Highland Treasure Trilogy E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Highland Treasure Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 1485

Beschreibung

 Three Scottish sisters hold a clue to their family's treasure–and the key to the hearts of three Highland warriors…   The Dreamer     The Enchantress     The Firebrand     

Leseprobe

HIGHLAND TREASURE TRILOGY

3-Volume Box Set: The Dreamer, The Enchantress, The Firebrand

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

Book Duo Creative

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Highland Treasure Trilogy: 3-Volume Box Set - The Dreamer, The Enchantress, The Firebrand

Copyright © 2017 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

Cover Art for individual volumes by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

CONTENTS

Volume 1

THE DREAMER

Volume 2

THE ENCHANTRESS

Volume 3

THE FIREBRAND

Also by May McGoldrick

About the Author

VOLUMEONE

THE DREAMER

For Carla Patton—writer, doctor, and friend

May all your dreams come true…

PROLOGUE

Jervaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, England

August 1535

“They’ve fled!”

Arthur Courtenay, the king’s Deputy Lieutenant in Yorkshire, angrily spurred his steed past the flaring torches until the giant animal was snorting and tossing his head not a half pace away from the faces of the cowering servants and villagers.

“Where have they gone?” His voice rasped with barely controlled fury. “When?”

“These fools have all swallowed their tongues, m’lord.”

Sir Arthur drew his sword, and the shoving throng fell away as he nudged the animal forward to the very steps of the abbey’s chapter house.

“Drag the abbot out,” he shouted. “And the monks, as well. Every fat, cowardly one of them. I’ll stick their treasonous heads on pikes if they don’t come up with answers.”

“M’lord!” The sound of one of the soldiers, calling as he ran from the small churchyard, drew the Deputy Lieutenant’s head around. “M’lord, it’s true. There is freshly packed earth behind the large crypt.”

“What are you waiting for?” Courtenay wheeled the warhorse, forcing the fearful onlookers back even farther. “Start digging. And clear the yard of this rabble.”

Riding into the graveyard, the Deputy Lieutenant dismounted in front of the crypt, a stone chapel-like edifice, and threw the reins at a soldier standing nearby. Wordlessly, Sir Arthur stalked around the building, but stopped and whirled when a cloaked figure reached out of the shadows for him. He knew the man.

“You sent word too late, monk,” Courtenay rasped.

“Three prizes have escaped us, but the treasure has not.”

“It’s here? Are you certain?”

“I saw the three sisters dragging the chest down here after the sun set. They must have dug that hole earlier, though, for all they did was place the chest in there and cover it.”

Sir Arthur peered at the two men digging out the loose soil, as another stood over them with a torch. Their faces glistened with sweat and dirt.

“You told me that you’ve searched their belongings many times these past months. You told me that none of them could be hiding anything.”

“We did search.” The man pulled the hood of his dark cloak farther forward on his face as one of the English soldiers walked past them. “But yesterday, two messengers arrived. The first brought news that their father, Edmund Percy, is dead in the Tower.”

“Aye, and that treacherous Thomas More will be next,” Sir Arthur spat. “His head will soon adorn London Bridge, as well. But what of it?”

“We expected you to bring the news of their father’s death and a warrant for their arrest at the same time.”

“I had to wait for the Lord Chancellor to issue the warrant, and then,” he angrily scuffed at the dirt beneath his boots, “never mind all of that. You failed to send me the message in time, and that displeases me. But what of this second messenger?”

“The second one came from Nichola Percy, the mother.”

“Do you believe she is nearby?”

The hooded man shook his head. “From what I’ve been able to glean from the abbot and the servants, she remains in hiding in the Borders, north of the Tweed. But as you thought, she’s remained true to her daughters. In fact, she must have sent help, as well, for their escape.”

“And you think the messenger brought the treasure?” Courtenay’s question received only silence for an answer. “But it makes no sense for her to effect their escape, and yet still send them⁠—”

A cry of discovery brought both men’s heads around.

“It’s here. We’ve hit it, m’lord.”

“Bring it out.”

The Deputy Lieutenant strode hurriedly to the side of the open grave, but the hooded man only moved as far as the shadows would allow.

The wooden chest was lifted out of the hole. Leaning over the dirt-covered box, Sir Arthur motioned to one of the soldiers to break the latch with the end of his halberd. With a single blow, the deed was done, and Courtenay pushed forward toward the unopened box. The anticipation was obvious in every face, and even the hooded man now stepped out of the shadows.

The Deputy Lieutenant crouched and pushed open the lid. Every man leaped back, scattering to a safe distant.

Every man, that is, but the hooded figure who, stepping past Sir Arthur, reached into the chest and picked up the squirming, hissing snake.

“What the devil?” Courtenay cried out angrily.

The cloaked man threw the snake back into the grave. “Catherine Percy, the eldest of the three, has an odd sense of humor...and no fear of adders.”

“So this is it?” Sir Arthur barked. “This is to be our treasure?”

The man reached into the box again and picked out a rolled parchment. Opening it, he looked up and met the Deputy Lieutenant’s gaze.

“Nay, m’lord. She also left us a map.”

1

Balvenie Castle, Scotland

The dowager’s gray eyes opened and slowly focused on the half armor before moving upward to the anxious face of the tall, red-haired man standing by her bed.

“Has Catherine Percy arrived?”

“Nay, Mother. Not yet.”

“You will look after that young woman, John. You will honor our promise to protect her.”

“Of course. You know the messenger brought word that she’s safe and en route. There’s nothing more that needs to be done.”

The old woman coughed weakly and, lifting a frail hand, waved off the attentions of the young woman gliding around the bed. The invalid’s eyes never left the warrior’s face, and the attendant, her niece Susan, stepped back and picked up a piece of needlework, settling once again onto the stool beside the great curtained bed.

“Your bride, then. I assume she’s here?”

He shook his head. “Nay, Mother. Ellen is still two days ride away, at least.”

