she hadn’t in years. When the storm had passed, she dozed, awakening at first light.

What was she going to do? Huddled under the covers, she devised and discarded a dozen plans. Only one course made sense. She must ride to Kinduin and see Lion. Only then could she decide what must be done.

Though it was summer, the room was icy cold as she washed and dressed quickly in her feast-day best. She took extra pains with her hair, brushing out the snarls, then braiding it. Her hands shook as she pinned the braids atop her head, as she’d seen the fine ladies do. The only piece of jewelry she possessed was a broach in the shape of a swan, which her father had given her the year she turned thirteen. She used it to fasten her cloak, then crept from the room.

No one was about when she saddled her pony. To the guard at the gate, she lied about having an errand in the village. The five-mile ride to Kinduin passed too quickly and too slowly, with her stomach in knots, her nerves ajangle. By the time she reached Kinduin’s gates, she was dizzy with dread. Her voice shook as she gave her name to the guard in the gatehouse. After a long wait, the small door set in the drawbridge opened, and a soldier in dark Sutherland plaid motioned her forward.

“What do you want?” the man inquired warily.

“I—I’ve come to see L-Lion Sutherland.”

“Alone?” He scowled and looked about, as though expecting men to sprout from the rocks at her back.

“A-aye. Could—could I speak with him?”

“He’s not here.”

“Not here? Where...?”

“France,” the soldier snapped. “He’s gone to France.”

“But—but he was not supposed to leave for a fortnight.”

“Plans changed.”

Nay. He can’t have gone...not without a word. Stunned, Rowena swayed in the saddle. “Why?” she whispered.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“R-Rowena MacBean. I—”

“MacBean!” His eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, shoving his scruffy face into hers. “Now what would a worthless MacBean be doing asking after our Lion? Did ye think to lure him into yer bed and trap yerself a rich husband? Get ye gone before I drive ye away with the point of my sword.”

Rowena wheeled her horse and sent it careening down the steep trail, more to outrun the terrible pain than to escape the man’s threats. At the bottom of the hill she gave the pony its head, but the rush of wind in her face did not scour away the anguish in her heart. He’d left. He’d left her without a word. The dreadful finality seemed to pound in her head in cadence with the pony’s hoofbeats. By the time she reached Tarbert, the pain had hardened to anger.

She’d never been one to trust easily. With a lethal combination of intelligence, gentleness and sensual seduction, Lion had cajoled her into trusting him. How he must have crowed over his triumph when she finally surrendered her innocence. Angry as she was with him, she was furious with herself. She should have known better.

Worthless MacBeans, the guard had called them, and Tarbert was certainly not much to look at—a huddle of dilapidated buildings, a few scruffy cattle. For generations, the MacBeans had earned what they could training other men’s horses. It put food on the table, clothes on their backs, but not much more. Still, the keep was clean, her kinfolk honest. Which was more than could be said for the Sutherland heir, she thought.

The MacBeans were at the noon meal when she cantered into the courtyard. No one came to take her pony, so she led it into the stables herself. She unbuckled the girth, then braced to slide the heavy saddle off.

“Let me,” commanded a gravelly voice.

Rowena squeaked and turned. “Oh, ’tis you, Laird Padruig.” She inclined her head in greeting to him, a customer come to pick up the ponies her brother, John, had broken to saddle.

“Where’ve ye been?” he demanded. The gloom in the stables emphasized the lines in his weathered face and the harshness of his features. His eyes were hard; his mouth never smiled.

“R-riding.” The last thing she wanted now was company. “I should get inside.”

“A moment.” He plucked the saddle from the pony’s back as though it weighed nothing and set it in the straw. “The stable lad can see to her when he’s finished eating.” He took Rowena’s arm and escorted her from the barn. But when she started toward the tower, he steered her around the stark stone edifice and into the kitchen garden.

“Laird Padruig?” She was not frightened, for he’d been a frequent visitor to her father, then her brother.

“I’ve been waiting on ye.”

“Why?” Rowena stopped, fear clutching at her battered nerves. “Is it Mama? John?”

“Yer mother and brother are well, far’s I ken.” He stopped in the shadow of the huge rowan bush by the back door, yet still kept hold of her arm, as though fearing she’d run off.

“What is it, then?”

“Ye’ll not have noticed, but I’ve had me eye on ye.”

“I—I had not.” She’d been too caught up in her feelings for Lion and in making the most of the time they had. “Why?”

“I’m in need of a wife,” he said bluntly.

Rowena blinked. Padruig held the Highland record for most handfasts, having contracted himself to no fewer than fifteen women over the years. None of the unions had lasted more than the prescribed year and a day, for none had produced what Padruig needed more than anything—an heir to rule the Gunns after him. She recalled John saying it had something to do with Padruig’s mistrust of his half brother, Eneas, who would be the next chief if Padruig failed to get a son.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked warily.

“Because I need a wife, and I think ye need a husband.” He looked at her belly, and she fancied those muddy brown eyes of his could see through her gown and shift to her womb.

Rowena shifted uncomfortably. “I do not know what you—”

“Aye, ye do. And ye’re a clever lass and sensible...for the most part. Ye’ll not be wanting to tell yer family ye’re breeding and no husband in the offing.”

“How can you know?” she demanded.

“Over the years, I’ve watched other men’s wives and sweethearts swell with child. Watched and envied. Ye’ve the glow of a lass who’s well and truly caught.” A hint of a smile tilted his lips. “And I chanced to overhear yer conversation with old Meg the other morning.”

“Oh.” Rowena wanted desperately to sit down.

“Here.” Padruig grabbed her arm and led her to a wooden bench. “Can’t have ye tiring yerself and risking my babe.”

“You—you’d claim another’s child as your own?”

“Aye, I would, and if ye’ve listened to half the gossip that goes around, ye know why.”

“But the child has no Gunn blood.”

“It comes of good stock. Ye’re a fine lass, gentle and clever...if a bit foolish about love. But then, most lasses are. And the father...” Padruig Gunn gritted his teeth. “’Tis better if his name is never spoken between us, lest we be heard, but I’ve learned good things about him. Courageous in battle, dedicated to his clan and honorable... I could die easy knowing a lad with those qualities would inherit and safeguard all I’d worked so hard to build.” His expression turned as stark as the mountains beyond Tarbert’s walls. “I’d do almost anything to keep Eneas from becoming chief after me. He’s ruthless and so hungry for power he’d drag our clan into hell with him.”

Tom, Rowena studied her hands.

“Ye’re thinking mayhap that he might change his mind and come back for ye.”

“How do you know he’s gone away?”

“I made it my business to know everything about him. His father has great plans for him. He’s to be educated in France, trained and groomed as befits Highland nubility. They’ll marry him off to a great heiress. What with the way the English killed off the French nobles, there are wealthy, titled daughters and widows aplenty over the narrow sea for him to choose from.”

Rowena sighed and hung her head. His words mirrored the fears she’d had when Lion had first taken an interest in her. If only she’d listened to her inbred caution and ignored the attraction that had leaped between them from the instant their eyes had met. “What if the babe is a girl?”

“I’ll take that chance, raise her to be strong and wed her to a man of my choosing. It’s settled, then?”

Nay, her heart cried out. But for the first time in two months, she listened instead to her mind. “Aye.”


Chapter One

Highlands, May, 1390

The night was as wild and unruly as the times. A bank of clouds hid the moon and deepened the natural shadows in the little wooded glen where Lionel Sutherland lurked. The wind blew briskly from the west, whipping the pines and barely budded oaks into a rustling frenzy.

How much he missed this, the raw land, the damp weather, the sweet, sweet smell of home. As he lifted his head to sample the air, the wind tugged at his shoulder-length hair like an impatient lover.

Aye, ’twas a perfect night for the things Highlanders did best—for skulking about in the brush, for executing a raid or meeting in secret. And Lion was about all three. Appreciating the irony of the situation, he smiled. The twinkle in his pale eyes and the dimple that softened his lean face had earned him the undying devotion of more than a few lasses. But not the one he’d wanted most.

Lion’s smile dimmed. How ironic that he had braved the spring storm to try and save the life of the man he hated above all others. If he did nothing and Padruig Gunn died, Rowena would be free... Nay, he’d not be able to live with the guilt.

Sensing his restlessness, Turval pawed the ground.

“Steady, lad. It’ll not be long now.” They’d left Blantyre Castle well ahead of his quarry, and Padruig had to take this trail on his homeward journey. He’d be along any moment; Lion would do his duty, then ride off.

His horse started, long ears pricking forward.

“Is he come?” Gathering the reins to steady his mount, Lion leaned low and peeked between the branches of a sheltering pine. Sure enough, a single man guided his horse along the rocky banks of the creek swollen with late spring runoff.

“Jesu, he’s daft, riding in the open as though he hadn’t a care in the world,” Lion grumbled. He should leave him to his own devices, but his sense of justice wouldn’t let him.

As Padruig rode abreast of his hiding place, Lion urged his horse out from cover.

“What the...?” Pale light shimmered on deadly steel as Padruig lifted the sword from across his thighs. “Who are ye?”

“A friend.” Lion held both empty hands aloft.

“Friends dinna creep up on a man in the dark.” Padruig was a big, rawboned man of some five and forty years, with thinning hair and a warrior’s scarred face. How could Rowena have wed him? It hurt thinking of him with his Rowena, kissing her, lying with her, getting her with child.

“You left Blantyre in rather a hurry. And given the delicacy of my mission, it seemed best to meet you here.”

“Step into the open where I can see ye.”

Lion edged his horse out from under the canopy of branches.

Padruig’s widened as they focused on Lion’s face. “Lion Sutherland.” A brittle note underscored his surprise.

“Aye.” They had not been introduced during the brief hours Padruig had spent at Blantyre, come in answer to the summons of Lion’s current overlord, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan. “How is it you know me?”

Padruig shrugged. “I’d reason enough to learn yer name.”

Had Rowena spoken of him? Had she told her husband that because of Lion she’d come to him no maid? It gave Lion savage satisfaction to know he’d been the first to taste her sweetness. It was not nearly enough, but it was all he had to ease the ache of yearning and regret “I see,” Lion said edgily, wondering if he faced a jealous husband. It would be his first time for that, for he was no poacher.

“I doubt ye do. Then again...” Padruig’s thin mouth lifted in what could have been a smile or a grimace. “Have ye come to kill me over it?”

Lion frowned. Although he seemed a blunt, uncomplicated man, there were unnerving layers of meaning in Padruig Gunn’s speech. Mysteries Lion had no time to unravel. “You rejected the earl’s request for men to help him subdue the outlaws that plague the Highlands,” he said, returning to the business at hand.

“Subdue outlaws?” Padruig cursed and spat. “’Tis an excuse to curb our independence and strip us of our property. Alexander Stewart’ll wipe out those clans that oppose him and take over their lands. He’ll make himself king of the Highlands, mark my words.”

Lion was amazed at how well Padruig understood the situation. Most of the clan leaders who had agreed to follow Alexander had either been fooled by his high-sounding mission or thought to gain power themselves. Those who had not joined him were of two groups—the lawless ones who did, indeed, need to be controlled and a few clans like the Sutherlands who guessed the earl’s darker purpose and wanted to stop him.

It was a dangerous, mayhap impossible task. One that had cast Lion in the role of spy in Alexander’s court. “If Alexander is as ambitions and ruthless as you say—” and Lion knew firsthand that he was “—then you were a fool to defy him so openly.”

“Bah. He’ll not miss the few Gunns I could have brought to his army. We’re a small, isolated clan.”

“He’s not a man who takes kindly to being told nay.”

Padruig snarled a curse.

Lion sighed. He couldn’t imagine his young, sunny Rowena wed to this cold, gruff man. Trying to do so hurt. “It would have been better to pretend to fall in with his plans.”

“Lie?”

“What harm in a lie that saves lives and buys us time?”

“Time to do what?”

“Find a way out of this damnable situation,” Lion replied.

“By agreeing to side with a rogue and murderer? Wolf, I’ve heard men call him behind his back. And it seems most apt, given the relish with which he raids and murders.”

