LOVE AND MAYHEM E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 414

Beschreibung

The great hall in Fleet Tower is quite the lively place. The McCalls are preparing for a wedding, and if that means unexpected arrivals, murder, mayhem, and chaos, all the better in this "laugh-out-loud comedy." Try getting married when your betrothed can wield an iron pot with deadly accuracy, her mad uncle thinks he's William Wallace, and her two maiden aunts can't finish a sentence—or a thought—on their own… Such are Sir Iain Armstrong's troubles when he sets out to wed Lady Marion, a convent-raised spitfire. All Iain wants to do is fulfill their fathers' wishes, appease two royal courts, and do what is best for the future of Scotland by putting an end to all the troubles in his part of the Borders. All she has to do is agree to marry him, which is the last thing on her mind when Iain arrives at the convent. She won't be taken without a fight. And even when Lady Marion realizes that Iain is a man of courage, intelligence, and seductively powerful shoulders, will her eccentric family do what her temper tantrums, willful ways, and pride have so far failed to do—and drive him away forever?

Leseprobe

LOVE AND MAYHEM

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

BOOK DUO CREATIVE

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

Love and Mayhem. Copyright © 2010 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

Originally Published as Love and Mayhem by Nicole Cody. Penguin Books, USA, Inc. April 2006.

Also Published as Arsenic and Old Armor by May McGoldrick. MM Books.

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.

Cover Art by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

Dedicated to the memory of

May Cody McGoldrick

With thanks for giving us your name…

and your spirit

1

Borders of Scotland, September 1513

The English were coming.

It was up to them now. The survivors. The battle at Flodden Field was lost. So many men had died. The king and most of his nobles were gone. Now it was left to the few remaining warriors to take the painful news to the families. It was left to them to warn everyone that the English were coming. Each family and clan would need to fend for itself.

Limping through the Border hills toward Blackthorn Hall, the surviving remnant of the Armstrong men had spread the news along the way. Now they were almost home. Sir Iain Armstrong reined his horse to a stop at the split of the road. The two-dozen wounded and weary warriors behind him halted, as well.

The road to the right led to Blackthorn, Iain’s own keep. He was bearing tragic news for his own family…for his own mother. The laird was dead. But there was no time for Iain to grieve his father’s death. The villagers needed to be moved into the castle and every one of them armed. The gates needed to be barred. They would not surrender their ancestral hall to the enemy without a fight. He would not allow his people to be hurt and his land pillaged by the English.

Iain glanced at the road to the left. It led to Fleet Tower and to Marion, his betrothed. John McCall, the Earl of Fleet, had been another casualty of the devastation at Flodden, and Iain was now the protector of all that lay on this side of the hills, as well. He motioned for Alan, his trusted and seasoned warrior, to approach. On their journey north, they had begun to speak about what needed to be done. Pointing at the road home, Iain gave his man his final orders.

“Bring my mother the news. Begin the preparations. And as soon as you arrive at Blackthorn, send half a dozen men with fresh horses to Fleet Tower.”

“The English cannon wiped out the McCalls, m’lord. They’ll have no men of their own returning.”

“I know that.”

“We cannot defend both places against the enemy,” Alan warned.

“I don’t intend to try,” Iain assured him. “Everyone at Fleet Tower will be taken back to Blackthorn Hall…for their own safety. Everyone, that is, but Lady Marion. She’ll be sent north, to an abbey on the Isle of Skye.”

“You know her temperament, m’lord. Marion will refuse as sure as we’re standing here. She’ll demand to stay with her uncle and those two aunts of hers.”

“She’ll go north,” Iain said firmly. “Her father is dead, and keeping her safe has been left to me. Marion has no choice but to obey me.”

* * *

Brother Luke eyed the array of dishes on the table with amazement and appreciation.

He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. The two women always prepared the most sumptuous meals imaginable for his visits. Still, Lady Judith and Lady Margaret, whom he’d known since his childhood across the valley at Blackthorn Hall, had outdone themselves this day…and it was not yet noon. Trays of mutton and capons. A plump, delectable fish nestled in greens. Bowls of fruits and sauces. Pitchers of cider and ale. He blessed himself and prayed that the Lord—and his brethren and his sisters over at Cracketford Abbey—would forgive his indulging himself. After all, he thought, he couldn’t be discourteous to his hostesses.

The two middle-aged spinsters looked at him expectantly and he smiled broadly at them. Judith and Margaret beamed, and on the wall behind them, on the fine French tapestry he’d always admired, the lady who sat among the flowers with her delicate hand on the neck of the unicorn smiled back at him, as well.

“Doesn’t Lady Marion care to join us this morning?” he asked as he drew a trencher filled with steaming mutton and broth toward him.

“I think not,” Margaret answered.

“No, indeed,” Judith repeated.

“When I saw her last,” the first woman continued, “she was up on the parapet, keeping watch for her father’s return.”

“We should be hearing from them soon,” Brother Luke commented, smiling at Judith as she filled his cup with ale.