“Then why are you here? To watch me die?”

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of the warrior’s mouth, but faded quickly. “If I recall correctly, you sent for me.”

“Hmmph! I don’t know why I should have,” the woman grumbled feebly. “But then, I’ve no more than a handful of breaths left in this wasted, old carcass. Maybe I simply thought you’d see fit to grant me my dying wish.”

Quietly, he took her bony hands in his powerful grip. “You’ll live, Mother. You’ll live to see us wed. In fact⁠—”

“I don’t give a thistle puff to see a wedding.” Lady Anne Stewart’s eyes moved and rested on her niece’s face as the young woman quietly stitched away at her work. If only Susan had been more like the other women—the court ladies or better yet, the bonny little fools who used any excuse to come to Balvenie Castle and fawn over her son, fighting for his attention.

Just then, Susan’s eyes lifted and met hers. Whether the young woman glimpsed a hint of regret or perhaps disappointment in the dowager’s face, Lady Anne didn’t know, but her niece rose quickly to her feet, flushing crimson, and with a polite curtsy stepped out of the bedchamber. Mother and son were left alone.

The dowager let out a heavy breath. “I’ve forsaken all my other dreams, John. All I care about now is for you to bring me your wife—full in the belly with an heir.”

“These things are not done overnight.”

For the flash of a moment the sickly woman’s eyes sharpened. “That’s exactly when it’s done. And I’ve seen enough mistresses of yours hanging about the gates to know you’re an expert in the matter.”

The warrior bit back his words as he released her hands.

“Do something useful. Prop me up a wee bit.”

So John Stewart—earl of Athol, cousin to James the Fifth of Scotland, and laird of nearly all from Elgin to Huntly—pushed his great brand and his dirk behind him and gently lifted the tiny woman into a sitting position.

Lady Anne Stewart’s expression was one of intense pain. As she settled against the pillows, her keen eyes studied her son’s weary face. “They tell me you’ve been tearing up the countryside looking for cattle raiders.”

“Aye. And when I get them, I’ll hang them all from the nearest tree that’ll hold the blackguards’ weight.”

“Clever lads, I take it.” The dowager’s brow furrowed as she gave another weak cough. “The same as before?”

“The same,” Athol growled.

The dowager knew that for weeks her son had been scouring the glens and the rugged mountain terrain for the raiders. “There’s an easier way to stop these men.”

His patronizing glance was fleeting, but too open to go unnoticed.

“I don’t know that anything but a noose or the edge of a sword that will convince these mongrel dogs.”

“I know, you think me a doddering old fool. But I have the answer. All you have to do...is...ask.”

Athol sat down on the edge of the bed as a spell of coughing shook the old woman’s frame. A moment went by as she appeared to struggle for breath.

“Very well, I’m asking,” he said when she’d settled again. “Give me your advice.”

She looked at him sternly, a glimmer of satisfaction in her gray eyes. “I tell you, John, it cannot be too soon for you to marry. You need a bairn to succeed you. That’ll be the end to all your troubles.”

“I’ve agreed, Mother. I know you’ve been impatient to see me settled. The plans are set and⁠—”

“Plans...plans.” Her words gave way to another wrenching cough. “I had plans too. I brought Susan up here with the plan of seeing you two wed. If you would have done as I⁠—”

“Mother!”

There was warning in his tone, she knew. And they had been through this discussion months ago. “Well, what you say is not good enough. What good are plans when it comes to the troubles of your people? Nay. I tell you...”

Her words trailed off, and the laird turned to the window, where the sound of shouting rose from the rain-swept courtyard below. In an instant, the shouting could be heard below stairs. Striding across the floor, he yanked open the door of the chamber in time to see his thin, gloomy-faced old steward breathlessly mounting the top step down the corridor.

“M’lord,” the steward gasped, his face crimson from the exertion and the news. “M’lord, they’ve struck the farm at Muckle Long Brae.”

The earl’s face darkened ominously. “Were any of our people hurt?”

“Nay.” The steward lowered his voice with a glance at the dowager, who was peering from the bed. “But the filthy dogs burned your new barn there.”

“And the cattle?”

“They took a half dozen of the new blacks and turned out the rest, before setting the place afire.”

“But what of Wat and his kin?”

“Trussed up like hogs, m’lord. But unhurt. His oldest lad’s below, if you want to talk to him. The barn is ashes, he says, and Wat’s set out after them.”

“Saddle my horse, and gather the men.” Outside the window, the rain had turned into a downpour. The steward disappeared down the corridor.

“John,” the dowager called as he turned his grim visage toward her. “It’ll be a dark and rainy night, and they’ve half a day’s start on you, at least.”

“Aye, but Wat’s after them now, and they have to travel the same as we do.”

“But you know these mountains hold a thousand hiding places for these brazen thieves.”

He took a step restlessly toward the open door. “Aye, and I know most of them, Mother.”

The woman began to cough again, holding up her hand for him to wait. “Let them have the cattle, John,” she said finally. “Go and meet your bride.”

Athol stared at her with scarcely concealed disbelief. “I’ve always respected you as the woman who brought me into this world. But you know that as earl of these lands, I take no direction from anyone—especially not from⁠—”

“Not from your mother? From a woman?” The dowager let out a labored breath. “Well, it’s pleasant to know that you at least have enough respect for me on my deathbed to grant me leave to remain your mother.”

“I have to go, m’lady.”

She raised a trembling hand in the air. “Wait, John. This may be the last...the last we meet. You are my only son.”

The set of his firm jaw bespoke his will. She knew that no matter what affection he held for her, his people’s needs would always drive his actions. “Please wait. Hear me. I know what lies behind the actions of this Adam of the Glen.”

Athol’s eyes narrowed, and the old woman knew she had bought another moment. He stepped toward the bed.

“How do you know anything about him? And how do you even know his name?”