Lion admired his convictions, if not his stubbornness. “Have you no care for your clan? For your...your wife?” The word stuck in his throat.

“Ah, my wife.” Padruig’s searing gaze raked Lion from his bare head to his leather boots, then back up. “I’ve a care for her—and for the lands I’d leave my son. Which is why I’ll not dirty myself by associating with that bastard. But I thank ye for the warning. Were our positions reversed, I wonder if I’d do the same.” He tugged on his horse’s reins and urged the beast into motion.

Lion sat scowling as he watched Padruig pick his way up the glen. When he passed from sight, Lion reluctantly moved off to the left, up the little-used trail he himself had taken. At the lip of the ridge, he paused long enough to ascertain he was alone, then set off to get his men. They had miles to go for his meeting with Fergie Ross.

Another hard, crusty old man with a stubborn streak who would rather defy the earl than harken to Lion’s plans.

He’d gone scarce a quarter mile when he heard it—a hoarse scream that tore across the quiet land. “Bloody hell.” Wrenching his horse around, he raced along the rim of the glen, calculating how far the Gunn might have gotten in the few minutes since they’d parted. When he reached the cut in the land where a stream poured down to join the creek in the glen, he dismounted, hobbled his horse and crept down on foot.

He was nearly to the bottom when a troop of men galloped past. A score or more, he judged by the sounds of their horses. Though he could not see them for the brush, he caught a flash of red and blue. MacPhersons? Aye, it made sense. Alexander often sent Georas MacPherson to do his dirty work.

Blade drawn, Lion crept through the underbrush. The sight of Padruig sprawled beside the stream in a pool of blood stopped him. He moved forward to feel for signs of life, but found none.

Damn. Damn. He should have gone with Padruig. Followed him at least. And died with him? Sobering thought, but Lion’s guilt didn’t ease. “Jesu, Rowena, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

The clatter of hooves on stone sent him scrambling for cover. It was not Padruig’s murderers come back, but his own men who burst onto the scene.

“We heard a cry,” Bryce explained, controlling his nervous mount as he surveyed Lion. “Are you hurt?”

“Nay, but Padruig Gunn is dead.”

“Alexander’s men?”

“Likely. They were MacPhersons, I think.” Lion knelt again by the body. “And it wasn’t robbery, for his purse is still here.”

“Damn, if only we’d realized the earl would stoop to this.”

Lion stood, “He grows desperate indeed if he will murder a man over a few troops for his damned army. I should have tried harder to convince the Gunn he was in danger.”

“What now? Will you take the body to his people?”

Lion debated only a moment before shaking his head. “I’m overdue to meet with Fergus. If I do not show up, God alone knows what foolishness he’ll undertake.” He looked down at Padruig again. “And the Gunns are bound to ask who did this, mayhap seek revenge against Alexander, and die in turn.” He exhaled. “Red Will, take three of the lads and carry Padruig Gunn near to home. Leave him at the side of the road...” Like refuse. Lion cringed, but couldn’t waver. “Make it look as though he’d been attacked and robbed.” Fewer questions that way.

Even by Highland standards, Padruig Gunn’s funeral was a wild and raucous affair. The Gunns come to mourn their fallen chief cavorted about Hillbrae Tower’s great hall like revelers on a feast day. Shouted songs and laughter vied with sobs of regret at his passing.

But then, the Gunns did everything to excess, thought Rowena as she surveyed the mess and swiftly calculated the cost in food, drink and broken furniture.

“’Tis a grand send-off we’re giving him, eh?” Finlay Gunn shouted above the din. “Cousin Padruig would have loved this.”

Seated beside the old warrior at the head table, Rowena, widowed four days and terrified at what lay before her, let loose her temper. “He’d have enjoyed it a bit more had he been alive to do so. Damn him,” she snapped. “Where had he gone? Why was he riding about alone?”

“Clan business,” said Finlay, who was the only one Padruig had ever confided in. “Ye know what store he set by duty,”

“Duty!” She spat the word out like a curse. “Men wave that banner about as though it was handed down from God, but ‘tis only an excuse to go adventuring.” The memory of Lion’s long-ago desertion twisted sharp as a knife in her chest. Though she would never forgive Lion Sutherland, she’d tried hard to forget him. Padruig’s death, his desertion, had brought it all back: the pain, the fear and, aye, the anger. They roiled inside her, stinging like salt in a fresh wound. “’Tis the women and children who pay the price while you men go off to pursue your duty.”

“Easy, lass.” Finlay laid a scarred hand on her arm. “I ken ye’re grieving for Padruig and worried about what the next years will bring, but there’s no need to carry on so.”

Oh, but there was. Shivering, Rowena sagged against the high-backed chair, a smaller version of Padruig’s mammoth one to her right. She cast a sidelong glance at the chair’s occupant—the new chief of Clan Gunn. Paddy, her five-year-old son.

The red head of hair that seemed to mark him as a Gunn was bent over his plate as he toyed with an oatcake. His sweet face was in profile to her—rounded cheeks, a stubborn jaw and a nose he’d need to grow into. The nose handed down from Lucais Sutherland to Lion and thence to Paddy.

He was so young, so precious, so vulnerable. She’d do anything to protect him. Anything.

Her gaze shifted to the man on Paddy’s other side.

Eneas’s face was also in profile—harsh, lean and predatory. Padruig had warned her often of his brother’s ambitions to rule the clan. Now the only thing that stood between Eneas and his goal was her Paddy. Suddenly Rowena was afraid, more afraid than she’d been in years. What if Padruig had not been set upon and murdered by thieves? What if Eneas had killed him? What if he planned to eliminate her son as well?

A crockery cup flew past her nose and smashed against the floor inches from Padruig’s bier, drawing her attention from the past to the dangerous present. Even in death, Padruig looked harsh and indomitable, his craggy features set in disapproval, his red-gray brows bunched in a frown over his broad nose. She had not loved him. She could never love anyone again, but Padruig had sheltered and protected her. Till now...

“I have to keep Paddy safe,” she said under her breath.

“Aye, and I’ll help ye,” Finlay whispered. Older than Padruig by three years, a seasoned warrior sidelined from the battlefield by a knee injury, he was kinder, more compassionate than her husband. Finlay had been the first to welcome her when she’d come here as a frightened bride. She was frightened now, longed to take Paddy and run home to the MacBeans. But she’d given up her right to leave when she’d wed Padruig and accepted his bargain. For the sake of that vow and Paddy’s future, she was bound to the Gunns of Hillbrae till the day she died.

“I’m sorry to tear at you, Finlay. ’Tis just that I’m worried.” The knot in her belly tightened. Padruig had been a cold and indifferent husband, preferring his mistress’s bed to hers, thankfully. But he’d been Rowena’s bulwark, her protector.

Finlay smiled faintly. “Dinna fret. Before he went off, Padruig bade me take care of ye and the lad. I’ll see he’s raised right, taught what he needs to know. He’s been declared Padruig’s heir, and the men will honor that Paddy will rule Clan Gunn when he’s old enough.”

‘Twas what she’d schemed, sacrificed and, aye, even lied to ensure. Paddy’s future. Everything she’d done these six years had been for her son. “You’re a fine man, Finlay Gunn. I know you’ll do your best by us,” she said softly, her expression carefully controlled again. “But ’twill be ten years at least till he can fight for himself. Years filled with peril.”

Finlay nodded, his brown eyes sober. “I’ll watch over him till then, see that he’s strong and capable.”

“But you do not know what Eneas has planned,” Rowena murmured, giving voice to her fears at last, even though it meant embroiling Finlay in more danger. “An hour ago, I passed by Padruig’s counting room and heard Eneas speaking with Clem.”

“Go on,” the old man urged.

She hesitated. But where else could she could turn? Few of the Gunns would believe Eneas capable of harming his own nephew. Her father was dead, and her brother was not strong enough to face down Eneas Gunn. Lion was, whispered a traitorous voice.

She had a brief, vivid image of Lion wielding his heavy claymore, muscles rippling beneath his saffron shirt as he fought to drive off two men who had attacked her at that first clan gathering. His opponents had been grown men, Lion a youth of ten and eight, but he’d bested them to save her life.

Lion, the champion of her youth.

Lion, the nemesis of her darkest nightmares. After what he’d done, she’d not accept a cup of water from him if she were dying of thirst. If there was any justice in the world, Lion Sutherland was dead of the plague.

“Come, lass, a burden shared is lighter,” Finlay said.

Rowena sighed and leaned closer, glad of the noise in the hall. “On the morrow, Eneas rides to Blantyre Castle to meet with the Earl of Buchan.”

“What? But—but that is where Padruig had gone, in answer to the earl’s summons.”

“Why? Who is this earl?”

“He’s the king’s brother, sent here to subdue the clans that have been reiving and murdering. To do it, he must raise an army, and he wanted Padruig to provide some men.”

“Oh. It sounds a grand scheme,” Rowena said absently, her own troubles more immediate. “Eneas plans to tell the earl of Padruig’s passing and swear fealty to him on Paddy’s behalf.”

“Fealty? Some of the Lowland clans follow that English custom of swearing allegiance to the king, but we Highlanders do not need to seek anyone’s approval of what we do. Especially when the king’s as weak a vessel as Robert. What does Eneas hope to gain by groveling at the earl’s feet?”

“Eneas told Clem he’d ask the earl to declare himself Paddy’s guardian,” she said faintly.

“But Padruig intended for you, Father Cerdic and myself to have the raising of the lad. He said so before all the clan and made every man swear to support Paddy as his heir.”

“Clem reminded Eneas of that, but Eneas said that the earl would not know of this—this unnatural notion of Padruig’s.” She twisted the linen napkin in her lap, the burning in her belly intensifying. “Eneas says that task should fall to Padruig’s only brother, and he’s certain the earl will agree.”

“No Gunn will care what this earl says.”

“But they may.” She took hold of Finlay’s arm. “Much as they loved Padruig and do love Paddy, also, there are many in the clan who will not love being ruled by a woman, a priest and a—a...” She could not bring herself to call Finlay a cripple, as Eneas had when making his point. “The young men especially want a vigorous chief who can hunt with them and lead them into battle. They will not see the danger to Paddy. They will not see that once Eneas is Paddy’s guardian, he could take my son away from us and...and mayhap kill him.”

“Eneas would not harm his own nephew.”

“Life in the Highlands is hard and chancy. Accidents do happen, even to a grown warrior like Padruig,” she added pointedly. “I mean to see that none befall my son till he’s old enough and strong enough to fend for himself.”

“I will speak with Eneas and make him see that we will not stand for any mucking about with Padruig’s wishes.”

“He will not listen.”

“Then I will ride to Blantyre and inform this earl of Padruig’s desires.”

“Thank you,” Rowena murmured. But she knew that even a few minutes in the saddle were torture for Finlay’s bad leg. “We will think of something, I am sure.”

“Now what are you whispering about, Rowena?” inquired a voice as cold and sibilant as a snake’s hiss.

Rowena gathered her courage, then slowly looked over her son’s red head to the glittering eyes of her adversary. Eneas had disliked her from the moment of their first meeting, the young wife of his childless brother, bringing with her the promise of an heir to displace Eneas. When she’d fulfilled that promise and birthed Paddy, Eneas’s animosity had ripened to a hatred that burned bright in his dark eyes.

Even in the crowded hall, with Finlay beside her, she felt vulnerable. Eneas had always unnerved her, his malevolent stare seeming to strip away her lies and pretexts. She resisted the urge to squirm. One sign of weakness and he’d strike like the hawk he so resembled. Before, she’d had Padruig’s support. Now she was on her own, her wits her only defense. Digging deep into the well of strength some say came to all mothers when their young were threatened, she prepared to do battle for her son’s future, his very life. “We were discussing the order of march to the gravesite.” She was pleased by her level voice.

“Indeed?” Eneas’s hard gaze narrowed. He was a large, lean man, with sharp features and thin lips set in a permanent sneer. Younger than Padruig by ten years, he had his half brother’s strength and determination, with none of Padruig’s sense of honor. “Father Cerdic first, then myself and Paddy.”

“He’s too young to walk so far.”

