May McGoldrick Two-Volume Box Set E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: MacPherson Clan Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 728

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

 From USA Today Bestselling Author May McGoldrick      A Macpherson Clan Two-Volume Box Set       A Midsummer Wedding     Their arranged marriage was two decades in the making. Elizabeth Hay is young, educated, and has her own ideas about her life. Alexander Macpherson is a Highlander and a pirate and not about to be tied down to some delicate court flower. But honor dictates they go through with the betrothal arranged when they were still children.     Now the wedding ceremony is only a week away. Each wants to put an end to the nuptials, but fate has a way of bollixing the best-made plans. As the biggest storm in memory sweeps through Scotland and the floods leave them swimming for their lives, Elizabeth and Alexander must face up to the one thing they never expected.    The love affair that started it all!       Angel of Skye (the next Macpherson generation)       Fiona does not remember the years before she came to the priory on the Isle of Skye. Only the gentle Prioress knows the truth about the spirited, red-haired lass's true birth. So it is in a simple cowl and peasant's dress that she emerges from the island's mists and faces the famed warrior chief of the Highlands, Alec Macpherson.   Alec has served King James with his sword. Now he would give his very soul to protect this beautiful girl from the intrigue that swirls around her. But Fiona wants his heart as well, and willingly he gives it...even as the king's opponents are pushing her toward a deadly trap. For hidden in Fiona's memory is the face of her mother's killer and a secret that could topple the throne. And it will take Alec's Highland strengths pitted against a foe's cruel ambitions to prove, through blood and battle, which will reign—an army's might or the powerful passions of two lovers...   Winner of the Holt Medallion for Best Historical Romance! 

Leseprobe

TWO-VOLUME BOX SET: A MIDSUMMER WEDDING & ANGEL OF SKYE

MAY MCGOLDRICK

JAN 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.

May McGoldrick Two-Volume Box Set: A Midsummer Wedding & Angel of Skye © 2023 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.

Cover Art by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

CONTENTS

A Midsummer Wedding

Angel of Skye

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

A MIDSUMMER WEDDING

Thank you for choosing A Midsummer Wedding. In the event that you enjoy this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review.

A Midsummer Wedding

Copyright © 2022 by Nikoo and James 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.

Cover by Dar Albert, WickedSmartDesigns.com

1

Stirling Castle, Scotland

Summer 1484

“It’s your wedding,” the young queen said. “So why do I feel as if I’m sending you to the gallows?”

Elizabeth Hay stood at the open window of the White Tower, looking across the busy courtyard toward the chapel. A hum of voices drifted up to her as worry tightened its grip on her throat. The brilliant morning sun was shining down on the castle’s Inner Close. Along the walls yellow flags with the red lion rampant alternated with the queen’s new flag of blue and white. The shadow of a bird drew Elizabeth’s eyes to the sky. A hawk soared high above the castle walls. Elizabeth wished she could grow wings and fly above it all, her senses so sharp that she could know who came, who left, who made promises, and who broke them.

Instead, the painful tightness grew into a knot, spreading into her chest until she could not take a full breath.

“Elizabeth,” the queen persisted. “I’m worried about you.”

The young woman turned to face Queen Margaret of Denmark, now the wife of James of Scotland. Known not only for her elegance and beauty but for her kindness, Margaret’s concern showed plainly on her troubled face. Crossing the room, the queen took her hand, seated Elizabeth beside her on a bench by the window, and waved away the attending lady’s maids.

“You’re crying.”

“Am I?” Elizabeth managed to say, unaware of the tears slipping down her cheek.

“Perhaps we haven’t pursued every option. If you honestly don’t want to marry this Highlander, I will insist on a postponement.”

“Nay, that’s not it,” she began, faltering. How could she explain to the queen how she felt? Everyone assumed she was simply nervous about such a momentous step, worried about losing the life she was accustomed to, uncertain about the future. But there was so much more that Queen Margaret didn’t know, so much that had transpired these past few days.

The young queen produced a silk kerchief and patted away the dampness on Elizabeth’s cheeks.

The chapel bells began to toll. And now there wasn’t even a moment to explain.

The time had come for her to go. Elizabeth stood and motioned to the other women to help her with the veil.

“I can halt the ceremony,” Queen Margaret offered once again, putting a hand on her arm. “I can speak to my advisors right now.”

“Nay, Highness. You’re very kind. I know you’ve done all you can to help me. But the hands have been dealt, and fortunes decided. Come what may, I must go.”

* * *

The Highlander waited in the Inner Close by the door to the Chapel of St. Michael. A congregation of nobles already stood inside, talking in hushed tones. Above their heads, blades of golden light from the slits of windows cut brightly through swirling clouds of incense.

Clan chiefs and lairds across Scotland knew that this union had been two decades in the making. Many wondered if the marriage would ever be consummated. It was an old story. A lass of three, a lad of seven—pawns in a contract when a fleet of ships was transferred for extensive tracts of land. As the years passed, anyone familiar with the two had hoped the families would find other means of satisfying the old promises, for it had become obvious to all that they were completely ill-suited for each other.

And no one had hoped for it more than the two young people themselves.

Macpherson frowned and edged into the shade of the doorway. Everyone in Scotland knew how different they were. Elizabeth Hay had been educated and brought up in the courts of Italy and Denmark. Now a close companion of the queen, she was well-traveled, fluent in several languages, and a talented musician. In addition to being a friend of the queen, she served as the indispensable right hand of her father, the well-known architect Ambrose Hay.