“Even if my servants failed to keep me informed, I would know.” She turned her pained gaze from Athol’s face and stared at the dark ceiling above the window. “I know for a fact what he wants, for I’ve known him since he was a bairn.”

Athol loomed over her in an instant. “No matter how hard I’ve tried, we’ve failed in every attempt to find the hiding place of the bastard. I’ve questioned every man and woman from here to Elgin. Not one of them has known a thing about this son of Satan. Not where he came from or why he suddenly has decided make a hell of the lives of my people. And now my own mother tells me that she’s known this man all along.” He took her hand firmly in his. “Very well, Mother. What is it that you know?”

Lady Anne Stewart’s other hand reached over and gripped her son’s arm. “Listen to me, John, and do what I say. On the grave of your father, I tell you he would be giving you the same advice if he were still alive, in spite of the wreckage that Adam has caused.”

“Speak, Mother.”

The dowager knew her son was a man feared by many, particularly when his people’s welfare was at stake. Now, feeling his gray eyes boring into hers, feeling the bridled power of the fingers wrapped around hers, she knew why.

“No matter where you look for the man, he is certain to escape you. He knows these lands as well as you, John. And he knows your own people better than you would ever imagine.”

“Aye, he knows what to steal from them.”

“All the same. I’m telling you the truth.” Her grip tightened on his wrist. “And no matter what you do, he’ll continue with this destruction. Adam of the Glen will become bolder with every passing day. It’s no wonder that you feel him lurking around you. He won’t give up, not until...”

A violent fit of coughing again left her gasping for breath for a few moments. Athol wrapped an arm around her shoulder and raised her higher in the bed. She shook her head at his offer of a cup.

“Nay. There...there will be no rest, no peace until you’re wed. Not until the news of a bairn to succeed you spreads through your lands.”

Athol stared down at her. “I don’t understand this.”

“Adam believes he has the right to live off your wealth.” Her fingers trembled as they tightened on his arm. “The bastard son of a whore he might be, John Stewart, but what you don’t know is that Adam of the Glen is your brother.”

2

Catherine Percy listened to the tinkling laughter of the woman riding behind her.

Ellen Crawford was young, clever, and certainly beautiful. And she was apparently to be the wife of John Stewart, earl of Athol. By chance, the two traveling parties had met just north of Stirling Castle, and Catherine had been delighted to be able to travel into the wilds of the Highlands in the company of another woman—especially one who had traveled this route before.

Glancing back in the direction of her traveling companion, Catherine wondered to what extent she could seek the assistance of the future countess of Athol. Or for that matter, how much she could reveal to her.

Certainly, Catherine thought, she was no longer in any immediate danger of being captured by the treacherous Deputy Lieutenant. And her sisters, too, were well on their way to safety. Any day now, Laura should be arriving at the Church of St. Duthac, on the eastern sea, and Adrianne, the youngest, was probably already settled in on an island called Bharra in the Western Isles.

But still, in order to start the school that Catherine had dreamed of for so long, she would need the assistance of people like the earl of Athol and this future bride of his. Indeed, she knew she would need their strong and open support before any of the locals would trust a half-English spinster enough to share in what she had to offer.

Looking about her, Catherine glanced at the unfamiliar faces of the travelers. Strangers, every one. Even after months of hiding, she still could not get accustomed to this constant dependence on others. She wondered if she could ever come to accept that she no longer had a home to call her own—no longer had a homeland to think about with pride.

Catherine sighed. She and her sisters were exiles. Since their father’s death, they—like their mother—had been pursued and hunted across the windswept moors of Yorkshire, northward into the hills and river valleys of Northumberland, and finally into Scotland. And all because of the family’s refusal to take King Henry’s Oath of Supremacy. To accept the king as the head of the church.

Of course, she admitted silently, there was a lot more to it than that.

But so be it, Catherine thought stubbornly. Fate had taken them to this new land. To these rugged Highlands that their mother had long ago called home.

Shaking herself from her reverie, Catherine reminded herself that the time for grieving was long behind her. She had to look ahead and think of what must be done. Heaven had placed Ellen Crawford in her company, and it would be foolish to waste the opportunity of talking to her about the school and recruiting the future countess in her cause.

Determined on her course of action, she turned in her saddle and scanned the faces of the travelers who followed them on this long journey. She pulled her cloak around her as a breeze sprang up from the west. The sun had been fairly warm most of the day, but now had disappeared behind a bank of dark clouds moving in from the west.

Not seeing Ellen, her brow furrowed. As usual, Catherine decided she must have been woolgathering and had missed Ellen somehow.

The warriors at the head of the long column of travelers were just starting down the craggy, heather-covered ridge they’d been crossing for the past hour. Beneath them, in a valley surrounded by steep rocky hills, Catherine could see a loch—its dark silver waters as smooth as a looking glass—reflecting the jumble of clouds that where quickly converging on the weary travelers.

Catherine searched the passing faces for any signs of the young woman. Having no luck there, she looked instead for David Hume, the leader of her own warriors. From what she remembered, the last time she’d seen Ellen Crawford, the young bride had been in deep discussion with him.

As the last of the packhorses carrying Ellen’s trunks, and last of the travelers trailed by her, three of the kilted warriors who were accompanying Ellen stopped in response to her question about their lady’s whereabouts.

With a sidelong smirk at his two companions, one of the three scratched his bearded chin before answering. “Sometimes Mistress Ellen simply needs to stretch her legs, mistress. If ye get my meaning.”

“Of course. You mean she’s walking her horse,” Catherine replied. “And since I cannot find David Hume, my man must have stayed behind with her.”

“Aye, m’lady.” She watched him throw another knowing look at his fellows. “Though I should think Mistress Ellen’s surely riding by now.”

Frowning at the snickers coming from the two warriors, Catherine nodded curtly and pulled her mare’s head around, coaxing her along the path after the other travelers.

“What odd manners these Highlanders have,” she whispered into the mare’s ear, a bit disconcerted at the conclusions the men had drawn over what was certainly an innocent stop.