Between them, Paddy left off crumbling his oatcake and tipped his head back to look at her. His round face was unusually pale. Mauve shadows bruised the hollows below expressive, whiskey-colored eyes the same shape as his father’s. In them, she saw fatigue and confusion. He liked his uncle Eneas no better than she did. Her fault, but better wary than too trusting. “Mama, can I get down now? My bum’s gone to sleep.”

Poor lamb. He’d been through so much. The shock of losing his stern, remote father, the tensions sparking between the remaining adults in his life, the excitement of the funeral...

“Aye, love, I’ll have Jennie take you up—”

“He stays,” Eneas said flatly.

Rowena’s head snapped up. She felt her face heat, and struggled with her temper. “He’s exhausted from kneeling by his father’s bier all night.” At your insistence.

“We all sat vigil. ’Tis expected. As laird, Paddy must look beyond his own comforts,” Eneas said with obvious relish.

“He’s just a lad.”

“Aye, he is.” And I’m a man grown. More than capable of ruling if I can find a way, his eyes warned. “But he must grow up quickly.” He smiled thinly. “I’d be remiss in my obligations as Paddy’s uncle and teacher if I let him shirk his duties.”

There was that hated word again. And with it came the opening shots in what promised to be a long, deadly war. Damn Eneas for making it seem he wanted the best for Paddy when she knew he didn’t. Despite the suffocating heat in the crowded hall, a chill slithered down her spine. What to do? Should she fight Eneas on this and look disrespectful to Padruig’s memory? Or give in and risk appearing weak?

“‘Tis all right, Mama.” Paddy put his hand on her arm, his small fingers warm and as reassuring as the light squeeze he gave her. His face was childishly round, his eyes so like his father’s, sharp and wise beyond his few years. “I want to be there when they bury Father, so I can mark the spot. I’m going to raise a cairn there the way they do for the heroes in the tales you’ve told me. ’Twill likely take awhile and the stones will be small, but I’ll carry larger ones when I’m bigger.”

Now it was tears she battled. Paddy, her wee Paddy, was protecting her, just as his father had done so long ago.

“Well put, Paddy,” Finlay said a trifle too heartily. “He has the makings of a fine chief.”

“With the proper guidance,” Eneas said pointedly.

“You’d be just the man to teach him,” shouted a voice Rowena knew right well.

She glanced at the nearest table, where Clem sat smiling at Eneas. A huge lout, Clem was a veritable devil with claymore, dirk or his bare fists, and the most dangerous of Eneas’s thugs. There were other men in the crowd, men who were more honorable and less greedy for power than Eneas and his cronies, but if Eneas insisted on being named Paddy’s guardian, they’d side with him over her—an outsider and, worse, a woman.

Rowena knew then what she must do—go to Blantyre and convince the earl to uphold Padruig’s will. Eneas would not like it, would try to prevent her from making the journey, if she asked his permission. So she wouldn’t ask, she’d strike now, in the presence of these witnesses—and quickly, before they were too drunk to care.

Rising, she shouted above the din, “Silence, please. I need a moment of your time on urgent clan business.”

The Gunns stopped talking and stared at her as though she’d suddenly sprouted wings. Small wonder they were shocked by her outburst. In all her years at Hillbrae, she’d never raised her voice in the hall. While Padruig had given her the running of the keep, the management of the clan was men’s business, so she’d stayed quietly in the background, reading her few precious books, sewing her husband’s clothes and raising her son.

“First, I want to thank you for coming to honor Padruig. I know he would be pleased.” Conscious of the incredulous stares, she hurried on. “Last night while I kept vigil beside Padruig’s bier, I recalled his fears that should something happen to him before Paddy was grown, some other clan might think us leaderless and try to snatch up our holdings.”

“Think you I cannot defend what is ours?” Eneas snarled.

Rowena smiled. “I know you would fight valiantly to do that, but our losses might be heavy. Why risk a fight when Padruig himself had a plan that would avoid bloodshed?”

“He did?” asked Finlay.

“He did,” Rowena lied without compunction. “The king has sent his brother, the Earl of Buchan, to subdue the more warlike clans and bring peace to the Highlands. I will go to the earl, tell him of Padruig’s passing and swear fealty to the crown on Paddy’s behalf.”

“You!” Eneas shouted. “Why would you go?”

“Because Padruig named me as Paddy’s guardian, along with Father Cerdic and Finlay,” Rowena said sweetly.

Her statement was greeted by murmurs of ascent from some in the crowd and a low curse from Eneas.

“With the leadership of Clan Gunn thus confirmed by the king’s representative, no clan would attack us without running afoul of the earl and risk being declared outlaw by him,” Rowena said in a calm, firm voice, rather pleased with her reasoning.

The grinding of Eneas’s teeth was so loud Rowena could hear it over the nervous pounding of her heart. Her palms were wet, her stomach in knots, but she knew she’d won. Eneas could not decry the scheme and then set out on the same errand himself.

“I will, of course, go with you,” he growled. “To make certain no harm befalls my brother’s widow.”

“How kind you are.”

Eneas glared at her, his eyes lethal weapons. “The journey will be hard and dangerous.”

“I look to you to see us safely to Blantyre.”

Eneas cursed under his breath, then motioned the steward over to him. “Wat, pass the word, ’tis time for the lifting.” Spearing her with another scathing look, he shoved back his chair and stomped away toward his underlings.

Finlay stood also. “That was well done Rowena, but I will go with you to make certain Eneas minds his manners.”

“I can look out for myself, Finlay. I need you to remain here to make certain Paddy is safe.”

“For all he’s a hard man, Eneas loved Padruig. He’ll not harm his brother’s son,” Finlay repeated.

The icy fist around Rowena’s heart tightened. If Eneas learned that Paddy was not Padruig’s son, he’d have no compunction about killing him.

Paddy’s giggle cut across her dark thoughts. “I dinna think most of the men will get themselves up the hill, much less lift Father,” he said lightly.

Squinting against the smoky pall, she watched the Gunns attempt to rally themselves for the trip to the kirkyard. Drunk as they were, most of the men and some of the women were literally falling down. “Not surprising. Ten kegs of ale emptied since dawn.”

“Aye. But ye did him proud.” Finlay grinned as he helped her to her feet. “For all he was spare with his words and not one to share his feelings, Padruig respected ye lass.”

Rowena nodded glumly, looking back on her cold, loveless marriage and ahead to her bleak, dangerous future. “That is something, I suppose.”

“Make way,” Wat the Steward cried, elbowing people aside as he cleared a path for the fallen laird’s nearest and dearest.

Jennie met Rowena at the outer door. “I’ve brought your fur-lined cloak and the young laird’s, too.” She handed Finlay Paddy’s cape, then drew Rowena aside to assist her in dressing. Three years Rowena’s senior, the maid was plump and pretty, with red hair and freckles as numerous as her suitors. A capable maid and trustworthy friend, she had left Tarbert to live among the Gunns with her mistress. If not for her support, Rowena wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight as Padruig’s bride. “You’re pale as new snow,” Jennie scolded.

“Small wonder.” Rowena pressed a hand to her head, hoping to still the grinding ache.

“What has Eneas done to hurt you now?”

“Jennie...”

“Eneas knows I hate him.”

“Aye, but that was before.” Rowena glanced ahead.

Someone had opened the door, letting in a swirl of blessedly fresh spring air. Eneas stood in the entryway, his big body blocking the light. A symbol, surely, for he’d like to blot her and Paddy out...permanently.

“From now on, I want you to keep that sharp tongue between your teeth, Jennie MacBean,” Rowena said in a rush. “With Padruig gone, we must all watch our step.”

“And our backs.”

“Aye.” Rowena shivered and turned, her heart quieting when she saw Finlay kneeling to fasten Paddy’s cloak with the heavy broach, the symbol of his lairdship. God keep him safe.

“Mama?” Paddy tugged on her hand. “If I build Father’s cairn very high, do you think he’ll like me better?”

“Your father loved you,” Rowena said.

Paddy looked down and traced a circle on the stone floor with the toe of his boot. “He never said so. Sometimes he looked at me...” his thin shoulders moved restlessly beneath the heavy cloak “...as though I’d turned into a bowl of boiled kale.” Paddy’s least favorite food.

Rowena sighed, aching for her small son but knowing no words to explain. “He had much on his mind, love. If he grimaced and glowered, ’twas not at you. You were very, very important to him. Come, the others will be waiting. Let us walk up together and bid your father farewell.”

His hand, though small, was reassuringly warm in hers. She wondered who was helping whom as they began the long trek up the slope to the kirk. It had rained last night, and the ground steamed mist into the chilly air, giving the scene an otherworldly quality. If only this was a dream and she’d awaken to find Padruig alive, her life unchanged. While she was about it, why not wish she could awaken and find these past six years had been a nightmare and she was still Rowena MacBean, young, carefree and in love with Lion Sutherland?

Nay, for then she’d not have Paddy.

As they followed the line of mourners up the hill, Rowena vowed on Padruig’s soul that she’d find a way to keep Paddy safe, no matter what she had to do.


Chapter Two

The journey to Blantyre was every bit as horrible as Finlay had warned her it would be. Rain turned the roads into mud-clogged trails, slowing their progress through the mountain passes. A two-day journey dragged into five interminable ones, riding at the mercy of the wind-driven rain and Eneas’s equally foul temper. Each night, he’d insisted on camping in the woods, with only their plaids and the oiled cloth Wat had sent along for protection from the elements.

Just to spite her, Rowena was certain. Wet, exhausted and miserable as she was, she refused to give Eneas the satisfaction of showing it. She rode behind him, shoulders square, with only the heat of her determination to keep the cold at bay.

“When do you think we’ll reach Blantyre?” grumbled Harry Gunn, the young soldier Finlay had sent along as her squire.

“Ye’ve got to have someone to do yer bidding and watch out for ye,” Finlay had muttered. “Seeing as how ye’ve refused to take along one of the maids.”

“I must leave Jennie here to care for Paddy. Bad enough he’s lost his father. Now his mother is riding away. He needs someone to cosset him and reassure him. And the other maids are either too old to withstand the ride or too flighty.”

“The earl’s court is likely to be a rough place.”

“I’ve lived among rough men all my life,” she’d said with a toss of her head, rather enjoying the freedom to decide things for herself after so many years under Padruig’s thumb.

“I heard Eneas tell Clem we should reach Blantyre sometime today,” Rowena said now to her freckle-faced escort.

“Not a moment too soon.” Harry grimaced as he shifted. “Me bum’s permanently flattened, I’ll wager.”

Rowena smiled and blew a drop of rain off the end of her nose. “I know just what you mean.”

“Will it be a grand place, do ye think?”

“I shouldn’t wonder, for Finlay tells me it is the ancient seat of Clan Shaw, and they a wealthy house.” Oh, she did so want to make a good impression on the mighty earl who’d taken up residence there. She had a moment’s qualm, thinking of the woolen gown carefully folded into her saddle pouch. It was the finest thing she’d ever owned, and Jennie had assured her that the deep blue color was vastly becoming. Yet Rowena feared the noble courtiers would see through the bright plumage to her drab MacBean roots.

“Do ye think there’ll be lassies there, and all?”

“For shame, Harry,” she said. “You are supposed to be guarding me, not chasing after a flock of light skirts.”

“My lady! I—I assure ye I didn’t mean it, I—”

“I was teasing, Harry.”

He glanced sidelong at her, dark eyes wide under a tangle of dripping red hair. “I’ve never heard ye jest before, my lady. Ye were always a most serious and proper sort.”

“I suppose that’s true.” But there had been a time, a brief time, during that wild, glorious summer with Lion, when she’d been gay and happy and loved. The memory brought with it a pang of longing so sharp she could smell the heather that had grown in the fields. Six years it had been since she’d been held or kissed. Six long, lonely years.

“Lady Rowena?”

She started. “Aye, Harry.”

“Look up ahead. Eneas’s scouts have ridden in with word we’re within a league of Blantyre Castle.”

“Praise be,” Rowena said. “Can we pause that I might change into fresh clothes and try to get a comb through my hair?”

“I doubt Eneas’ll stop, and I’d not want to linger alone in these woods.”