“We should be hearing soon,” Judith responded as she sat down again.

“Very soon, indeed, I should think.” Margaret shifted in her seat, shooting an uncomfortable look at her sister. “Our dear brother William will not be joining us this morning, either.”

Brother Luke tried not to look too pleased with the news. Certain oddities in the Earl of Fleet’s younger brother had always made Luke feel a wee bit awkward. Sir William McCall had somehow come to believe he was the Wallace himself. Very odd. Lucky for William, his generous and kindhearted family thought nothing of it.

“Perfectly understandable. Monday morning cannot be the most convenient time to receive company.”

“But it is,” Judith replied.

“It is, indeed,” Margaret added. She cast a hesitant glance in the direction of the steps and lowered her voice. “There has been a slight problem in William’s routine this morning.”

“A slight problem,” Judith whispered.

Luke cast a wistful look at the scrumptious food before him. It would be unmannerly to start while the two women were speaking. “Pray, continue.”

“Today is Monday,” the older sister explained.

“Indeed, Monday,” Judith agreed, looking at the clergyman as if that explained everything.

“What of it?” Brother Luke asked.

“Why, Monday is a solemn day,” Margaret whispered.

Her sister nodded. “Very solemn.”

“And why solemn?” The mutton was making his mouth begin to water. There were dainty white mushrooms peeking at him from the broth, and tiny onions floated along the edges. And the smell was absolutely heavenly.

Margaret looked around at the arched doorway leading to the stairwell and Judith followed her gaze.

“Because of the English,” the older sister said.

“The English,” Judith repeated, nodding.

Brother Luke forced an air of confidence into his tone. “Nothing to fear, my ladies. Our good King Jamie and his brave armies went south to solve that once and for⁠—”

“William is preparing,” Margaret interrupted.

“Indeed, preparing,” Judith agreed.

“Preparing?” Luke asked, perplexed.

“As of late, he always paints his face on Mondays.”

“Always on Mondays.”

Brother Luke’s recent visits must not have fallen on Mondays, as he didn’t recall this ritual. “Do you mean⁠—”

“Indeed we do.”

“We do,” Judith echoed.

Margaret leaned closer. “William has gotten it into his head that the Wallace always painted his face on Mondays.”

“Sir William Wallace,” Judith added.

“So our William always paints his face on Mondays.”

“Paints his face.” Judith gestured as if she were painting her wrinkled visage, just to make certain he understood what her sister had meant.

Actually, Brother Luke found himself at a loss for words. Though he couldn’t understand it, these two lovely ladies were perfectly comfortable with William’s peculiarities. He looked into both of their sweet faces. They simply accepted their aging brother as he was, with all of his…well, eccentricities. Luke nodded weakly.

“But this morning,” the older sister continued, “as the poor dear went to mix his pigments, as he always does before he readies himself for battle.”

“For battle.”

“It appears he found that one of the new chamber lads had moved his pigments from his window ledge.”

“From the ledge.” Judith motioned to an invisible window ledge beside the table.

“And that was enough to throw poor William completely off balance.” Margaret leaned back in the chair and shook her head solemnly. “Our brother has been in a dither all morning.”

“Indeed, a dither.”

“What do you mean?” Luke asked, suddenly concerned.

“He’s been under his pallet all morning, and we cannot get him to come out.”

The sisters looked at each other apprehensively. Luke stared at them, wondering what he should do. These two women were the kindliest and most generous souls of all the people whom he knew and visited. It pained him to see them in such distress over the absurd antics of a half-wit brother.

“The last time this happened,” Margaret continued, “it was three days before we saw him.”

“Three days,” the younger sister agreed with a sigh.

Before the monk could answer, shouts could be heard from the courtyard. The sound of horses arriving. The two sisters immediately jumped to their feet and rushed to one of the windows facing out on the yard. Two of the windows had cushioned window seats, and the sisters knelt on one as they peered from the window. While they did, Brother Luke threw a longing glance at the food before him and reluctantly pushed away from the table.

“Oh my, Brother Luke,” Margaret tittered excitedly. “It’s your nephew…Iain Armstrong.”

“Your nephew,” Judith echoed.

Margaret pushed open the wooden shutters all the way and called out an enthusiastic greeting. Judith’s short, round body covered the distance to the stairwell with surprising speed and she called up the stairs to her niece, announcing Iain’s arrival.

In spite of their excitement, an uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of Brother Luke’s stomach when he saw that Iain was accompanied by only one other rider. His nephew had left Blackthorn Hall in the company of his father and the Earl of Fleet and at least a hundred armed warriors. His appetite suddenly gone, Luke went to greet the young man as he came into the great hall.

Iain Armstrong’s blue eyes registered relief at the sight of his uncle, and he embraced the monk warmly. It was clear from the mail shirt he still wore that the young man had come directly from the battle. Indeed, Iain’s clothes and boots were covered with mud, mixing with dark stains that were surely the blood of men. The young man’s face was pale, and a deep gash cutting across his forehead disappeared into the brow above his left eye. Tall and powerful with the rawboned strength of a man still a year or two away from his prime, Iain stood back and looked at the two middle-aged women.