They were nearly halfway down the steep, winding path before Catherine saw that Ellen Crawford and David Hume had once again joined the line of travelers. Looking up the hill at the young woman, she could see that Ellen’s cheeks were flushed and her clothes somewhat disheveled.

“It is no business of yours judging the affairs of others,” she murmured, turning her gaze back to the trail. She herself had consciously chosen her studies over such behavior in her younger years, but how Ellen Crawford chose to live her life had nothing to do with her. Odd though, she thought, for a woman about to be married.

By the time the path widened enough to travel more than single file, the travelers had entered a thickly forested glen at the base of the ridge. Then the sky opened, and the rain, coming in on a gust of wind, prevented Catherine from discussing anything with Ellen Crawford. The rain was still falling hard when, an hour later, she spotted with weary relief the cone-topped towers of the hunting lodge at Corgarff. This, she knew, was one of the earl of Athol’s hunting lodges. Less than a day’s ride remained to Balvenie Castle.

As they rode under the pointed arch and into the small courtyard of the tower house, the servants of the lodge bustled about the arriving throng, leading them into a well-lit Great Hall, and laying before them a sumptuous dinner. Catherine, weary from the weeks of travel, did her best to play the role of agreeable foil to Ellen Crawford’s youthful gaiety, but halfway through the dinner, she excused herself.

Up the winding stone steps, she was led to the Ladies’ Chamber, a small and quaint combination of bedchamber and sitting room, and she eyed with longing the comfortable looking bed.

She hung her heavy cloak on a hook by the little fire. Placing her leather satchel on a three-legged chair, she noted with curiosity the three doors to the chamber. Aside from the door she’d entered from the main corridor—where she’d seen the traveling gear of a number of their traveling escort—there was a door at each end of the room. Opening one, she peered into the Master’s bedchamber. She knew that Ellen would be sleeping there tonight, and she stared for a moment at the huge damask-curtained bed that nearly filled one side of the lavishly furnished chamber.

Backing out and closing the door quietly, Catherine crossed her bedchamber to the other door. Moving through a small anteroom where she could see the wet gear of at least one of the warriors, she opened another door onto a landing and looked down a narrow coil of stairs. Cautiously, she descended halfway down the stone steps before the smell of the food and the noise of revelry assured her that she had little to fear regarding accommodations while under the earl’s roof.

A few moments later, as she lay her head down on the bed, Catherine was only vaguely aware of the rain outside her window and the crackling hiss of the water dripping onto the fire.

And then, in the space of a moment, her dreams overtook her with the suddenness of a Yorkshire mist.

They had already arrested their father, and now they were coming after them. There were soldiers crowding the courtyard. The pound of horses’ hooves, the shouts of men, the chaos of a castle under siege.

Catherine could hear the urgent cries of her mother, pleading with them to make haste into the fields, to hide themselves in a haycock. To remain unseen. To be silent.

She could feel the fear clutching at her throat. She could not cry. She could not allow her sisters to sense her fear. Adrianne’s hands were cold, tugging at her arm. Together, they pushed into the piled hay.

She stretched a hand out toward Laura, but her sister was not there. She’d been right behind her when they’d fled the house. Laura. Where was Laura?

A hand clamped onto her arm, holding her back. Nay, she could not let them take her. Laura.

“Laura!” Catherine sat upright in the bed and looked wildly at the figure retreating a step from the bed.

“It’s I, Catherine. It’s Ellen.”

It took her a long moment before she could pull herself from the shadows of the recurring nightmare. She felt her heart pounding ferociously at the walls of her chest, the sweat beading and dripping along the line of her jaw. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing. I just came up from the Great Hall, and I heard you crying out in your sleep.”

Catherine turned and looked groggily at the open door leading to the Master’s Chamber.

“It was a dream.” A nightmare. A horrible semblance of the long past mixed with her present. She ran a shaky hand over her brow, wiping away the sweat. Nay, Laura was safe. Safe...as was she, herself.

“Aye, but as long as you’re awake, I was...well, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind sleeping in there for tonight.”

Catherine stared blankly through the dim light at the young woman. “You...you want me to sleep with you?”

Ellen giggled and shook her head. “Nay, I was hoping you would change rooms with me. Every time I’ve been here before, I’ve slept in this chamber. So I thought, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d be happier in here, you see.”

She frowned, trying to clear her mind, but before she could even think of an answer, Ellen was pulling the bedclothes back for her. “If you think...”

“You are a darling creature.” Catherine felt the younger woman grasp her by the shoulders and direct her toward the open door. “I’ll come and get you in the morning. You just go and crawl into that bed and go back to sleep.”

Before she knew it, Catherine found herself standing in the middle of the Master’s Chamber with a sound of the door closing behind her. Nearly asleep on her feet, she pushed the thick waves of hair back over her shoulder. As she climbed into the huge curtained bed, she could hear the far-off sound of voices and hushed laughing.

Ellen Crawford was up to some dangerous mischief, and such goings-on were incomprehensible to Catherine. True, she felt a pang of regret for being thought a fool by Ellen, but more important, she felt sorry for the good earl of Athol. Their upcoming marriage already had all the markings of a farce.

Once again, Catherine reminded herself, this was none of her business. Her plans were to tutor the young people of Athol’s demesne, not to become the spiritual adviser to foundering brides.

Weariness soon overtook her, though, and the sound of the rain outside dulled her senses. She was so tired, she later remembered thinking. She needed sleep. Why, the great gates of York itself could fall on her, she decided, yawning. She was not going to wake up again until the sun was coming through that window.

In just a moment or two, slumber wrapped her in its velvet cloak, and outside the rain relented and eventually stopped.

This time, her dream was an old one. Even as she entered the mists of sleep, it occurred to Catherine that she’d not had this dream in years. But there he was, her own knight of a thousand romances, tall and strong, coming to her after the great battle, claiming her for his own.