Rowena followed his wary gaze into the dark, dripping forest, which seemed to close in on them. Steam rose from the black boulders crowding the edge of the trail. It mingled with the mist in the trees, forming a dense fog within whose depths all manner of evil might lurk. Somewhere nearby a hawk’s lonely cry split the silence, sending a shiver down Rowena’s spine. “I suppose you are right. Hopefully the earl will understand.”

“Ye look fine as ye are, in any case, my lady. Except for the bit of mud on yer cheek.”

Rowena hastily scrubbed at her face. “Oh dear, it is vitally important that the earl look kindly on me.”

“We must hurry along,” Harry urged. “Eneas and his men have reached yon bend in the road, and we’ll lose sight of them.”

Rowena lifted her head to find Eneas glancing back over his shoulder, watching her from the head of the column. The hatred in his eyes settled the question. He’d like naught better than to lose her...or see her fall prey to some lethal accident. “You are right, Harry. Let us make haste.”

The words had scarcely left Rowena’s mouth when the thud of muffled hoofbeats came from behind them, mingled with the low rumble of male voices.

“Mayhap ’tis scouts from Blantyre come to welcome us,” Rowena whispered.

“Nay, they come too fast” Harry freed his sword. “Quickly, make for Eneas and the others,” he urged.

Too late. Mounted men erupted from the trees behind them, brandishing swords and screaming fit to curdle the blood.

Eneas showed his true mettle. Or rather, his back. He fled ahead of the attacking horde without a backward glance, his men scrambling after him like a pack of terrified rabbits.

“Sweet Mary, we are lost,” Rowena cried.

Harry wheeled to face the oncoming men. “Ride, my lady,” he shouted. “Dinna stop till ye reach Blantyre.”

There was no time to argue, no time to thank Harry. Digging her heels into her horse’s ribs, Rowena sped along the track Eneas had taken. Branches slapped at her face; briars tore at her clothes. Behind her, she heard the grate of steel on steel, followed by an ominous cry.

Harry.

There was no time to mourn, no time for pain and regret. Rowena focused all her energies on staying in the saddle and keeping her mount moving on the track. A minute they rode, maybe two, before she heard the pounding beat of hot pursuit.

“Faster! Faster!” Rowena urged, giving her mare its head. Her heart flew into her throat as the beast stumbled. “Nay.” She pulled back on the reins, fighting for balance, praying for a miracle. It was not granted. With a sharp equine squeal of protest, the horse went down, throwing Rowena off over its head.

She hit the ground with a teeth-jarring thump. The world went black, then misty gray. Stars danced before her eyes. She tasted blood and dirt.

“Chase down the others, I’ll see to the wench,” shouted a coarse voice.

Rowena clawed at the dirt, trying to rise, to crawl into the concealing foliage a foot away. Hard hands grabbed her by the shoulders and wrenched her up. There she dangled, like a fish on a hook, feet milling in the air, her head muzzy as a drunk’s.

“Well, well...” Even seen through a misty haze, her captor’s face was terrifying, with blunt, brutish features weathered by sun and wind, close-set black eyes and a tangle of inky hair. “She’s a mite dirty at the moment, but she may clean up fine.”

“I dinna want to wait,” snarled a sullen voice. The speaker was smaller than his hulking companion and better looking, if you discounted the meanness in his pale eyes.

Terror chased the cobwebs from Rowena’s aching head. Mustering what courage she could, she said, “Release me this instant,” in her most imperious voice. The effect was ruined by her position.

The brute laughed. “Why, ’tis no serving wench we’ve caught, Dickie me lad, but a fine lady.”

“She don’t look so fine...and it don’t make a damn bit of difference to me who she is.” Dickie reached for the laces on the front of her gown.

“Wait!” Rowena said, hating the quaver in her voice. “I am Lady Rowena Gunn, come with my kinsmen on important business with the Earl of Buchan. If you will take me—unharmed—to Blantyre Castle, my brother will reward you richly.”

The brute’s eyes narrowed assessingly. “Dickie and me, we’ve no need of gold, but a fresh wench...” He cocked his head, a merciless grin splitting his ugly face. “Now that’s a reward a man’d have to be dead to pass up.”

“Dead is what you’ll be if you don’t release the lady,” said a low, soft voice. The man who stood behind the brute was leaner but taller than her attacker. A helmet shadowed his face. From beneath it, black hair flowed over massive shoulders. With his sword held before him and his dark cape fluttering out in the wind, he resembled an avenging angel.

“’Tis Glenshee,” Dickie exclaimed.

Cursing, the brute cast Rowena into the bracken and drew his sword as he turned to face the newcomer. “Ye’re alone.” A savage smile split his ugly face.

“I have Avenger.” The knight hefted his claymore with one hand, letting the half-light play on the runes carved into the gleaming blade. “That’s enough to deal with the likes of you, Georas MacPherson.”

Georas’s laughter was coarse and mean, his attack lightning quick. His sword slashed down. Metal screamed on metal as the dark knight countered the stroke, driving Georas back. Face red with fury, MacPherson lunged, shouting for Dickie, who came in swinging his own blade. The blow fell on the leather-and-metal targe the knight held over his left arm. Before Dickie could disengage, Glenshee twisted the shield, scoring Dickie’s arm with the metal point at its center.

Dickie cursed and drew back, then resumed the attack, raining a flurry of blows on the targe.

“That’s it! Give no quarter!” Georas roared. He slashed with more fury than finesse, but the air resounded with the grating of steel on steel.

Rowena scrambled up from the dirt, back braced against an oak as she watched the struggle. Surely Glenshee could not prevail against these two. Should she call for help? Oh, that was rich. Whom did she expect would come?

While she debated, the dark knight sent his blade sliding down Georas’s. With a flick of his muscled arm, he sent his opponent’s sword arcing into the brush.

“What the...?” Eyes wide, Georas backed up, rubbing at the small, bloody slice on his wrist. “Get him, Dickie.”

“By all means, Dickie. Come and get me,” Glenshee taunted. The deadly tip of his blade swung back and forth between the two, keeping them at bay.

“The hell with this.” Dickie backed up a step, then turned and ran to his horse. “No wench is worth this much trouble.”

Georas glared at the knight. “We’ll finish this another day, Glenshee.”

“Name the time and the place.”

Georas growled a low curse and backed toward his horse. He sprang into the saddle, sent a last, scathing glance at her rescuer, then spurred away into the mist.

Rowena released the breath she’d been holding and sagged against the tall oak, scarcely feeling the damp. As her breathing quieted and her heart settled, she became aware of the hushed silence all around them. The trees stood motionless; expectancy hung heavy as fog in the air.

Her rescuer stood a few feet away, staring after the MacPhersons, his face hidden in shadows. His sword, held still in his right hand, gleamed evilly in the pale light.

Suddenly the lump was back in Rowena’s throat. Had she traded one thug for another? “Thank you, sir, I—I am in your debt. I do not know what would have happened had you not come.”

“I do, I am afraid. Georas MacPherson and his brother are old hands at picking on things that are small and fragile.”

Was that how he saw her? Defenseless? Vulnerable? She tried to step back, found the way blocked by the oak.

“Pray do not be alarmed.” He sheathed the sword and extended his large, lean hands, callused palms up. “You are quite safe with me, lass.”

A sense of déjà vu swept through her, taking her back to another time and another man—a lad, realty—who’d saved her from a band of bullies at a clan gathering. Lion Sutherland. Friend, lover, enemy. She stared at him, eyes aching as she tried to pierce the gloom. There was something in the timbre of his voice, in the way he held himself, so straight, assured and proud, that made her tremble. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He cocked his head, considering. A smile flashed briefly. “How remiss of me.” Sweeping off his helmet, he bowed low, courtier to lady. “I am Lionel Sutherland of Glenshee.”

“Sweet saints above.” Rowena swayed, praying for the ground to swallow her up. “It cannot be you.”

“Rowena?” He closed in on her, his hand warm and hard as it seized her chin and tilted it up. “Dieu. ’Tis you.” His grip tightened. “Bloody hell. If I’d known, I’d have run Georas and Dickie through for daring to touch you.” His thumb whisked over her jaw. “Are you all right?”

“Aye,” she murmured, dazed by the unexpected turn of events. It was horrible, yet thrilling to see him again, to stand so close after so long. His hair was shorter, the dark mane just brushing his shoulders, its red lights dulled by the gloom. Nothing could dampen the glow in those amber eyes, though, eyes that could freeze or burn. Eyes that studied her with searing intensity. Aye, he was still a magnificent man, with the body of a warrior and the face of a poet. A man other men followed into battle, a man women sighed over and burned over. She’d sighed and burned. Oh, how she’d burned.

Oh, how she’d grieved when it was over.

The memory of his leaving broke through her dazed state. Shivering with emotion, she tried to draw back.

“Shh. No need to fear, I’ve got you safe.” He drew her into his embrace. The feel of his arms was so familiar, so welcome after six long years of drought, that she shivered again. “Easy.” He stroked her back, as he’d done so often in the past, holding her as she drifted down from the heights of passion into blissful contentment.

Angered by her own weakness, she tried to twist free, but he held her fast. Clearly, whatever he’d been doing in France these six years had built up his strength, not depleted it. “You are hurting me,” she said, knowing his one weakness.

His grip eased, but he didn’t let her go. “I know I hurt you,” he said, his voice low and tight, and she knew it was not the present of which he spoke, but the past.

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“I understand, but—”

“Oh, you do?” The temper Rowena had held in check all the while she’d lived with the Gunns suddenly threatened to explode. Shaking free of his grip, she shouted, “Well, understand this, I loved you. With all my heart. When you left, you broke it. You nearly broke me. Do not,” she added, when he reached for her again.

“You have every right to be hurt and upset, but there are things I need to tell you.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear them.”

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, a sure sign he was agitated and trying to work through a problem. Good. She hoped it plagued him into the early grave he so richly deserved.

“At least listen to what I have to say,” he argued. “You owe me that much.”

“I owe you?” Rowena’s simmering fury boiled over. She buried her elbow in his rock-hard midsection, ignoring the shaft of pain that traveled up her arm. His grunt of surprise as he bent over was satisfying, but not half as much as the sharp oath she wrang from him when her knee caught him under the chin.

The earth shook as he hit the ground. “Damn.” He dragged the hair from his eyes with an angry swipe. “Where the hell did you learn such low tricks?” he gasped.

“From you. You said a lass should be able to protect herself.” Rowena stood over him, hands on her hips, wounded spirits soaring. Seeing him lying at her feet almost made up for the past. Almost. “And I could not agree more.” Dusting off her hands, she spun around to look for her horse.

But she’d forgotten how quick he’d always been to retaliate. Grabbing hold of her ankle, he jerked her down on top of him. Before she could wriggle upright, he rolled, pinning her to the soggy ground with one heavy thigh. His elbows were planted just above her shoulders, caging her, yet sparing her the brunt of his weight. Eyes bright with anger and something even more dangerous, he smiled down at her. “Even better.”

The feel of his warm, solid body pressing into hers, the scent of his skin, the quick hammer of his heart against hers were so achingly familiar that for a moment her mind emptied of everything but this. She’d thought herself dead to all emotion save her love for Paddy. ’Twas the worst irony to find that even after six years of hating him, with one touch Lion could still make her yearn and burn.

“Ah, Ro. Jesu, but I’ve missed you.” He lowered his head, his breath warm on her mouth.

Buffeted by memories, she waited, wanting his kiss, craving the taste of him. And then what? She’d been down that path before. It promised paradise, but lead to hell. “Nay!” She turned her head aside, shivering as his lips grazed her ear.

“You cannot avoid the inevitable,” he whispered, nibbling his way across her cheek.

She had to. Desperate, Rowena fought back the only way she could. When his lips grazed hers, she bit him. Hard.

“Hell!” Lion reared back, eyes shocked, blood welling from a neat set of marks in his lower lip.

Rowena was so furious with him, with herself, that she shook all over. Nay, ’twas the ground that shook. She looked up, past Lion’s shoulder, to see a troop of mounted men galloping toward them.

“Lion!” called one of them. “I thought you were rescuing the lady, not debauching her.”