“How delightful!” Margaret clapped in joy, causing Iain to glance with surprise at his uncle. “You’ve arrived just in time to join us for this meal.”

“Indeed,” Judith whispered with glee. “Just in time!”

“I fear I cannot,” the young man replied quickly. “We haven’t much time, ladies. We need to move all of you to Blackthorn Hall.”

The two sisters looked at each other in confusion. Brother Luke asked what he knew had to be the inevitable. “What happened?”

“We lost, Uncle,” Iain said thickly.

“Will my brother John be coming back today, as well?” Margaret asked in her high-pitched voice.

Iain cleared his throat before answering. “No, m’lady. He isn’t coming back today. I have much to explain, but time is running short. We must move you all first. I’ll explain all when we are safe at Blackthorn.”

“But the dinner is ready.” Margaret motioned toward the feast spread on the table.

“Indeed.” Judith nodded enthusiastically. “It’s all ready.”

Iain looked desperately at his uncle.

“Tell them all of it,” Brother Luke advised. “Briefly, if you must, but tell them.”

The young man’s weary face turned to the older sister. “We lost, Lady Margaret. We were slaughtered in the battle. The king is dead. So is my father, and so is your brother, the good Earl of Fleet. But we have no time to mourn now, my ladies…for the English are surely coming.”

At the sound of the gasp, all eyes were drawn to the arched doorway leading to the kitchens and a circular stairwell. The hem of Marion’s dress could be seen disappearing up the stairs.

Judith put her hand on Iain’s arm. “Then will the English be staying for dinner?”

Brother Luke shook off his own grief and motioned for Iain to go after his betrothed.

“Go to her, lad. I’ll try to explain this to my good friends here.”

* * *

Marion raced all the way up the winding stairs to the top of the great square tower house. Bursting into the fresh air and sunshine, she ran along the stone parapet and out onto one of the corner bartizans. Her breaths were short and the quiet sobs escaping her were lost in the whistling wind. She leaned out between the blocks of stone and looked down at the earth far below. Beneath her, yellow leaves were swirling in the air, carried by the breeze. Tears dropped from her cheeks, disappearing before they reached the ground.

Her father couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be gone. He’d promised her he would come back.

“Marion.”

Iain’s sharp call snapped like a whip in the morning air. She didn’t look at him.

“Marion, step back away from that ledge.”

She leaned farther out; she would not be ordered around. She was in no danger of falling the four stories. His powerful hands were around her waist in an instant, though, and he lifted her bodily away from the edge. She stood with her back against the opposite wall, the flash of anger disappearing as thoughts of her father returned.

“You heard what I told your aunts,” he said in calmer voice.

She stared at the tops of the trees in the distance and nodded. Her chin quivered, but she fought back the tears.

“I’m sorry, Marion. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such sad news.”

It was the gentleness in his voice that choked her up again. She slid her back down the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her face against them.

“We have no time for grieving now.” He crouched before her. “I told your aunts the same thing. The English are surely coming, and I need to move everyone here to Blackthorn Hall. I told your father I would see to his people’s safety.”

“Will we be safer at Blackthorn?”

Iain frowned. “I cannot say for certain. It’s more defensible than your father’s tower house. But you will be safe, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going north.”

Her gaze locked on his face. “Where are you sending me?”

“To the Isle of Skye. There is an abbey there…with a convent. It will be perfect for you. And safe.”

“I shan’t go,” she argued. “I want to stay with my family.”

Iain shook his head firmly. “It’s not your decision. It was your father’s wish that if anything were to happen to him, you would be cared for properly. I gave him my word.”

“I am cared for properly, by my family. I shan’t⁠—”

“Do not argue with me,” he snapped, his tone harsh. “With any luck, you will not need to stay there too long, and I⁠—”

“One day is too long. Aunt Judith and Aunt Margaret have been mothers to me for all these years. Uncle William has been like a father…whenever my own has been away.” Marion preferred to not beg, but she would if she thought it would have any effect on this coldhearted man. “And they need me, too.”

“It’s out of the question,” he said, standing up. “Your own father, their brother, did not wish to leave you in their charge. He knew they’re not able to care for you, and I think even less of them.”

“You’re vile and mean-spirited,” she said furiously. “How could you say these things after all the times you have been a guest at their table?”

“You are my responsibility,” he replied, his voice low. “I’ll do as I must. And right now I’m telling you that you need to prepare to travel north.”

She could not go. She had just lost her father, and now she was to be taken from the rest of her family. An idea occurred to her, and she looked up at him towering over her. “I am your betrothed, Iain. If you don’t trust the care of my aunts, then move me to Blackthorn Hall.”

“I cannot be certain of your safety there. Besides, it would not be right to move you there until we are wed.”

“Then marry me now. It’s not as if I have any options about choosing a husband. I have been stuck with you since the age of three.”