For he was now her husband. The dragon lay dead in its lair, the treasure of gold and rubies and emeralds returned to the castle’s vault. Order and goodness reigned once again in the realm, and the night now offered its own promise.

But this time the dream was somehow different. Changing. Going into a world of fantasy she’d never experienced before. She felt his body sink into the down mattress beside her, his arm slide across the planes of her belly, his large hand rest for a moment on her hip before drawing her against his warm, firm body.

It was all so real. Catherine’s dreams often carried her to other worlds. Worlds she could see and smell and feel. Worlds that she, upon awakening, would be certain existed somewhere.

But this was like no dream she’d ever had, and she found herself shivering as her knight’s hand moved over the thin linen of her shift to the hem. Her back arched reflexively as his long fingers gently caressed the skin of her belly and traced the curves at the base of her breasts. Her breath caught in her chest and she felt her body rise to his touch when his hand cupped the full roundness of her breast. And as his thumb drew tight circles around the hardening nipple, sparks of fire shot through her.

So new and yet so thrilling, Catherine sighed in her state of bliss. To have a mere touch make her insides quiver so exquisitely.

Something hot throbbed insistently against her thigh, and as her knight’s hand again slid down over her belly, Catherine’s lips opened and her breaths began to shorten. A soft moan escaped her lips. Molten liquid was flowing within her, building in pulsing waves as his fingers slid through her downy mound. She felt him move, felt his body rising. There was a whisper, inaudible, almost a growl, and then her knight’s lips were on her neck, moving, brushing against her earlobe, kissing the line of her jaw, her cheek. Catherine waited.

His kiss was gentle at first. A brush of lips, but so real. So unlike her long recurring dreams of the two of them drifting into each other’s embrace, her body molding to his as the mist would softly steal around them. She could feel the pressure of his mouth. The groan of approval when she parted her lips. And then the knight’s tongue swept deeply into her mouth, shocking her with a reality that left her gasping for breath. Catherine’s eyes flew open.

This was no dream. This was not her knight. As she felt his knee press between her legs, she jerked her mouth away, breaking off the kiss. She tried to push at his chest.

“What the devil?” came the growl through the darkness.

This was no dream, she thought again with a flash of panic as the coarse skin of a man’s chin rubbed hard against her cheek. She beat his naked shoulder with her one free hand. Grabbing at his long hair, she yanked with all her strength, but nothing could move the beast.

His hand came up quickly, catching hold of her wrist, but she reared up instinctively and bit down with all her strength on a powerful forearm.

The man gave an angry roar of pain and leaped back, snatching his hand away. But this was all the time she needed as she screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Hush, you cursed she-devil,” the man shouted, leaning over her again. But Catherine went wild beneath his shifting weight. Kicking him with all her strength in the groin, she twisted to the side, clawing her way to the edge of the bed. But the villain grabbed her by the waist.

“Wait. I’ll not hurt you, though God knows, I...”

The door from the other chamber burst open and, David Hume, holding a torch aloft, charged in, his sword flashing in the light.

Catherine’s eyes darted from the warrior’s naked skin to the gleaming flesh of Ellen Crawford in the open door behind him.

“Up, you villainous blackguard. Prepare to die.”

With a flick of his arm, her attacker tossed Catherine to the side and leaped toward David, snatching his own long sword from the floor beside the huge bed.

“Nay, you son of a whore. You’re the dog who is about to choke in his own blood.”

Ellen’s shocked gasp stopped the two men in their tracks.

“John,” she whispered, her panic evident in the single word. Raising her thin chemise over her breasts in a belated attempt to cover herself, the young woman started backing out the door.

Catherine’s head snapped around as she saw her assailant move menacingly toward David Hume. Suddenly, there was no question in her mind whose blood would be shed on this floor. The red-haired giant Ellen had called John stood head and shoulders above David and from the powerful breadth of his shoulders, Catherine was certain that he could cut her would-be rescuer in half. And from the stunned look on his face, she doubted David would even think to lift his sword in defense.

“You—you’re John Stewart,” her warrior stammered.

“Aye, you filthy dog. John Stewart, earl of Athol. And that wench you were keeping company with in the next chamber is none other than my intended.”

It was sheer madness. There was no other explanation. But Catherine, in the next instant, found herself standing before the flaming-haired nobleman, blocking his approach.

“Stop,” she pleaded. “There has to be a better way to settle this than by drawing blood.”

Athol hesitated, and as he stared down at her, the man’s gray eyes flashed murderously. She stood her ground.

“You see, m’lord, I’m Catherine Percy. David Hume here was entrusted with my safety, and I’m quite certain he must have had no prior knowledge that Ellen...”

The words dried up in her throat. She stared as the blade of his long sword gleamed in the torchlight.

“Out of my way, woman.”

Catherine’s knees were ready to buckle, and her head suddenly felt light, but she raised her chin in defiance. “I cannot.”

Athol advanced a step, looking past her at the man standing by the door. Taking a deep breath, she raised a pleading hand and gazed with as much courage as she could muster into a face ablaze with fury.

“He was given the task of protecting my life until we reached our destination. And he’s done an excellent job...er, up to now. But now that the task is finished.” She paused, hoping that David would pick up her hint. “And now that his task is finished, I believe it’s my duty to see him safely away.”

There was no movement behind her. How could men be so thick-headed? she stormed inwardly. Away! Run! Flee!

“We are here at the end of our journey,” she pressed. “With the earl of Athol.”

“Out of my way, woman.”

“At the end of our journey.”

That did it. David must have turned to flee with the speed of a falcon, dropping the torch by the doorway in his escape. Responding quickly, the earl reached out and tried to move around her. But Catherine was quicker, throwing herself against his chest.

It was like hitting a wall of moving rock at a gallop. Her breath was knocked from her lungs. She fell with the grace of a meal sack to the floor as Athol picked up the torch and strode from the chamber.