Lion rose lithely. “Save your pity, Bryce. I’m the one with bruised ribs and a bloody lip. Any losses?”

“Nay, we chased the MacPhersons off before they could do more than frighten these folk. And the lady?”

“Is just fine, thank you,” Rowena said briskly. She dusted off her hands and searched the crowd of milling men, finding the Gunns knotted together in the throng. Eneas’s disappointment at finding her alive was apparent. Some of the others looked shame-faced. And well they should, riding off and leaving a lady and a lad to face a horde of—“Oh, my guardsman,” she exclaimed, starting back down the road. “He was injured.”

“I will find him,” Lion said, trotting alongside her.

Rowena turned on him. “I do not want your help.”

He had the nerve to look hurt. “Bryce,” he called over his shoulder. “Would you assist the lady Rowena in finding her man?”

Rowena marched down the muddy track, the knowledge that Lion watched her sending an odd thrill down her spine. Seeing him again after all this time was...

Terrible. Horrible.

And exciting.

Dangerously exciting.

That was what frightened her the most.

Bryce Sutherland waited till the little cavalcade, with himself and Lion at its head, had gotten underway before he broached a delicate subject. “How does it seem, seeing the lady Rowena after all this time?” he asked of his cousin.

“I am not sure,” Lion replied.

This from the man who was always confident, always knew which way to jump, no matter how perilous the situation? “’Twas a shock,” Bryce said. Ten years Lion’s senior, he was as much mentor as captain of the elite force that had fought under the Sutherland banner during their years in France.

“Aye. When I realized the lass I’d saved from the MacPherson was Rowena, I damn near fell over.” A muscle in Lion’s cheek jumped as he flexed his jaw. “She is not well pleased to see me,” he said in a low, troubled voice. “And who can blame her, for she thinks I left her without a care or a qualm.”

“Did you not explain what happened that night?”

“She would not speak of it.” Lion exhaled, his eyes bleak in the sockets of his helmet.

“Mmm. Mayhap she will when she is over the shock of the MacPhersons’ attack and her guard’s wounding.” Bryce deftly changed the subject. “Did she say what they were doing here?”

Lion shifted in the saddle, barely resisting the urge to look back at the object of his turbulent thoughts. She’d refused any further help from him. That had hurt. “I did not think to ask.”

“Aye. You were a trifle busy when we arrived.”

Lion flushed. “Appearance to the contrary, I was not trying to seduce her.” Though he’d wanted to. Still did, if the truth be known. He’d gorged himself on women when he’d learned his Rowena had wed another, but none of them had captured his heart or satisfied his soul the way she could.

“Have your feelings for her changed, then?”

“Nay.” His heart had soared when he’d recognized her. “But she made her hatred of me plain enough.”

“She is only recently widowed.”

Lion nodded, gut tightening with guilt.

“According to Eneas Gunn, Padruig’s brother and the leader of this band, they believe Padruig was killed by thieves.”

Did she mourn him? Had she loved him? “Eneas is the wretch who ran off and left her to MacPherson?”

“The same. I’d say there is little love lost ’twixt him and Rowena, for when we’d routed the MacPhersons, he was not anxious to go back and find his brother’s widow.”

“Bastard. I’ll see she’s kept safe,” Lion murmured. “Whether she wants my help or not.”

“I still cannot believe Alexander had Padruig killed simply because he would not bring his few men to Blantyre.”

“The Wolf grows more and more unstable in his thinking.” Silently Lion cursed the earl for wreaking havoc in the Highlands. ’Twas not peace Alexander wanted, but power. Under the guise of curbing lawlessness, he planned to gather about him a huge Highland army. With it, he’d wrest the throne from his weak, ineffectual brother, Robert. “If only we could find proof of Alexander’s true intentions.”

“Mad he may be, but Alexander is clever, too clever to leave evidence lying about.”

“But we know he has designs on the crown. He has promised that when he’s king, he’ll grant land and other favors to some of the more powerful clans, the ones he cannot now sway to his side with gold or intimidation. Rory Campbell saw the document Alexander sent to Archie, chief of the Campbells.”

Alarmed, Rory had ridden to Lion’s family at Kinduin, where he’d been fostered as a lad. Lion had only just returned from France when Rory burst in with his tale of treachery and intrigue. They’d agreed that Lucais, Lion’s father, would go to Edinburgh to try and convince the king to recall Alexander from the Highlands. Rory would return to Blantyre and secure the promissory note. But Rory had been ambushed and killed. The murder of his friend had launched Lion into a desperate scheme of his own to infiltrate Alexander’s ranks. He’d been right successful, too. The earl trusted him...as much as the wily wolf trusted anyone.

“We’ve had Alexander’s things searched and found naught,” Bryce glumly reminded him.

It had not been easy getting a Sutherland, disguised as a servant, into the chamber Alexander used at Blantyre. “Naill could not get into the locked strongbox. ’Tis the most likely place for the earl to store such damaging evidence.”

“We must somehow get inside that chest, no matter how dangerous,” Bryce murmured. Searching the personal belongings of a man as powerful and ruthless as Alexander Stewart would be akin to walking bare naked through a room full of vipers. One false step and they’d all be dead. “Mayhap we might slip a sleeping potion into his wine and take the key from around his neck while he is unconscious.”

Lion shook his head. “If he suspected that he’d been drugged, he’d kill every servant in the place...and mayhap even harm Lady Glenda.” Lion liked the woman, who was chatelaine of Clan Shaw’s stronghold Blantyre Castle. Three months ago, Alexander had decided the large, strategically placed fortress would make the perfect headquarters from which to conduct his “pacification” of the Highlands. He’d presented himself at the castle gates, and when Lady Glenda had balked, had proceeded to seduce the homely, middle-aged woman. Lately, however, there’d been signs the earl wearied of his mistress.

“We must come up with something,” Lion said grimly. And while he was on the subject of problems, he added, “I will think on it whilst I escort Rowena to wherever she is bound.”

“Eneas said they were destined for Blantyre Castle.”

Lion gasped and whirled to stare at the woman whose image had haunted him—waking and sleeping—during his years in France. She was looking down at the injured man his lads carried in a litter. Harry had received a grave wound to the side trying to defend her. His sacrifice had given Lion the time to reach her. Harry was unlikely to live, but that hadn’t discouraged Rowena from tearing up her own shift to fashion a bandage for him. She’d always had a soft spot for hurt things.

“Why are they going there?” Lion asked.

“Clan business, Eneas told me. Nastily, I might add, as though I had no right to inquire into his affairs.”

“Any man who leaves a woman in distress is no man at all.” He looked back again, studying the delicate line of her face. “And Blantyre is no place for a gentle lass like Rowena.” The vain, shallow women who hung about the earl’s court would slash her to ribbons with their vicious tongues. And the men... Lion’s gut roiled at the thought of his fragile Rowena pursued by Georas MacPherson and his ilk.

As though sensing his scrutiny, Rowena looked up. Their gazes met, locked. Her eyes were as dark as peat smoke and just as mysterious, her pale, dirt-streaked features coolly blank. When had she learned to guard her thoughts like that? Lion wondered, remembering the lass whose every notion he’d been able to read from the first.

Staring into her closed face, he knew exactly what he wanted. To win her back. But would she give him the chance? Not willingly, if her steely gaze and set jaw were any indication. They were all the spur his competitive spirit needed. She’d been a cautious, wounded thing when he’d first met her. He’d gentled her and won her then. He’d do it again.

Lion grinned, flashing her fair warning with a look. His smile widened when she stiffened, outrage painting red flags on her colorless cheeks. ’Twould be an interesting contest.


Chapter Three

Though she rode with one eye on poor Harry, Rowena’s thoughts were on the man who led them through the misty forest.

She’d never expected to see him again. In the early days following her marriage, consumed by pain and bitterness, she’d wished for Lion to die of some withering disease. Surely her life must be cursed, for not only was he hale, hearty and twice as handsome now, she was also in his debt. Oh, how that galled.

“Lawd, that must be Blantyre Castle,” Clem Gunn said from the pack of clansmen who rode behind her. “Is it not the grandest place ye’ve ever seen?”

Rowena looked ahead, her eyes widening. Blantyre rose out of the fog, spires pricking the sullen sky from behind tall, stout walls. The lights shining from the square towers beckoned, offering warmth and comport Like a stalwart gray sentinel, the edifice seemed to offer sanctuary. Or was it only her need for a haven that made her fancy she’d find one here?

The gatehouse bristled with armed men, but Lion was instantly recognized and the drawbridge lowered. Over the narrow causeway they rode, and into the spacious outer bailey. The grassy field was crammed with tents of all description, from fine canvas ones to drab bits of oiled cloth. ’Twas like a miniature city, really, with stables, a blacksmith and even an ale tent set up by an enterprising merchant.

“Who are these men?” Clem asked.

“Likely the men come to help the earl subdue the outlaws,” Eneas replied. “Large as it is, there would not be room for so many inside Blantyre. The most important of the clan leaders would have chambers inside the castle. And those of lesser rank might steep six and eight to a room in pallets on the floor.”

“Where will we sleep?” Rowena asked faintly.

“I’d wager that Lord Lion will find a cozy spot for you...in his room,” Eneas said nastily.

He would not dare. Would he? “I will seek out the steward and ask if I may have a pallet in the serving maids’ garret,” she said firmly. Yet her trepidation grew as they rode under the sharp teeth of the portcullis into the inner bailey.

The cobbled courtyard was bounded on all four sides by stark gray walls, the great tower of the castle rising five stories above them like a stone giant. The area teemed with activity like a disorderly hive. Some men practiced with dirk and sword, their curses and grunts ringing off the stone walls, their flailing weapons imperiling those who chanced to walk too close. Other men sat about drinking or dicing.

“See what Lion’s brought us,” shouted a coarse voice. “A fresh, winsome lassie.”

All activity stopped. Men lowered their swords and stared. Others left off their gaming and watched goggle-eyed as Lion led his band to the foot of the main stairway. Then they surged forward, an unkempt tide of shouting males.

Rowena gasped and recoiled in the saddle.

“Back!” Lion roared. “All of you.” His command was reinforced by a solid wall of Sutherland targes and swords. “These people are my guests.” Lion’s hard, censorious gaze wandered over the crowd. One after another, the men shrugged and turned back to what they’d been doing.

Lion appeared beside her. “Rowena, I apologize for these men. They are not under my command and—”

“They seemed to obey you.” Evading the hands he extended to lift her down, she slid to the ground on her own.

“Listen to me.” He placed his hands on the saddle, caging her between the horse and himself. “Blantyre is not a safe place. Be on your guard,” he added, thrusting his face close to hers, “lest you find yourself cornered by one of these lechers.”

“You are the only lecher who impugns me.” She drew in a sharp breath and with it the scent that was uniquely Lion’s. It taunted her, brought her senses vividly alive. The small space between them seemed charged with a life of its own. He felt it, too, his long-lashed eyes going wide, his nostrils flaring. Nay. She did not want this. What had been between them was dead, killed by his desertion. “Let me pass,” she said, wishing she sounded firmer, less desperate.

“Lion! Lord Lion!” shouted a high, panicked voice.

Lion turned his head. “Here is Donald Shaw, the steward. Blantyre is crowded, but I will see if I can get him to—”

“We will make our own arrangements,” Rowena said regally, ducking under Lion’s arm.

“There’s no room,” Donald exclaimed as he waddled down the main stairway. His round belly heaved before him like a bag full of fighting cats. “No room at all. Neither in the castle nor the outer bailey.” He stopped beside Eneas Gunn, apparently having picked him out as the leader of these newcomers. “Ye’ll have to pitch a tent outside the walls.”

“The hell you say.” Eneas leaped from the saddle and glowered down at Donald from his considerable height advantage. “I’m Eneas Gunn, and I’ve important business with the earl.”

Donald crossed his arms over his fine woolen tunic. “Lady Glenda, chatelaine of Blantyre, has graciously allowed the earl to use the castle as his headquarters, but my lady has the running of the castle.” He glared up at Eneas. “I say it would not matter if ye were the king’s own brother. There are no beds to be had. Not even a pallet on the—”

Eneas grabbed hold of Donald’s tunic and shook him so the poor man’s chins quivered. “Now listen here, you little—”

“Release him,” Lion said, seizing Eneas’s upper arm.