Iain crouched down again, his head sinking into his hand. Marion looked at the bloodstained hand as his fingers dug into his long brown hair. She felt she might have a chance. For the first time, she noticed the nasty gash on his brow, but she fought back the urge to reach out and touch it.

“Marry me,” she pressed. “Do it now and be done with it. Then let me live my life.”

His blue eyes were actually filled with amusement when they looked up into hers.

“I cannot, Marion. And even if I could, I would not. You’re going to Skye.”

“But why?” she said, her anger returning. “Why can you not marry me?”

“Because, lass, you’re only six years old.”

2

Twelve years later, Isle of Skye

The walls of the Convent of Newabbey rose up in the distance. A huddle of huts formed a neat village at its gates, and the smoke of the morning fires hung like a low cloud about the thatched roofs. A scruffy black dog spotted the man and ran out from a pen beside the closest cottage. His ferocious barking blended with the rhythmic hammering of the smith already hard at work in the forge.

From the top of his horse, at the head of a group of Armstrong men, Iain growled back at the dog.

“An excellent way to rid yourself of your disagreeable mood,” Brother Luke advised, spurring his horse up beside his nephew’s. “In fact, why don’t you dismount and wrestle the beast to the ground?”

His comment drew only a narrow stare. The laird pushed ahead, and the group dutifully fell in step.

The smell of roasting mutton reached Brother Luke, and the stirring in his belly reminded him that he hadn’t anything to eat today. Their group had risen early. The laird had been impatient to be on the road. Twice, Marion had failed to show up where she’d been directed to be. The messengers had been sent over a month ago. She was to meet the laird at Eilean Donan Castle, accompanied by half a dozen escorts that Iain had arranged for.

When Iain and the rest of his men had arrived there two days ago, an Armstrong warrior was waiting alone, but there was no sign of Lady Marion. She’d sent a message that she’d made a habit of not traveling on Mondays.

Iain had proceeded to their second meeting place. An inn at the crossing to the mainland at Kyle of Lochalsh. Again, there’d been no Marion. Only the message that she had the custom of fasting on Tuesdays. That made it difficult for travel. Even the dogs had known better than to step in the path of the Armstrong laird that day. He was not pleased. Brother Luke suggested that it was really the weather that was keeping her. It had rained incessantly for the entire week they had been on the road.

Brother Luke nodded pleasantly at the folk of the village as the laird dismounted from his horse. Everyone else did the same, and they walked along the lane that led to the gates of the priory.

Nuns were known for occasionally developing peculiar habits, especially when it came to reclusiveness. Brother Luke thought it natural that after Marion’s twelve years of living with them, she could have developed similar tendencies. His nephew, though, didn’t share his thinking. He was laird and a very busy man. Brother Luke knew Iain to be a fair leader, a man who was respected and obeyed. When he made a command, he expected nothing less than total compliance from his people and from his intended. A marriage was going to take place. The English king and the Scottish regent were both sending representatives to Blackthorn Hall within the fortnight to witness it, as the final union of McCall heir and Armstrong laird was a further guarantee to consolidate power after decades of uprisings and clan conflict in the region.

In short, it was time for Lady Marion to return home.

The gates that led through the high wall surrounding the buildings and the church comprising the priory were open, and when the group entered, an old porter rushed over.

“I was told ye might arrive last night. Maybe it was two nights ago, I cannot remember. But we knew ye were coming, m’lord.” He motioned for the stable hands to rush over. “The prioress is waiting for ye at the chapter house.”

Brother Luke looked around at the orderly plan of the priory grounds, at the church directly ahead, and at the stables and guest quarters to the left, with a small orchard rising behind. To the right sat the chapter house, with its business offices and school and what he assumed to be the nun’s quarters beyond. He could see the smoke rising from what must be a kitchen building behind the living quarters, and he guessed there was probably a well-tended garden behind that. Between the nuns’ quarters and the church, paths of white crushed shells crisscrossed a small quadrangle of greensward, cultivated herbs, and flowers. Neat, efficient, and pleasant, Brother Luke thought approvingly. This had been a good place for the wee Marion to grow up.

“Where do I find Lady Marion?” Iain asked, handing his horse to one of the stable hands. The rest of the horses were taken away, too.

“She might be in her cell. But I’m not certain, m’lord. Would today be Wednesday, perchance?”

“What difference does it make what day it is?” Iain asked, his patience obviously wearing thin.

The porter took his hat off and scratched his balding head. “I’m getting too old to remember everything I’m told, or keep track of what day it is, either. One thing I do know was that the lass told me if ye were to come on a Wednesday, that I was to tell ye that’s her day of…of seclusion. Yer lordship cannot know where she is.”

Seeing the laird’s temper about to boil over, Brother Luke immediately stepped forward and placed a hand on his nephew’s forearm.

“He’s just a simple messenger,” he whispered.

Iain did not take his eyes off the old man. “Tell me this,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “What did she tell you to say if I arrived on Thursday?”