For a long while Catherine sat still in the dark, listening to the shouts and curses and then to the sounds of horses. She didn’t know if it was the impact of hitting the man so hard or the cumulative effect of the entire episode that had left her unable to move. The lodge was in an uproar now, and she could hear the sound of people rushing about—while the steely voice of Athol could be heard above all of them, shouting commands and cursing violently.

What in heaven’s name had she gotten herself into? she thought groggily, trying to push herself to her knees. Thank the Lord she’d never developed a fondness for any man in particular—other than her dream-knight—nor for marriage in general. And in truth, what she’d witnessed tonight was a clear reaffirmation of that view.

She was definitely not suited for matrimony. She could never make anyone a fit wife. She would never know how to deal with this open display of temper and this threat of violence. Nay. And what of this business of a man coming to his future wife’s bed uninvited, then not even recognizing her as someone else. She brought her hands up to her flushed cheeks and again shook her head, pushing from her mind how wantonly she’d responded to him at first, when she’d thought it was just a dream.

She was still on her knees when the door to the Ladies’ Chamber swung open. Closing her eyes, she felt him brush past her without pausing.

Pushing herself shakily to her feet, she stole a glance in the direction of the man who now stood by the bed. His back to her, he was muttering under his breath as he wrapped a kilt around him by the light of a wick lamp he’d evidently carried in with him.

The earl of Athol, she thought with a pang of regret, was quite different from what she’d hoped he would be.

The man was supposed to be an advocate of learning. She’d expected him to be a serene, subdued looking man. But his actions, his behavior, in bed and out bespoke someone entirely different. Catherine felt her heart start to race anew. Trying to force the memory of his mistaking her for Ellen Crawford from her mind, she stared at her host. He was certainly not at all what she’d expected.

Ellen had told Catherine that the earl was past seven and thirty years of age. So even in her wildest of dreams, she hadn’t been prepared for the handsome face and the solid wall of muscle that was just now trying to pull on long, muddy boots. With flowing, partially braided red hair tumbling over a pair of broad shoulders, he looked more like an outlaw than he did the cousin of a king.

Catherine couldn’t help but guess what silly maneuvers she might have come up with as a young maiden to get the attention of a man like him. Not that with her unassuming appearance she’d ever have had even a chance of catching his eye. But all the same, she reminded herself, it was a blessing to know that her life had taken a different route. A far more sensible one.

She shook her head and started quietly for the door. As long as she kept her distance, perhaps they could avoid meeting again for a while. In truth, right now, the incident that had occurred in that bed embarrassed her dreadfully, and she had no doubt he must—if he had a shred of respectability in him—be feeling as terrible as she.

Reaching the doorway, she started to breathe again. She had to put what happened behind her and, perhaps, they could pretend it had never taken place. He would not mention it, Catherine was quite certain, and she could quietly go about the task of opening her school.

“Mistress Catherine.”

His hard voice raised the gooseflesh on the back of her neck. She turned slowly and faced him.

“I’ve sent for the damned priest. We’ll be wed when the cursed old fool arrives.”

3

“Wed?” The man was obviously out of his mind. “To me?”

The Highlander turned his intense gray eyes on her. “Do you see someone else in this chamber whom I might be addressing?”

She looked about innocently. “Nay. But I’m no judge of the soundness of your mind.”

“Rest assured, mistress, I was speaking to you and not some apparition.”

“You don’t know me.” This was beyond bizarre. It was almost comical. “How could you marry someone whom you have only just met?”

“Are you not Catherine Percy?”

“I am, but⁠—”

“And have you not been sent up here to be my ward?”

“Hardly, m’lord,” she responded. “I’m five-and-twenty. Hardly of an age to be anyone’s ward. Especially to one as unreasonable and brutish as yourself.”

He stared at her, first in frigid silence, and then through slitted eyes as temper flashed across his face. “You certainly talk like some old crone. If I didn’t have first-hand knowledge—of a rather intimate nature—I would almost be convinced from listening to you that you’re some ancient creature. But I know, Catherine Percy, exactly what you are.”

His words stung her, but she couldn’t stop the deep blush that crept into her face when his hard eyes began to study her from the tip of her head to her bare toes. Suddenly horrified that she was dressed in nothing more than a thin shift, she crossed her arms over her chest to hide whatever she could.

He raised one eyebrow at her actions. “A bit late for coyness, don’t you think, considering all that you have willingly allowed me?”

“There was nothing ‘willing’ in my response to your ignoble behavior, and you know it. You were trying to force yourself upon me—like some heavy-handed brute.”

“Did I, now?” His eyes flashed a challenge. “And is this the way you fight for your honor? By moaning at the most intimate of touches? By lifting yourself to a lover’s caress? Pardon me, an assailant’s advances? By shivering at the touch of his lips against your skin?”

By the Virgin, she had done that, hadn’t she? She brought her cold, trembling hands to her cheeks to cool the blazing skin. All she could do now was to whisper the truth. “I...I thought it all a dream.”

She could have sworn a glint of humor softened the hardness of his glare. But it was only for an instant. “For a spinster, you certainly have interesting dreams. But tell me this, do you find fulfillment in them, as well? Or are you simply another frustrated⁠—”

“Don’t,” she snapped at him, though more severely than she’d intended. But he was mocking her. In his roguish way, he was trying to make her feel small, insignificant, a bit licentious, even. Looking up and meeting his challenging glare, Catherine suddenly felt the urge to strike back, to wash that arrogant hint of amusement off his face. “You’re taking great pleasure in insulting me, I see. But I know what lies behind your boorish behavior.”

“Do you?”

“Aye. Though your male pride spurns the truth, I believe you know who is responsible for everything that took place here tonight.”

“I have no time for this foolishness.”

“The truth is that you are the cause of all this—though your arrogance denies it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

His eyes had once again turned murderous, but Catherine was too riled to back down.