Swearing loudly, Eneas let go of Donald and tried to shake off the offending hand. “How dare you presume to touch—”

“Be glad I don’t break your arm for leaving your brother’s wife to the MacPhersons.” Lion’s voice was low, yet dangerously tight, his eyes nearly black with anger. “Or beat you bloody for abusing Donald, who is only doing his duty.”

Rowena, who had witnessed a few of Lion’s more passionate outbursts of temper years ago, marveled at this newfound control. Combined with his size and strength, it would make him a formidable opponent.

Eneas, however, was either too blind or too enraged to sense the danger. Curling his lip, he jerked free to address the nearest man. “Where is the earl?”

“Out riding.”

“We will wait, then, to pay our respects and hear what the earl has to say about our accommodations.” Eneas whirled on his own men. “Dismount and stay here.” With a last malevolent glance at Lion, he stomped up the stairs and into the castle.

The name Donald called Eneas under his breath made Lion chuckle. “I know you’re a mite pressed for space, but we’ve an injured man.” He gestured toward the litter his men had set on the ground.

“I’d gladly give up my tiny chamber to show my thanks,” Donald said heartily. “But Felis, the herb woman, has a small chamber where she treats the sick.”

Lion nodded and gave the order to bring Harry. He frowned when Rowena stepped along beside the litter. “There’s no need for you to go. Felis is very skilled.”

Rowena froze him with a glare. “Harry is one of mine. Even had he not been wounded protecting me, I’d still see to him.” Head high, she marched behind in the wake of the litter. Donald led them through a maze of well-lit corridors to a narrow wall chamber.

The herb woman answered the door and ordered the bearers to place Harry on a pallet by the small fire. “’Tis a mortal wound he’s taken, my lady,” she said ominously.

Rowena looked at the blood-soaked pad and grimaced. “Aye, it is severe, but mayhap if it’s stitched shut and a tight compress applied, the bleeding will stop.”

The old woman nodded. “I think ’tis a waste of time, but feel free to use whatever you need.” She gestured to the chest of medicines in the corner. “I’ve been summoned to the village to help with a birthing. The mother lost her last one, poor thing, so I cannot tarry.”

“That is all right. I’ve some skill in such things. Thank you again for the use of this room and your supplies.”

“Aye.” Felis drew on her cloak. “Any friend of Lion’s is deserving of my help,” she said before she left.

Rowena scowled at him.

“Is there anything I can do?” Lion asked hopefully.

“Nay. I need nothing from you.”

“I’ve a bit of experience with wounds, and I know the sight of blood always made you queasy. I could—”

“I have overcome my aversion to blood,” she said flatly.

.Lion’s mouth thinned. “I will stay nonetheless.”

“I would prefer you did not, but doubt that will sway you.”

“Nay, it will not. For as long as you are in Blantyre, you must be under my protection.”

“I do not believe I am in any danger. I think you just want an excuse to—to annoy me,” she finished, unwilling to give voice to the tension that simmered between them.

“Many of the men who’ve answered the earl’s summons are of the worst sort, the dregs of the Highlands. They are without honor or conscience. Pray forgive me for not wanting you to fall into the clutches of others like the MacPhersons.”

Rowena stifled a shudder at the reminder of what he’d saved her from. But forgiveness didn’t come easy. “I’ve not the time to argue.” She turned her attention back to Harry. “He has lost a great deal of blood, so I must act quickly.” She peered into the pot beside the fire and found it empty.

“I sent my squire for hot water and whiskey,” Lion said.

Rowena gritted her teeth. “I must cut his tunic away from his body.”

Kneeling, Lion proffered his own dirk to her. “’Tis sharp, so mind what you’re doing, lass.”

“Around you, always.”

A fair-haired lad stuck his head into the room. “I’ve got the things you asked for, milord.”

“Bring them in, Sim. Set the pot on the coals to keep warm and put the whiskey there, beside Lady Rowena.”

Sim did as he was bid, paling a bit when he glanced at the injured man. “I’ll wait outside in case you need anything else.”

When she’d sliced away Harry’s shirt, Rowena lifted the bandage she’d put over his wound, and her heart quailed. The slash was a long one, extending from under Harry’s left arm across his chest to his waist, laying bare two rib bones. It would be a miracle if he lived.

“Let me keep pressure on this while you ready the needle and thread,” Lion offered.

“All right.” Opening the medicine chest, she rummaged through it, bringing out a needle, stout silk thread and several packets of herbs. She dipped both thread and needle into the whiskey Sim had brought. Her hand trembled slightly as she prepared to dig into Harry’s ruined flesh.

At the touch of her needle, Harry roused. “My lady!” he cried, sitting up with no warning.

“Harry! Lie still!” Rowena reached for him, but he pushed her aside with surprising strength.

“Have to save her,” he cried, his eyes wild and unfocused.

“Easy, lad.” Lion grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders and forced the boy to look at him. “She’s safe, do you hear? We got to her in time. She came to no harm.”

“Praise God.” Harry sagged in Lion’s gnp, shivering as he was laid back down on the pallet. “So afraid for her.”

“As was I.” Lion lifted a cup of whiskey to Harry’s lips. “Drink deep, lad. You’ve a bit of a cut on your side that wants stitching. It’ll go a mite easier with this in your belly.”

Harry drained the cup, then sighed. His eyes closed; his breathing eased.

“Best begin,” Lion said softly. “I’ll just steady him for you, least he rouse and cause more damage.”

She looked up at him, too weary in body and soul to fight against his help. “Thank you,” she murmured. Curiously, the words did not stick in her throat. With steely determination, she began to ply her needle.

It was nearly nightfall by the time Rowena left Harry’s bedside. She was stiff from crouching over her patient, and so tired she could have curled up on the bare floor and slept. Felis had returned from a successful birthing, however, and insisted she would sit with Harry a spell.

As Rowena stepped from the sickroom, Lion came away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “Harry?” he asked.

Rowena tensed. “He yet lives. Why are you here?”

“I told you I’d be nearby.”

“And I told you to leave hours ago.”

“I quit the room, for my presence made you nervous. But I am not about to leave you undefended.” Before she could stop him, he seized a stray curl and tucked it behind her ear.

Rowena jumped back, uncomfortable with the thought that he’d been near all this time. “I do not require a guard.”

His grin was mocking. “You say that only because you do not know the men gathered at Blantyre as well as I do. Some of them have the manners and morals of pigs.”

He was protecting her. The notion was both comforting and frightening. “I can look after myself.” She started down the corridor away from him.

“Really? What business have you in the guards’ quarters?”

She stopped and turned. “What?”

“That is where you are headed.”

“I see.” She changed direction, brushing past him without touching him, yet the heat from his body singed her. Down the hall she went, conscious that he kept pace behind her though she could not hear his footsteps. At an intersection, she paused.

“The great hall is to the left.”

Rowena sniffed and turned toward the hall in search of Eneas. Loath as she was to see that turn-tail lout, she had to learn what plans he’d made for their accommodations. With any luck, he’d already spoken with the earl and arranged for the swearing to take place on the morrow. Pray God they could leave soon, for being in Lion’s presence was painful beyond bearing.

“Why have you come to Blantyre?” he asked.

“I have business with the earl.” Rowena quickened her pace. As she turned the next corner, she was assaulted by such noise: shouts and bellows, laughter and...was that the crack of breaking wood? It came from behind a double set of metal-banded doors at the far end of the corridor. “The great hall?” she asked weakly.

“The very same.” Lion moved up beside her, his grin flashing in the torchlight. “We could sup in my chamber instead.”

“Certainly not. I’ve no wish to be private with you. I must see my kinsman.” Ugh. To call Eneas that grated. “And pay my respects to the earl.”

“Mayhap you’d like to wait till you’ve bathed and changed.”

Rowena stopped and looked down at her gown. To say that it was the worse for wear after five days in the saddle and another spent crouched on the floor was an understatement. “Somewhere I have a pack with a clean gown.”

“Why not wait till the morrow? Alexander is likely deep in his cups by now and—”

“Nay. I would conclude my business quickly. I do not want to spend a minute more at Blantyre than I have to.”

“A wise decision. The men here are barbarous.”

Steeling herself, she met Lion’s amber gaze squarely. “You keep saying that Have you become a barbarian?”

“I hope not.” His smile was as compelling as ever.

“Why are you at Blantyre?”

“Like you, I have business here.”

She sensed evasion. He’d always been clever with words, able to wriggle out of a question quicker than the river salmon they’d fished for that long-ago summer could escape from a net “I see. Well, I hope to conclude mine the quicker, for then I can be the one to ride away from you.” When pain darkened his beautiful eyes, the heart she’d thought fortified against him tripped. Why? Why did you leave me without a word? Nay, she did not want to know, could not afford to care why. She lifted her chin. “Do we enter the hall or stand here trading barbs?”

“The slings and arrows of outrage are all yours, lass,” he said quietly. “I would have peace between us.”

“That can never be.” Rowena moved past him and flung open the right-hand door. The wash of light and noise stopped her in her tracks. Blinking, she surveyed the great hall.

It was several times the size of Hillbrae’s. Into it were crammed more people than she’d seen in one place before-beautiful women and burly knights. They laughed and shouted, sang and danced, cavorting about to the riotous wail of a pair of pipers. Torchlight played on formfitting silken gowns in a dozen brilliant colors. Gemstones glittered at the women’s necks and on their fingers. Like fairy princesses they were, bonny and ever so polished.

Rowena hung back, hands clenching in her rumpled skirts. “I must look a sight,” she murmured.

“The offer of my chamber is still open.”

“I am still not interested. Ever,” Rowena said, turning on him.

“Ah, well, can’t blame a man for trying.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “At least let’s clean you up a bit before you must face the harpies.” He seized her chin before she could move away, whisked a square of linen from inside his tunic, moistened it with his tongue and dabbed at her cheek. “Hold still,” he admonished when she squirmed. “Well, you still look like a wee lassie who’s been playing in the mud, but you’ll have to do,” he said cheerfully after a moment.

“Thank you so much.” Rowena flung his hand aside, turned and plunged into the hall, too angry with him to mind the surprised looks cast her way. Belatedly, she realized he’d probably meant to make her angry so she’d forget about being ashamed or intimidated. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

Two men suddenly leaped in front of her, their hands around each other’s necks. “Take that back,” one screamed, shaking the other so his teeth clicked.

“Will not.” His opponent sent a fist flying. It glanced off the first man’s jaw and headed for Rowena.

She gasped and braced for a collision.

Lion whirled her clear of the two combatants. “Mind where you go.” He swept her over to a table near the hearth. Pulling out a bench, he gallantly seated her, then himself.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“Only if the gratitude is sincere. If it’s not, it’ll be sure to curdle your belly. Hungry?” he asked. Chin propped in his hand, he regarded her with a friendly smile.

Rowena shrugged and looked out at the revelers, seeing a sinister side to the merriment. The two men who’d nearly felled her were themselves rolling on the floor. She caught the glint of a dirk in one man’s hand, but none of those nearby made any attempt to intervene. Mayhap because many of them were drunk, too. A few had passed out on the tables. One man lay retching beneath a bench. No one paid any attention.

She looked away, just in time to see a large man grab one of the serving maids, sling her over his shoulder and stride from the hall. “Why does someone not stop him?”

“’Twould be one against a hundred, and most of them so drunk they’d not listen to reason.”

“Where are your men?”

“Out and about. We none of us care for the entertainments to be had at Blantyre these days.”

“But...” Rowena began, then she sighed and looked down at her hands. She’d fought this same battle when she’d first come to Hillbrae, for the Gunns were a wild and unruly bunch. Padruig alone could control them, except when they were gone with drink. Rowena had learned to lock the maids in her solar when the men were in a festive mood. These men were meaner than the Gunns, she decided. Her gaze strayed to the pair of fighters. One of them lay bleeding on the floor. Seeing the other calmly going through his victim’s money pouch, she shivered.

“This is no place for you, lass. Let me provide an escort to see you home on the morrow.”