“Thursday?” The porter scratched his head again. “Ahh…that’s it. That she’d be gone to the lepers' village if ye came on Thursday. Or maybe that was for Friday. And Thursday she’d be ill to her stomach? I know Saturday and Sunday were the prayer days and she could not be disturbed. Ahh, I’ve muddled it all. The prioress will be able to explain much better, m’lord. She’d be waiting at the chapter house for ye.”

“You said that before.” Iain handed the man a coin.

“I’ll show ye the way,” the porter said, relieved.

Everyone but Luke and the laird headed for the kitchens. At the sound of another growl from his stomach, Brother Luke was tempted to head that way, too. But gauging his nephew’s temper and having heard about the iron fist of Mara Penrith MacLeod, prioress of the Convent of Newabbey, he decided his presence and mediation could be needed. The good Lord only knew what Iain might say in his present mood. The last thing they needed was to leave without the McCall heir.

“Has Lady Marion always been kept to such a rigorous schedule of daily activities?” Iain asked the porter as they moved toward their destination.

“This is not the prioress’s doing, if that’s what ye are asking. Lady Marion has never been one to sit still. From the time the wee creature arrived, the lass has always been ready to put her shoulder to the priory wheel,” the old man said with a smile. “The lass likes to work, be it here or at the village, or visiting a sick crofter or even the lepers.”

“And the prioress allows her to roam all over Skye?”

“To be honest, that is the one thing that drives the prioress to distraction. She doesn’t care to have her charges out on their own…particularly Lady Marion.”

“But she allows it nonetheless.”

“Skye is far safer since the laird Alec Macpherson took young Malcolm MacLeod under his wing. They watch over us, to be sure, but the truth is, m’lord, there are still some rogues that pass through every now and again.”

“So when did this regular daily schedule of Lady Marion’s begin?” Iain asked. “Monday no travel, Tuesday fasting…and the rest of it.”

“I’d say just about a month ago. About the time yer messenger first arrived to let her ladyship know she’d be traveling south.”

The man stopped dead, going red in the face. Brother Luke figured the porter was smart enough to recognize his error in telling the truth. He looked up at the laird.

“I shouldn’t have said as much.”

“You told me what I needed to hear.” Iain gave him another coin. “Where can I find Lady Marion?”

“She’s a good lass, m’lord. She’s got a heart as good as gold. I shouldn’t have said…”

“Where is she?” he asked sharply.

“I’m sure I don’t know, m’lord. I’ve been at the gate…minding my duties…not hardly running my mouth to guests.” The porter visibly cringed under Iain’s hard glare. “The convent is little more than what ye see. You ask any of the nuns, and they’ll be sure to tell you where she might be…or which way she was heading.”

“Perhaps we should introduce ourselves to the prioress first,” Brother Luke interjected, hoping to calm his nephew before he met with young Marion.

“You’ll do that,” the laird replied. “Give her my regards. And inform her that I intend to leave with my betrothed today.”

* * *

Only a mean and tightfisted master would starve his people, Marion thought, watching the servers head off for the third time to the dining hall. Each time they’d gone, they’d been carrying heaping trenchers of food. The way everything was disappearing, it looked like the men had barely eaten in a fortnight.

Marion and Sister Beatrice moved to one of the tables near the back door of the kitchen. The two women had been working in the kitchen since dawn. They’d baked all the bread they had rising. Since the onset of the feeding frenzy, they had been measuring flour, mixing and kneading dough, preparing more batches for tomorrow’s baking. But at the rate food was being consumed right now, Marion figured the men would be eating the uncooked dough in another hour.

“You cannot avoid him forever, child.”

“Forever might only be one or two days. Perhaps a week,” Marion answered, adding more flour to the huge bowl she was using to mix the dough. “I can avoid him for that long.”

“Do you really think the laird would give up and leave without you?” Sister Beatrice asked gently.

“Of course I do. He doesn’t care a straw about me. Twelve years he’s left me here. It might as well be a hundred twelve. The only reason why he’s here now is to complete the business of a contract made between our kin when I was but a child.”

“You’re his betrothed.”

“He can find another wife,” she said stubbornly. “The McCalls and the Armstrongs have been trying to find a way to combine their land for nearly a century. But the timing has never worked out to the satisfaction of the families, and it will not work now, either. I will make sure of it.”

“But you’re saying it yourself. If it has taken a century to match a lass of your place and an Armstrong laird, he is not about to meddle with such an arrangement.”

“Indeed, he will,” she said confidently. “He doesn’t care anything at all about me, and when he realizes I don’t want him, either, he’ll go right back to the Borders.”

“But Marion, what about the land your family--”

“That’s no issue at all. He has been controlling it for twelve years. He can keep it, so far as I care. He can have the whole of Scotland, for that matter, down to the last sheep and pig. I give it all to him and my blessing with it. But he will not have me in the bargain.”

“But he’s come all this way for you. He must want you to be his⁠—”

“No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t care for me, and he doesn’t care for my family. He doesn’t want me, I tell you.”