“You’re a man on the threshold of marriage—a man who obviously has had previous knowledge of his intended’s body. How is it possible that you didn’t know that the woman in your bed was not Ellen Crawford?”

“It was dark. A mistake I intend to set right,” he growled. “But what has that to do with the wench crawling into the bed of another.”

“The connection is simple to see, m’lord,” she interrupted. “To you, a woman clearly has no more value than a mattress or a prize cow.”

“No more than a m...?” Athol stared at her in disbelief, his words trailing off.

“Aye. And one woman is as good as another, for all you care. So long as there’s a willing body to bear your weight, what does it matter who it is?”

“You’re daft, woman.”

“Am I? Look at Ellen. It seems to me she was quite aware of the man she was about to marry—a man indifferent to her.”

“Indifferent? Does madness run rampant in your family, mistress?”

“If it matters not a whit to you whom you lie with, then what should hold her?”

“Even if what you say were true—and I tell you it’s not,” Athol faltered. “Well, I’m a man, for one thing.”

“Aye?”

Even in the dim light of the room, she could tell his face had turned pale. His brow appeared to be permanently creased with a frown, and his eyes locked on her.

“Did Ellen tell you this?”

“Nay, m’lord,” she said quickly, suddenly touched by the pain in his gray eyes. How Ellen could possibly have preferred someone else’s bed over this man’s was certainly a mystery. “I concluded all of this from my own observation. Though courtship and marriage is not a subject I’m well versed in, if you will recall from my mother’s correspondence, my learning⁠—”

“Here in Scotland, we say a wee bit of learning is a dangerous thing.”

“I know that you don’t believe that. Nonetheless, if you will allow me to continue. With regard to your faults when it comes to your relationship with Ellen.”

Catherine paused as he took a step toward her. He looked about ready to throttle her. As she watched him, his face gradually turned as deep a shade of red as his hair, and his voice was no more than a menacing growl.

“I shall be your husband, Mistress Percy, and I command you never to speak again of this night nor of Ellen either, for that matter. Is that understood?”

“I didn’t come to the Highlands for the purpose of marriage—to you or anyone else, m’lord. I should have thought my mother made that perfectly clear in her correspondence. I’m here to open a school. To share my learning.”

She paused, distracted momentarily as he casually picked up his shirt and held it out in front of him. The shirt was still wet from his ride, and she was suddenly very aware of the sinewy musculature of the man’s rugged upper body, the effortless power in the way he moved, in his very stance. Realizing that she was staring like some moonstruck maiden, she forced herself to take a breath, and then continued.

“M’lord, did you not correspond with my mother? Did she not explain the reason for my journey here?”

“She did. As I understand it, the only reason why you were sent up into the Highlands was to keep you from falling into the hands of the English king and his men.”

“True.” She watched with a pang of disappointment as he tugged the wet shirt over his head.

“Well, your mother’s bargain gave me complete control over you and your life.”

“What do you mean, ‘bargain’?”

He started pulling the tartan over one shoulder. “I am to protect you. I am to provide you with food and shelter. You’re to teach my people some of your learning. But hearing you babble on tonight, I can’t say I’m too thrilled by the prospect. Ah, and you’re to obey my wishes.”

For the first time, she saw a dim ray of hope in his words. “You see? I’m here to open a school.”

“That was before. You’re now here to wed me.”

The earl of Athol might be the most stunningly handsome man she’d ever seen, but that did nothing to alter her opinion that his skull must be as thick as the walls of York. Still busy dressing himself, he seemed to have lost interest in her totally. But she wasn’t about to be ignored.

“But why me? Up to a few moments ago, you were betrothed to another. You’re still bound to her legally. I’m certain if you and Ellen were to sit down⁠—”

“That betrothal contract is finished. Besides, at the pace my former intended and her men rode out of here—with that bare-assed cur hot on her tail—I’d wager she’s nearly halfway to Stirling by now. And knowing my temper and the compromising position she found herself in, that slut is undoubtedly thinking she’s lucky still to have her head attached.”

“Still, m’lord, I’m certain that with time will come healing and reconciliation.”

“This discussion is finished.” He picked up his sword and slammed it into its scabbard.

“Nay, m’lord,” she protested, suddenly panicking as he headed toward the door. She rushed to block his exit. “I cannot become your wife.”

“You will.”

“But why me?”

“For two reasons. First, your honor and chastity have been compromised tonight. The whole household knows it was your bed that I climbed into, accident or no.”

She had a chance, she thought. Perhaps she’d been too hard on him. She softened her tone and met his gaze.

“That’s quite noble of you, m’lord, to consider my character and the possibility of vicious rumor. But what you don’t know is that I care nothing about what others might think. I’m far beyond a marriageable age, and I cannot be wounded by false innuendo.”

“You’re wrong in what you say. But I have no time to try to convince a woman as foolish as you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he quickly raised a hand and silenced her.

“And secondly. You’ll marry me because it was your doing that I’m left without a bride this night.”

“My doing?”

“Aye. Was that blackguard son of a whore not one of your men? Was it not your bedchamber that Ellen was occupying when he went to her?”

She was breathing fire as she shot back her response. “Are you implying that David Hume was coming to my bed?”

“Nay. That would have been no concern of mine. It’s just this. I lost the Crawford lass and you will take her place.”

“I won’t,” she snapped. He’d been deaf to everything she’d said before. “Here you go again. I’m not some stray mare wandering on the road for anyone’s taking.”

“Nay, you’ve wandered onto my land, so you’re mine.” He placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. “But I know you’re no mare. You’re a woman. And a virgin to boot. I can attest to that myself.”

She clenched her fist. “My virginity is no business for you to speak of. I still⁠—”

“I have no time for any more of this foolishness.” Athol’s gaze hardened into one of disdain. “I’ll be having a wife now. I’ll have an heir to my holdings. You’re here, you’re of noble blood—in spite of it being half-English—and you’re a virgin. That, at least, gives me the guarantee of knowing that I’ll not be passing my wealth on to somebody else’s bastard.”