Much as she wanted to go, Rowena shook her head. “I cannot leave till my purpose is accomplished.”

“Milord.” A plump, homely maid approached the table and set down a cloth-covered tray. “Here’s the food ye asked cook to keep by for ye and the lady.”

“My thanks, Mairi, and to cook, also.” His smile would have charmed the birds from the trees.

“Always a pleasure to serve ye.” Mairi cast an envious glance at Rowena, then hurried away, evading a dozen groping hands with skillful swats.

“You have many friends among the serving staff.”

“The best kind...if a man plans to eat well.” He whisked the cover off the tray and sniffed. “Cook makes the best meat pies.” He lifted one and juggled it, wincing. “Hot, too. Better let me hold it, or you’ll burn your fingers.

Dazzled by the smell, Rowena did as he bid, leaning forward and taking a big bite. It was delicious, the crust flaky, the meat juicy. It wasn’t till she’d taken her third bite that she realized Lion had her eating out of his hand. Sitting back, she scowled at him. “You think you are clever, don’t you?”

“Time will tell if I’m clever enough,” he said lightly.

To do what? Seduce her? Likely he’d try, and yet... Rowena frowned, struck by the hidden meaning in his words. She’d known him as a canny lad of eight and ten, yet sensed that the time away had broadened his intelligence. What had he done in France?

“Lion!” A voice boomed out over the din in the hall, silencing the laughter and even the wail of the pipes.

Everyone, Rowena included, looked to the doorway. There stood a tall, dark-haired man, his muscular body draped in velvet and gold chains. The princely tilt of his head as he arrogantly surveyed the hall confirmed his identity.

“The earl,” Rowena breathed.

“True, unfortunately,” Lion said just as softly.

Alexander Stewart’s piercing gaze pounced on their quarry. “Lion! I have need of you.”

Lion sighed and stood. “I regret that I must leave you.” He took her hand, his lips lingering a moment in a gentle kiss, his eyes locked on hers. “I will have one of my men stay with you.”

“C-could you not introduce me to the earl?” she asked.

“Lion!”

“In his present mood, ’twould do more harm than good.” Lion bowed formally, then strode over to meet the royal prince, who whisked him from the hall.

Of all the times for Alexander to choose for a meeting, Lion thought as he grimly followed the earl across the courtyard and into the ancient tower, built by the Shaws a century ago. Up the winding stairs they went, to the old hall where once the Shaw chiefs had ruled. Here Alexander’s inner circle of followers met to drink and talk strategy.

A fire struggled in the central hearth, but a dozen or so torches burned brightly in sconces set the length of the long, narrow room. Alexander did not like dark corners where assassins might lie in wait. Ten Stewart clansmen, the earl’s personal bodyguards, sat gaming and drinking at one of the trestle tables. The other tables were occupied by leaders of the clans who’d thus far come to serve Alexander: the Keiths, Chisholms, Mackintoshes, Cummings and, of course, the MacPhersons.

As Lion entered beside the earl, Georas MacPherson jumped up, toppling the bench on which he’d been sitting. “Glenshee!” His hand fell to his sword hilt. “I demand satisfaction.”

“Name the time and place,” Lion said coolly.

“What is the meaning of this?” Alexander exclaimed.

Georas snarled, “He attacked me on the trail.”

“Not without provocation.”

“The hell you say. I’d done naught to you,” Georas roared.

“To me, nay, but to the lady—”

“I saw the wench first. You had no right to interfere.”

“What is this? Two of my best men fighting over a wench?” the earl grumbled.

“Not a wench, a lady,” Lion said grimly. “And you are wrong, Georas. I had every right to stop you. The lady Rowena grew up five leagues from my home at Kinduin. I have known her for years. I’d not stand aside and see any lady mistreated, much less one I—”

“Mistreated!” Georas MacPherson’s face turned scarlet “She wanted me. I could tell. She just needed a bit of persuading, same as most females do.”

“Persuading, is it?” Lion asked with a softness his men would have recognized as more dangerous than another’s shouts.

“Aye, and I demand a piece of yer hide to replace the one ye ripped from my hand.”

“Easy, Georas. You’ve forgotten our Lion is more chivalrous than most,” the earl said, clearly hoping to ease things.

Lion knew that Alexander would not discipline Georas, who commanded one hundred of the most ruthless fighters in the Highlands. While others might quibble over being asked to commit murder and wreak havoc, the MacPhersons thrived on it. Likely Georas himself had killed Padruig. Nay, the earl could not afford to alienate the MacPherson chief. But neither would he want to lose the Sutherlands, Lion mused.

His clan was large and prosperous with strategically located land. Alexander had tried without success to woo Lucais, Lion’s father, to his cause. He’d been delighted when the heir to Kinduin had showed up in his camp, never guessing he was welcoming a spy.

“A pox on his damned chivalry,” Georas muttered.

“Nay, nay, Georas, we could learn much from our old friends in France. ’Tis pleased I am we’ve someone who’s spent time in the French court.” The earl winked at Lion.

Coarse himself, Alexander made much of Lion’s courtier ways and was anxious to acquire some himself. Thus Lion spent an hour each day in the hopeless task of trying to coax lyrical French phrases from the earl’s wide Scots mouth. He’d had better luck teaching Alexander and his men to wield the lighter-weight Spanish swords and fight in the manner popular on the Continent.

Georas uttered a crude oath regarding Lion’s parentage and the origins of the French king.

Lion’s face heated. The urge to teach Georas a much-needed lesson, burned hot in his veins. It was his Carmichael blood, the cursed temper inherited from the grandsire for whom he’d been named. Lion cooled it with Sutherland logic. A brawl would ruin his plans. “Name the time,” he repeated calmly.

“We’ll have none of that,” the earl snapped. “I’ve not enough men that I can afford to lose two of the best. Georas, you’ll respect Lion’s right to defend his friends. Lion, you’ll overlook Georas’s rashness. ’Tis just high spirits,” he added, signaling his squire to pour ale for all. “Nigh five hundred fighting men have answered my summons, and here they sit, with naught to do till we’re strong enough to begin.”

On that, Lion could not disagree. Battle-trained men with too much time on their hands were always a liability. He’d seen the same in France. There the leaders had kept their men busy with constant patrols and with jousts. Unfortunately, the patrols here led to just the sort of thing that had happened to Rowena. Innocent farmers and merchants were often attacked by bored warriors out for sport and plunder.

What of jousts? The idea of two bands of Highlanders conducting themselves as did tourney knights was laughable. There were no lances, no trained mounts, but...

“Football,” Lion said.

“Football?” the earl repeated, frowning.

“Aye, well, it does not have to be that Any sport will do, so long as it’ll let the lads test their strength against one another and, mayhap, win a prize or two.”

Alexander’s dark eyes sparkled with understanding. “Aye, that is a grand notion. And it’ll make a suitable display when the MacNabs come calling.” He added, “Aedh MacNab is sending his heir, Robert, to talk about joining us.”

Lion smiled, but his mind was racing. He knew Aedh and Robbie. Neither were the sort to fall in with the earl’s schemes. He had to meet with Robbie before he reached Blantyre, and try to convince him to see this Lion’s way.

Dickie MacPherson ambled into the room, cast a malicious glance in Lion’s direction, then went to whisper in Georas’s ear. Their furtiveness made Lion apprehensive.

Georas grinned, clapped Dickie on the shoulder and approached Alexander. The smugness of his expression made the hair on Lion’s nape prickle.

“Gunn!” the earl roared. “She’s Padruig Gunn’s widow?”

“Aye.” Georas’s smile turned feral. “That she is.”

“Why is she here?” Alexander demanded, spearing first Lion, then Georas with an enraged gaze.

“I do not know,” Lion was forced to admit.

“Yer childhood friend has not confided in ye?” Georas taunted. He must not know why, either.

“There was no time,” Lion said stiffly, alarmed by Alexander’s anger. The earl had an unpredictable temperament, being generous and friendly one moment, petty and vicious the next. Too often of late he would fly into a rage over a small thing. “But rest assured, Your Grace, I will know by morn.”

Alexander muttered a curse and drained his cup.

“It is possible they have come to join you,” Lion added.

“A woman?” Alexander’s black brows rose. “Much as I need men, I’d not take any who’d follow a woman,” he scoffed. His gaze went to Lady Glenda, a woman of great wealth. Kindly but homely, with a long, horsy face and mud-brown hair, she sat at a distant table playing at draughts with Selena MacPherson.

Lady Glenda looked up, caught the earl’s glance and immediately abandoned her game to join him. “You wanted me, my lord?” she said in her soft, lisping voice.

“Nay,” Alexander said absently, oblivious to the lady’s hurt expression. He’d seduced her, played court to her in order to gain the use of her castle. His interest in her was obviously waning, for he treated her with less respect every day.

“What of you, Lord Lion?” Selena inquired archly. “Is there aught you desire?” The seductive gleam in her pale blue eyes left him in no doubt she’d satisfy any craving he might have. She was breathtaking, her red hair a perfect foil for her porcelain-pale skin. Selena was newly arrived at Blantyre, but rumor had it she was a talented and inventive bedmate. Had she approached him the day before, Lion would have been tempted. As it was, he felt scant interest in the lush curves she pressed close to him or in the sensual promises glittering in her eyes.

Lion smiled coolly. “Alas, my lady, I must be about the earl’s business this evening.” With that, he bowed to Selena and took the unhappy Lady Glenda aside. “If your sister’s chamber is yet unoccupied, could my lady Rowena use it while she is here?”

“Well...I do not mean to seem miserly, ’tis just that Annie values her things greatly and—”

“You’d just as soon not see them misused by some careless trollop.” He looked pointedly at Lady Selena, who leaned close to the earl as she refilled his ale cup. “Rowena is my lady, and has no designs whatsoever on any other man.”

“I would be pleased to have her use the room, then.”

“She is in the great hall, if I could send word—”

“I’ll go myself.” Lady Glenda glanced at Alexander, her expression filled with pitiful longing, then left the room.

Lion bowed to the earl. “Until the morrow, Your Grace,” he said before exiting the room. Every step of the way, he was aware of Georas’s hate-filled gaze.

As he stepped into the gloomy corridor, Lion nearly fell over Bryce.

“What has he done to upset Lady Glenda?” Bryce said, staring after the lady’s retreating back.

“He ignores her now that he has what he wanted—the run of Blantyre and her Shaws to ride under his banner.”

“Yet she pines for him, dotes on his every word and whim. Can she not see what worthless slime he is?” Bryce snarled.

“Easy, my friend, I know you sympathize with her.” More than that, he feared Bryce was smitten with the earl’s lady. “But we’ve more pressing problems just now.” As they walked down the stairs of the old tower, Lion told his cousin about the imminent arrival of the MacNabs and the threat to Rowena. “I’ve asked Lady Glenda to give her Lady Annie’s chamber. ’Tis all I can do for tonight—that and post two men outside her door. Tomorrow I must persuade her to leave.”

“And the MacNabs?”

“That is the rest of tonight’s problem.”


Chapter Four

Rowena finished her ale and set the cup aside.

“More?” Sim inquired, standing behind her, ready to serve.

“Nay, I could not eat or drink another morsel.” She eyed the remaining scraps of meat pie. “Though it was delicious.”

“Aye. Lady Glenda sets a good table, but I must apologize for the company,” Lion’s squire added. His statement was punctuated by a hoarse shout and a round of drunken cheers.

Wincing, Rowena glanced toward the center of the hall. The tables had been cleared back to allow room for a wrestling match of sorts. Two large men, stripped down to linen drawers, were attempting to squeeze the life out of each other.

“It grows late, and I really must find my brother by marriage to see if he has found us lodging.”

Sim frowned. “I did send someone to inquire. Sir Eneas is not within the walls.”

“Run off and left me again. Well, I shall have to shift for myself, then.” She stood, but Sim barred the way.

“Lion said you were to wait here.”

“He does not have the ordering of me.”

“Nay, but he is finding a room for you.”

“And I can guess where it will be.”

Sim flushed. “Nay, my lord is not like that. You can trust him to make honorable arrangements for you.”