“But what makes you say that?”

Marion stood with her hands on her hips and faced the nun. “Because he thinks there is madness in my blood.”

“Madness?” The wrinkled face of Sister Beatrice creased into a smile. “Are you talking of the little peculiarities you’ve occasionally mentioned about your uncle? About him acting as if he was William Wallace?”

Marion nodded, thinking about Uncle William’s ‘little peculiarities.’ No one at Fleet Tower thought anything of it, but Iain Armstrong had used it to send her to Skye.

“My ‘betrothed’ has no respect for my family. My uncle is loud and talks and acts strangely at times, but the important thing is that he is quite kindhearted. Sir William is very sweet. Funny, even.”

The nun motioned to one of the kitchen helpers to bring them more water. “An uncle who acts peculiar at times. That is certainly not enough reason to think your entire family is mad. I believe you’re imagining the worst about Sir Iain.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t know the man,” Marion argued. “He is very serious. Twelve years ago he was old before his time. Withered in spirit. He sees people as he wishes to see them, no matter how innocent that person’s actions might be. He thinks even worse of the rest of my family, too.”

Sister Beatrice straightened gingerly and wiped her hands on a rag. “But, how could he? Your father is dead. Your two aunts are gentle old ladies, and from the letters you have been reading to me that they regularly send, they love you like their own child.”

“I agree. But Iain twists things to suit himself. He finds something wrong with everyone,” Marion explained. “Starting with my father. John McCall never imagined he was William Wallace like Uncle William. But in bravery he was no less than that great hero. After all these years, I still remember him so vividly. He was fearless, bold, a giant of a man who was a master in wielding a sword. He died in Flodden Field beside King Jamie.”

“Your father, the Earl of Fleet, was a hero, to be sure. Now, why would your betrothed think something was wrong with him?”

“Because of rumors,” Marion said quietly. “I was young but not deaf. And I never witnessed any of this. But there were stories of my father…well, liking to roam around the village at night.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“He…” Marion hesitated. “They said he often walked about at night wearing nothing but his cap…a tam with a great feather rising from it…and his sword.”

Despite her advanced age, Beatrice’s face turned three shades of red.

“They were surely just ugly rumors,” Marion said passionately. “No doubt tales invented to besmirch the man’s name. He was a powerful man. Now that I’m older, I understand it much better. His enemies, our neighbors the Armstrongs—probably the present laird’s father, in fact—were no doubt the ones that invented such nonsense.”

Marion picked up a nearby bowl and sprinkled more flour into her mix. She dug her fingers into the dough and kneaded furiously. “And then my aunts. They like to talk…sometimes ceaselessly. But that comes from being so close to each other in age, in life. They are almost one spirit in two bodies. They have to think aloud so the other can hear, too. Of course, Aunt Margaret was getting hard of hearing when I was there. And Aunt Judith liked to repeat what her sister said. But that can happen to anyone. There is nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“And your betrothed does not think too highly of them, either?”

“He sent me away, didn’t he?” she replied shortly. Marion could feel the heat of her anger rising up her neck into her face. She tried to fight it, but it was the same burning feeling she felt every time she thought of home. “And not once, during all these years, did he send for me or arrange for my family to come and visit me here. I was discarded and forgotten. Banished.”

“You were cared for,” Sister Beatrice said softly. “You still are. Every one of us here loves you. Things could have been a lot worse.”

Marion blushed, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I am sorry. I did not mean to sound ungrateful. For the past twelve years, you and the rest of the sisters here at the abbey convent have kept me safe beneath your wings, nurtured me, made me feel at home.” She straightened, wiping dough off her fingers. “And this is all the more reason why this marriage should not take place.”

“Why would that be?”

“I need to stay here. I want to stay here,” she corrected herself. “I want to take my vows, become a nun, do for others what you have done for me.”

Beatrice sat down on a three-legged stool beside the table. Her expressive face reflected her distress. “You haven’t been built for this kind of life, Marion. You’re too much of a free spirit…far too headstrong for the life of a nun. Your many battles with the prioress over the years should have made you realize that this cannot be a permanent home for you.”

“I can change. I can be what everyone here wants me to be,” the young woman cried passionately. “The prioress is a compassionate woman. She’ll not refuse me shelter if I promise to obey her orders.”

The older nun reached over and took the young woman’s hand, stopping Marion from battering the dough lifeless. “Would you want the same thing if marriage were not a condition for returning home?”

“Well, I…”

“Is it possible that you might be using the convent now as a way of punishing the laird for sending you here to begin with?”

Marion closed her eyes and threw her head back in frustration.

“You miss your family, lass. You always have,” the old nun said gently. “Your roots are there in the Borders. You belong with your own folk. The time has come. You should go to them.”

“Not with him. Not as the wife of the Armstrong laird.” Mist gathered in Marion’s eyes when she looked at her friend again. “And it’s not just for myself that I feel this way. I’m doing this for Iain, too. He has never wanted this marriage. I’m going to set him free and let him have his land in the bargain.”