“You cannot force me to marry you. And I swear to you that you’ll not be getting any heirs from me.”

She could almost see the challenge in the glint of his gray eyes.

“You will marry me. And you will obey me. And you will be faithful to me, if I need to lock you in the dungeons of Balvenie Castle to be certain of it.” An arrogant smile played over the edges of his mouth. “But as far as begetting a bairn, you’ll take me into your bed.”

She held her breath as his hand clamped on her chin and forced her gaze upward. It was so easy to close her mind to reason and fall prey to the man’s stunning good looks. But Catherine knew that could only happen if he were to shut his mouth and never utter another arrogant word. An unlikely occurrence.

“But don’t be fooled by dreamy notions of love. I’ll have none of that. A woman like you would normally be my least likely choice for a wife. But you’re here, and you will have to do.”

She clenched her jaws shut to stifle the fury that threatened to spew out of her. John Stewart was mad. Clearly, her only chance lay in escape.

“It won’t be long before the priest arrives. I’ll have my men bring up your trunks. Dress properly for the wedding.”

For the first time, the helplessness of her situation struck her. “I...I only have a small travel chest. I’m certain I have nothing appropriate.”

She watched his gaze dip down and fix on her breasts as her heart hammered in response. “Then I shall ask the priest to join us in this chamber. It certainly will make for a quick consummation.”

“I didn’t mean my shift. What I was trying to say is that I have no dress fine enough.”

Catherine stopped, no longer able to continue as he stared silently down at her for another long moment. Finally, without another word, he stepped around her and left the room.

She waited until she heard the heavy door shut, listening for a moment more, and then she sprang into action. She had very little time and certainly no options—other than to escape this wild man and somehow find her way to the place where Laura had been sent to the north. Or was it the northeast? It was along the coast somewhere, of that she was certain. She knew this was not the time to worry about her route. Once she was away from here and free of Athol, then she could search out a way.

Forced marriage to a man like him would be her destruction. In the short moments, they’d been in each other’s company, he’d affected her senses. He’d made her mind a jumble, her body soft and willing. This certainly would not do. She couldn’t throw away a lifetime of learning for one night’s pleasure. And this would be the extent of it, Catherine thought, remembering his words. He only wanted a willing body and an heir. One night. That would be all.

Well! He would have to find someone else. Shaking her head, she ran into the Ladies Chamber. In fact, her only chance of escape lay in leaving in the guise of someone else.

Opening the door that led into the small anteroom, Catherine looked for the traveling bags she’d seen before. Spying them in the corner, she quietly carried one of the heavy leather bags back into her chamber.

Rummaging through the contents as quickly as she could, Catherine guessed that the bag belonged to David Hume. She pulled out a linen shirt, yanking it over her head. It was a good thing he was a small man, she thought. The heavens were clearly smiling on her, Catherine decided, when she spotted the warrior’s discarded tartan and kilt beside the bed.

She knew exactly what she had to do. Dumping out the rest of David’s things, she hastily stuffed what she could of her own belongings into the bag. Though clumsy in her attempt to fasten the kilt around her slender hips, with the use of a cord, she managed to dress herself in the Highland gear in just a few moments. Realizing that his boots would never stay on her feet, she quickly donned her own and then pulled David’s knee length boots over them. The combination was unbelievably heavy, but it would have to do. Making a quick knot of her hair, she shoved the black mass into David’s cap.

Then, taking a deep breath, Catherine hoisted the bag onto her shoulder and slipped out through the anteroom onto the landing beyond.

Peering through the darkness, she moved silently down the narrow set of stairs. A few steps down, though, she tripped in the oversized leather boots. Cursing silently as she caught herself, she pulled them up as well as she could, and continued on. Reaching an arched doorway at the bottom, she saw a door that she thought must lead outside. As she mustered her courage to run for it, though, she leaped back, flattening herself in the shadows. A portly servant, carrying a basket heaped with steaming bread, shouldered his way in through the door.

Catherine shot a glance through the door. In the gray light of dawn, she could see the courtyard, and a part of the outbuilding where the kitchens must be located.

And she could see a sprightly gelding standing with a little donkey beside a stone watering trough. They were both saddled, and—more important—they were unattended. The heavens were indeed smiling on her.

Putting her head down, Catherine moved swiftly through the open door and across the rain-softened ground of the courtyard. Looking neither right nor left, she strode quickly to the gelding and tossed the reins over its head. All she needed to do was to climb up onto this horse, and make the dash across the courtyard and through the arched passageway to freedom.

Taking one quick look around as she threw the leather bag across the steed’s neck, she could see that the only people between her and that open arch were a half dozen men and boys working on horses by the stables. She could make it, she thought joyfully. By the saints, she would make it!

Stepping onto a stone mounting block, Catherine had both hands on the saddle when she found herself being pulled backwards by two meaty pairs of hands.

“I don’t think we’ll be going, just yet,” one growled.

“Get the bag,” a voice commanded.

Trying to keep her feet under her as they hauled her across the courtyard, Catherine struggled against their hold, but she didn’t dare make a sound. From their rough handling, she had a sudden thought that perhaps they hadn’t discovered her identity. Perhaps they were simply taking her off to a dungeon. After all, she’d been caught trying to steal a horse. Her hopes continued to rise as she was dragged into the lodge through a door she hadn’t seen before.

Her eyes were slow to adjust to the dark, but to calm her fears, she kept reminding herself that she was shrewd, she was fierce, she had a purpose. She would find a way to escape any prison John Stewart might build. At least, she was not being forced to marry the man against her will.

“Just as I expected.”

Catherine’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice, and she found Athol’s fierce eyes staring down at her. It took all her strength to keep her knees from buckling beneath her weight as she felt the steely hands release her.

“Begin, priest.”

4

What the hell had he done?