Once before she’d trusted Lion. No more. “I will see to it myself.” She stepped around him and into a burly stranger.

“Well. Lonely, are ye?” He stank worse than the garderobes. His black-and-purple plaid was stained with food, his eyes bleary with drink. “I can fix that.” He reached for her.

Sim shoved between them. “Off with you, John Chisholm. This lady is under my lord of Glenshee’s protection.”

“Get away, lad,” John snarled.

“Nay,” Sim said to the brute who towered over him.

Rowena gasped. “Sim, do not—”

“It’s ye who’ll be moving along, Dank John,” said the big redhead who’d materialized beside them.

John glared at the newcomer, but before he could protest, two more men in Sutherland green and blue appeared.

Cursing under his breath, John moved off.

“Thank you,” Rowena whispered. Her knees were suddenly so weak she steadied herself on the edge of the table.

“Glad to help.” The big man bowed. “I’m Red Will. This here’s Naill and that’s Lem’s Sandie.”

The wiry older man grinned at her. Fair-haired Lem’s Sandie blushed and bobbed his head.

Rowena managed a smile. “Thank you for noting my plight.”

“Oh, we’ve been keeping an eye on ye,” Red Will said.

“Per Lord Lion’s orders?” she asked faintly.

“Aye. He doesna want anyone harassing his lady.”

“I am not—”

“Lady Rowena?” inquired an imperious voice.

Rowena spun her head, braced for yet another confrontation.

The woman standing before her was of middle age, tall, thin and horsey looking. Her gown was of costly velvet, but the mustard shade was vastly unbecoming, turning her skin the color of tallow. Still, the crown of wispy brown braids atop her head gave her a regal look, and her eyes held a wary intelligence.

“Ach, ’tis Lady Glenda,” Red Will explained.

“My lady.” Rowena dropped a hasty curtsy.

“I am sorry not to have come sooner.” Her gaze moved from Rowena’s untidy hair to her muddy boots and back to her face. “You look as though you’ve had a long, terrible journey.”

Rowena smiled wryly. “My backside can attest to that.”

An answering smile curved Lady Glenda’s thin lips, making her eyes twinkle and her face seem almost pretty. “Ah. A sense of humor and a bit of wit. How refreshing.” She raised her hand, rings winking in the torchlight of the crowded hall.

Donald rushed over. “You have need of me. Lady Glenda?”

“Put the lady Rowena in the green room, Donald.”

“But—but when Lady Selena asked to have that chamber, you said it must be held ready for Lady Anne.”

Lady Glenda flushed. “That is because I did not want that sly woman entertaining her lovers in my sister’s room. She has the morals of a barn cat,” she said in an aside to Rowena. “Selena, not my Annie.” She glanced about the hall and grimaced. “There’s little we can do about yon riffraff being here, Donald, but the earl vowed I would have the arranging of the domestic matters in my own castle.”

“Aye, my lady.” Donald grinned. “Twill be a pleasure to see Lady Rowena settled in the green room.” He cocked his head, surveying her. “You’ll be wanting a bath.”

Rowena blinked, a bit dazed by the tempting offer. “Oh, but it’s so late...so much trouble...”

“Not at all.” He bowed. “Shall I show you up now?”

“I’ll do it,” said his mistress. Her lip curled slightly as she gazed about the hall. “I do wish Alexander would exert more control over his men.” She sighed. “Still, I know he has more important things on his mind.” The lady picked up her skirts and turned in a graceful sweep. “Come, let us away.”

“Gladly.” Lifting her muddy skirts, Rowena trailed after her rescuer. The older woman set a brisk pace across the entryway with its impressive display of ancient armaments and into a stone stairwell that spiraled tightly up two floors and opened into a well-lit corridor.

“Drat. I should have thought to bring a candle,” Lady Glenda grumbled. “’Tis what comes of acting in haste. Ah well.” She reached for a torch set in an iron holder in the wall.

“Allow me.” Rowena lifted the brand free.

“Ah. You are not one of those frail lasses who lets others do all the work.”

“If I were, I’d be home in my bed, not here, alone in a strange place full of louts and brigands.”

“Why aren’t you?” Lady Glenda asked as they walked down the hall. “Home in your bed instead of here?”

“I’ve come to ensure my son’s inheritance. You see—” she stepped through the door Lady Glenda had opened “—my husband died a week ago.”

“Oh. I am sorry.”

“So am I. Both because he was a good and honest man, and because our son is only five.”

“Ah.” Lady Glenda took the torch and thrust it into a pile of wood lying ready in the small corner hearth. The fire caught quickly, sending flickers of light over the fine furnishings—a tall, canopied bed draped in green velvet, a carved chest, a table and two chairs set beneath the window. “I know just how much of a challenge it can be, raising a child without a man. My oldest brother was two and ten when our da died. But our clansmen supported William. Is there no one to help you guide your young son into manhood?”

“Aye, there is, but Finlay, my husband’s cousin, and Father Cerdic are somewhat old and infirmed.”

“Mmm. That is a problem.” Lady Glenda plucked a thick candle from the mantel. As she stooped to light the wick from the fire, she groaned. “I am sorry for your loss and your troubles, but at least you loved and were loved in return. And you have your son...a living symbol of that love.”

At least you were loved. The pain stabbed through Rowena, quick and deadly as a knife thrust. “Aye,” she whispered.

“I—I hope that one day soon I will also know that joy,” Glenda said, cheeks flushing.

“You and the earl will wed?”

“He has not yet asked...but he is busy.” Her hands fluttered, unnecessarily tidying the bed drapes. “Tell me about your son.”

“Paddy is bright and quick and has a sweet disposition. ’Tis a joy to teach him, a thrill to watch him master each new task. But...” Rowena hesitated. Six years of living among the Gunns, of keeping her thoughts and plans to herself, made her cautious. Lady Glenda had befriended her, but if Eneas learned that she intended to have him ousted as Paddy’s guardian—

“But...?” Lady Glenda prompted.

A knock at the door spared Rowena from lying. At the lady’s command, servants entered with steaming buckets of water. Donald himself ducked behind the screen in one corner and dragged forth a small wooden tub. He set it before the fire with great ceremony, and the servants filled it quickly, then departed.

“Shall I send up a maid to help you?” Donald asked.

Rowena shook her head, dazed by the attention. “I’m used to seeing to myself, Thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Aye, well, I cannot claim all the credit. Before he left on the earl’s business, Lion asked me to arrange things thusly,” said Lady Glenda.

Rowena’s smile faded. “I see.”

“Two of the Sutherlands will be outside your door tonight,” Donald told her. She did not make the mistake of saying she did not want a guard. “If you need aught else, send one of them down to me in the hall.” The steward bowed to her, then to Lady Glenda, and headed for the door.

“A moment, Donald,” Lady Glenda called after him. “I’ve instructions to give you for the morrow.” She turned to Rowena. “Enjoy your bath and sleep well. In the morning you can tell me more about the challenge you’re facing.”

“Thank you, my lady. You have been more than kind.”

Glenda smiled wryly. “While I cannot claim to know what lies between you, if anything, I know how it chafes to have your life ordered by a strong man. No matter how well meaning. If it is any comfort, I am exceedingly glad he did, for I’ve enjoyed meeting you. And I’ve said that about precious few people these past three months. I look forward to our chat tomorrow.” She exited with the grace and dignity of a queen.

Rowena sighed, drained and buffeted by the events of the day. Her emotions had suffered more ups and downs than a skiff on a wind-roughened loch. The quiet of the room wrapped around her like a healing balm. How lucky she was to have this haven.

Lion arranged this, taunted a little voice. Did he think to share this room with her, to take up where they had left off six years ago? Well, he’ll soon learn that she was not the foolish, gullible lass she’d been then.

Stiff with determination, Rowena stalked to the tub and shucked off her dirty clothes. “Ah,” she sighed as she sank into the hot water. It melted the ache from weary muscles and banished the cold. “This is heaven.” There were days on the trail when she’d thought she would never be warm again.

The urge to linger, to steep in the water as she used to when she was young and carefree, was tempting, but the bath was cooling fast, and if Lion was planning to invade her chamber, she did not want him to catch her thus. She picked up a handful of soft soap, sniffed appreciatively at the sweet scent of heather and began scrubbing her grimy arms.

Working quickly, she moved on to unplait her braids. It was not easy to wet the long, curly hair, harder still to work a lather through it, but her scalp itched fiercely. And she was not climbing dirty into Annie Shaw’s bed. As Rowena washed, she tried to keep her mind on meeting the earl, but her thoughts kept straying to Lion.

He’d deserted her six years ago, yet stuck by her side tonight while she tended young Harry.

“There are things you should know,” he’d said.

What explanation could he give that would excuse his actions? If his father had changed their plans, Lion could have met her and told her so. Had he feared that she would cry and beg him to stay or to take her with him?

Bah, it did not matter now.

She ladled water from the bucket over her head to rinse away the soap. If only she could be shed of her problems as easily, she thought as she stood and wrapped about her the long linen towel left warming by the fire.

Bundled in a thick bed robe, she crawled into bed and leaned against the pillows. She stared into the fire and drew the wide-toothed wooden comb through her tangled hair, her thoughts on the morrow. She’d arise early, don her best gown and see if she could catch the earl in the hall breaking his fast. With any luck, Eneas would not have had a chance to corner the earl and fill his ears with lies.

Tired as she was, Rowena found sleep elusive, her thoughts haunted by images from the past. Images of Lion.

Had he arranged for her to have this room so he could join her? The notion was terrifying. And thrilling.

“Ah, it feels good to be free of that cursed place, if only for a few hours,” Bryce observed as they cantered away from Blantyre and headed into the hills.

“Aye,” Lion answered. A slender moon lit their way, the air smelled fresh and clean. It had not been easy for them to leave unobserved by the edgy earl’s guards, but soon after coming here, he had secured a copy of the postern gate key. Once away from the castle, he and Bryce had walked down to the village and gotten their horses from Roderick, a Sutherland working there as the blacksmith’s helper.

Lion would have been grateful to leave behind the stink of intrigue and corruption, except for his worry about Rowena. The lass had always been headstrong. Though he’d warned her to stay away from Alexander and had left Red Will to watch her, his gut was by no means easy on that score.

It was incredible seeing her again after all this time. The wonder of it had struck him anew as he’d sat beside her in the hall, watching the play of emotion over her face, marveling at the changes the years had made. Rowena was here, free of Padruig, free to take another man. Lion wanted to be that man. He would be that man.

Winning her would not be easy.

Lion grimaced. Somehow he had to overcome her distrust.

“You’re worried about the meeting with the MacNabs. Surely Robbie will listen to you. His father and yours are old friends, and you played together as lads.”

Lion shook away one problem to shoulder an even larger one, the one that had brought him to Blantyre. “It’s not Robbie I’m worried about. Aedh is chief of the clan, and he will have given his son specific orders about what to tell Alexander concerning his barbaric plans.”

“Aye, the MacNabs are much like us and most other honorable clans—not eager to make war on their neighbors.”

“But I fear the MacNabs are a stubborn lot.”

Bryce chuckled. “You are not?”

“At least I know when to bend.” Lion’s father had taught him that, among other valuable lessons, and he’d never missed Lucais Sutherland’s sage advice more than he did now. Lion had fought his way across France, had intrigued with the best—or worst—of them at French Robert’s court, yet he’d never felt as inadequate to a task as he did this one. The enormity of trying to protect whole clans of men who resented his interference, while trying to find proof of Alexander’s treason, was nearly overwhelming.

“You think Robbie will not bend?”

“I would not have, were I eight and ten and off on an important mission for my old bear of a sire. If you’ve ever seen Aedh in a rage, you’d hardly blame the lad.”

They crested the rise and raced along a high plateau that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the horizon. A rocky outcropping came into view, black against the new grass. Lion headed toward it, slowing so the stallion could maneuver between the boulders. The trail turned sharply, then opened into a tiny meadow. The clearing teemed with horses and with men warming themselves before a few small campfires. Lion was about to complain about the lack of sentries when a wee man sprang from behind a rock.

“We was on the point of sending out a search party,” Heckie grumbled, his weathered face cracked by a smile.





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