Marion’s heart skipped a beat as she suddenly saw a giant of a man standing in the doorway behind Beatrice. The sun was behind him, so she could not see his face. But she knew him immediately from the tartan, the laird’s broach, and the long brown hair touching his shoulders. He was larger than she remembered him, though. Wider in the shoulders. Taller. She wondered for how long he had been standing there and how much he might have heard.

Time was of the essence. Escape was impossible. Marion picked up the wooden bowl of flour sitting beside the dough and turned it upside down on her head.

3

A dusting of white powder covered Marion from head to toe. The old nun jumped up from her seat and stepped back, gaping in shock at the young woman. Iain masked any reaction he might have had and strolled into the kitchen. A few of the workers looked up from their tasks, immediately bowing slightly in acknowledgment of his presence. As their eyes turned then to the white statue standing by the kneading table, there were a few gasps and even hushed chuckles.

The older nun was quick to recover from her surprise. “You must be Sir Iain. Welcome, m’lord.”

“And you are?” He took a step farther into the kitchens.

“Sister Beatrice.” She stepped in front of him, effectively blocking his path to Marion. “You must have lost your way to the chapter house.”

“No, I have come to the right place,” Iain answered, watching his future wife. She stood motionless, still wearing the ridiculous bowl on her head. Beneath the inane mess she’d created, however, it was impossible to miss how much she had grown since he’d sent her here. Unlike the rest of her family, she was tall and slender. Looking at her now, he realized he was eager to see the rest of her, too. She was going to be his wife. It would be much better if she did not have her fathers and her Uncle William’s pear-shaped noses or her aunts’ pointy chins. Even with the little he could see of her face, though, it appeared she lacked both distinctive features. Her face actually looked well proportioned. He caught himself looking down at the brown habit that might have doubled for woolsack. The white veil covering her hair was no finer.

“Ah, you mean the dining hall. You must be famished,” the nun said, pretending relief. “Allow me to take you to the hall where your men are seated.”

Beatrice motioned, but he didn’t follow. She then took him by the arm, but Iain stood where he was, staring at his betrothed.

“Good morning, Marion.”

She remained silent. The bowl didn’t cover her eyes. They were open, watching him. There was defiance there, but interest, too. The long lashes were speckled with flour, as were the bridge of her nose and her cheeks.

“The food must be getting cold, m’lord. You must be starving,” the nun persisted, tugging on his arm again.

“In good time.”

Sister Beatrice shook her head. “Really, m’lord, after such a ride, you⁠—”

“Leave us!” His bark had the desired effect. The older nun let go of his arm as if she’d burned herself. Immediately, she scurried past him and out the door. Iain decided she’d be back with her superior in no time.

The eyes of twenty workers were on them. Everyone in the kitchen had stopped working.

Marion took a step back, glancing quickly at another door beyond the baking ovens. She looked like a doe about to bolt. Iain approached, determined to mount a chase if he needed to. They would settle this nonsense right now, and he didn’t care who witnessed it.

“Am I to receive any kind of greeting?” he said in a gentler tone.

“No!”

Another feeling of relief washed through him. She lacked the high-pitched voice of her aunt Margaret. “And why is that?”

“Today is my day of complete seclusion,” she said, taking a couple of steps backward and glancing toward the door again. “I cannot entertain any company.”

“Seclusion…with a score of kitchen workers.”

“I have duties. I’m still in seclusion.”

“Excellent. Well, it happens today is my day of seclusion, too.” He followed her as she again backed away a step or two. “I will be in seclusion with my future wife.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She moved quickly around a table toward the door. With a few long strides, he crossed in front of the ovens and reached the door at the same time that she did. She hurried through and started along the path. He was beside her in a moment.

“If you recall, lass, our stars were made and matched in heaven. So many similarities exist between us. I’ve heard your aunts say so a hundred times.”

“That is a lie. We have nothing in common.”

The morning sun was shining through the clouds. As they turned a corner of the building, Marion nearly barreled into two nuns coming toward them on the path. The two women gasped loudly.

“What have you done to yourself, child?” one of them asked in distressed tones.

“The prioress wants to see you, Marion,” the other chirped immediately. “But you cannot go to her looking like that.”

“Why is that? You disapprove of her hat?” Iain asked, moving next to her.

The two women exchanged glances.

“It’s quite lovely,” the first nun croaked, biting her lip. “And you must be the laird we’ve been expecting.”

“Lady Marion’s betrothed,” he corrected, taking his intended’s arm. She tried to shake him loose, but he tightened his hold on her. “Did you say the prioress is looking for her?”

“She is, m’lord,” the second woman answered. “She was hoping to greet you, too. She’s asking that both of you go to the chapter house.”

Marion sneezed, and the bowl tipped forward on her head. Iain took off her disguise and handed it to one of the nuns. “You can advise the prioress that my fiancée and I will join her as soon as Lady Marion has cleaned up.”

“Kindly take the laird there now, Sisters,” the imp on his side said pointedly as she tried to wrench her arm free again. “I shall join everyone later.”

Iain held on. “I cannot stand our separation any longer, lass. I simply cannot let you out of my sight.”

“You tolerated our separation well enough for twelve years,” she blasted at him. “Now let me go, villain.”

Iain smiled confidingly at the nuns. “Lovers’ quarrel. Please tell the prioress her charge and I shan’t be too long.”

He didn’t see the blow to his shin coming. She must have rocks in the tips of her shoes, Iain thought. He hid his grimace, not wanting to give Marion the satisfaction of knowing that she had inflicted pain.

“On second thought,” he said to the wide-eyed nuns, “my beloved demands some private attention. She has missed me far too much. We may take a wee bit longer than I intended. Which way to her chamber?”

The second nun pointed weakly to one of the buildings. The first woman, though, quickly pushed her companion’s hand down. “Perhaps, it would be best if you let us help Marion. You don’t know her disposition.”

“Indeed, I know her temperament very well.” He looped an arm around Marion’s waist and drew her tightly to his side. “Let us go, sweetness.”

She refused and dug her heels into the dirt. Scooping her into his arms, he began to carry her toward the building the nun had indicated. Half a dozen steps were all it took before she started fighting him in earnest.

“Let me go,” she cried, battering his face and squirming to free herself.

“You’ve sprouted extra hands and feet in the past few years.” He tossed her across his shoulder. “Much easier this way.”

“I’m not six years old anymore, you barbarian. Villain. Put me down right now. You’re embarrassing me.”

“You asked for this.”

“I did not.” She landed a sharp elbow to the back of his head and grabbed his hair. Iain tilted her backward, and she gasped and clutched at his tartan. “I dare you to drop me on my head. When I’m free of you, I shall take out your eyes, tear every lock of hair from your head. I shall use your own dirk and cut out your ruthless heart and feed it to the dogs. If you even have a heart, that is. You’re an ill-bred cur. Vile and disgusting. You have lived too long.”

A lengthy string of threats and epithets continued to pour out of her. Priory workers and nuns and some of his Armstrong warriors were beginning to line the path ahead of them, watching them with amusement. No one approached or tried to stop him. They all knew. There had been plenty of warning. The men he’d sent ahead had been here nearly a month. Iain nodded and smiled as he passed them all, ignoring Marion’s tirade. At the door to the residential building, he asked an older woman who was coming out which room was Marion’s. She didn’t hesitate to answer.

Iain climbed the steps three at a time to the second floor. The building was old, the hallway narrow and dark. As he shifted her weight on his shoulder, her head accidentally hit the wall a number of times. He had to give her credit, though. She didn’t complain about that even once. At the same time, the curses and threats never stopped.

Her room was at the end of the corridor. He pushed the door open and walked in. Marion tried to raise herself on his shoulder and banged the back of her head hard as they entered the cell. Iain felt a fleeting moment of remorse as she actually did quiet down.

The room was small, but not uncomfortable. At the end, sunlight came through a narrow window that he figured she could slither through if she was given the chance. The shutter was open and the air wafting in was fresh and warm. A narrow, tidily made bed sat against one wall, and the red-and-green plaid of the McCall tartan spread across it brightened the chamber. A chest and a table and stool completed the furnishings. He kicked the door shut with his foot and dropped her on the bed. She immediately sat up.

“I am sorry about the bruises to your head,” he said, seeing her rubbing a few of the spots and looking around in a daze. He crouched before her and lifted her chin. “But such blows can only leave a bruise…not incur madness or loss of memory or forgetfulness or the inability to speak. In so many words, lass, I am on to your sly tricks.”

Her eyes cleared, and she pushed his hand away.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t,” Iain said calmly. The white veil she had been wearing had dropped back onto her shoulders and for couple of moments, he found himself staring at the dark curls dancing around her face. Most of her hair was pulled back in a thick braid and bundled in a knot at the back of her neck. Her face was still covered with flour, her black eyes glaring beneath thick lashes. He realized he was very eager to see her cleaned up.

“You don’t trust me nor care for me,” she said in a low, husky voice. “There is no reason for us to wed. Why don’t you just gather your men and leave me here?”

On his route here, he’d been tempted a number of times to do just that. He was fourteen years her senior. His taste ran to older women who brought some experience of lovemaking to his bed. Iain did not think he had the patience to deal with even a fraction of the trouble Marion had been as a child. Temperamental, stubborn, loud. He had hoped the convent life had beaten some of it out of her. Obviously, it hadn’t. He was here, though, and it was too late to walk away.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he explained. “You’re coming back with me to Fleet Tower.”

“Not as your wife.”

“As my wife,” he stated.

“Why?”

“Because our fathers and their fathers wanted it that way. Because it’s best for our people. And because it’s in the best interest of Scotland to do so.”

“That is a lie.” She shoved at his chest and tried to get up.

He pushed her back onto the bed. She landed hard on her buttocks. “Why are you being so difficult? You were ready to marry me at the age of six. Why not now?”