And he, himself? To the seagoing men of Scotland and England, he was Macpherson of Benmore Castle, the Black Cat of the Highlands, commander of a dozen ships that raided rich coastal towns and wreaked havoc on British, Dutch, and French traders. His chosen profession had made him a wealthy man. In seaside villages from Antwerp to Dublin, mothers evoked his name when they wanted to strike terror into their unruly whelps on dark nights. He was a Highlander. Wild, free, and dangerous. And for a wife, his closest allies believed, he would take a woman made of the same hardy stock. Not some delicate Lowland flower. Certainly not Elizabeth Hay.

And yet here he was, sweating as the bells tolled.

Macpherson glanced impatiently at the White Tower. Doubts ate away at him. She wasn’t coming. This marriage was not going to happen.

A doorway opened across the Inner Close, and Queen Margaret glided over the stones of the courtyard, attended by her entourage. But he had no eyes for her. His gaze was fixed on the veiled bride at her side.

The young laird muttered another curse under his breath and scowled at the woman drawing near. The hell he’d gone through to be here at this moment. Had she suffered, at all? The embroidered veil hid any view of her face.

He did not speak until the queen and the rest of the bride’s escorts filed past them into the chapel.

“M’lady,” he growled.

“Highlander,” she replied, coming to stand before him.

“Blast me,” he cursed, taking hold of the veil and tossing it back away from her face. “You lied.”

2

Seven Days Earlier

Elizabeth Hay shivered involuntarily as she stared at the deer brought to bay in the colorful forest on the large tapestry adorning an entire wall of the queen’s chamber.

“That is not you.”

“Nay,” Elizabeth agreed. “My tale is captured on an entirely different tapestry. I’m in the one depicting the harried old sow, chased down and speared by a drunken pack of dirty Highlanders for my future husband’s amusement.”

Elizabeth turned and faced Queen Margaret, sitting with Clare Seton, one of the ladies-in-waiting.

The queen smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that one.”

She nodded. “I’m not surprised. They only bring it out on special occasions. Don’t want to frighten any of the maidens unnecessarily.”

Elizabeth strode to the window, breathing in the damp air. Below, rain-soaked cotters from the nearby farms were already carting in food for the upcoming wedding feast.

“You may be allowing your imagination to run a little wild, my friend,” the queen observed. “This is a rather dark vision of the future.”

“A future that I’m desperate to avoid.”

“Elizabeth, we’ve been through this.”

“I know.”

“Macpherson is a Highlander, as you say, but the man is acting quite honorably.”

“An honorable act that I have no wish to be any part of,” Elizabeth said flatly, trying to keep her temper in check.

Five years ago, she’d been ready. But where was he then? At eighteen, she was fresh-faced and eager, dreaming of the man she’d been promised to all her life. Innocent, believing in the power of love, she’d expected him to arrive and they’d wed and he’d take her to his castle in the Highlands. Trusting in life and the man who was to be her future husband, she had no fears, no insecurities. The future was an oyster with a precious pearl, ready for her to pluck.

But Elizabeth had dreamed of a man who never came for her. Year after year, her hopes faded. Doubt took root. Rumors reached her about her intended’s legendary exploits . . . and a lass or two in every port. Sailing the seas, raiding rich towns, living a life of adventure. He was the Black Cat of Benmore. Terror of the German Sea.

Somewhere along those years, she stopped waiting and locked her foolish dreams deep within her. Time passed and Elizabeth traveled with her father, helping him with his work and learning his art of building. As a widower and a well-known and respected architect, Ambrose Hay made his home wherever his current building project took him. Together, they’d lived and worked in the courts of Europe. For Elizabeth, knowledge became a passion. Free of the burden of a future that depended on a husband, she developed a new life. A life that was hers.

In the end, Elizabeth learned not to want him. She wouldn’t have him. She couldn’t imagine giving up her life to be a mere laird’s wife in a pile of stones in the Highlands. Without this marriage, she’d continue to travel with her father across the world. This was the future she wanted now.

But suddenly the Highlander had decided it was time. He’d come to Stirling, expecting her to be that naïve eighteen-year-old. Ready for him. Grateful for him. Ha!

Earlier that morning, she’d had a long and exhausting discussion with her father on this same topic. A month ago, the two of them had a future in place. He was commissioned to start a palace in France next June and he was taking her with him. This week, Ambrose Hay wouldn’t hear of calling off the wedding. A contract needed to be honored. The family’s name was at stake. Time didn’t negate their responsibility.

Frustrated, she’d left her father with his plans and models piled high around him, and turned to her friend for solace. During their year here in Stirling, residing in the castle while her father worked on the renovations, Elizabeth had become a companion and confidante to the queen.

“Stop your pacing and come sit with us.”

Elizabeth wished she could take the queen’s suggestion, but she was too agitated.

Clare Seton looked up from her sewing. “You can’t deny that Macpherson has made an effort.”

Elizabeth glared at her. Whose friend was she? They all seemed in awe of the late-comer. Traitors.

“What do you mean?” the queen asked.

“The Highlander’s squire came to the castle asking for Elizabeth again this morning,”

“Again?” Margaret asked. “What did he want?”

“The messages, twice yesterday and once this morning, were the same. The laird wishes to meet with her. But she won’t even send back an answer.”

“Why won’t you meet with him?” the queen asked, turning to Elizabeth.

“Because I know what he wants.”

Margaret raised one eyebrow inquiringly. “And that is?”

Elizabeth had already explained the difference the years had wrought in her, but her friend’s romantic nature would not budge. A chance at love transcended time and disappointment.

Queen Margaret had been a pawn herself in an arranged marriage, and she now lived in permanent estrangement from her husband. The queen knew firsthand the cold reality of the marriage business. If anyone should be able to understand Elizabeth’s dilemma, Margaret should. But she didn’t because she lived on the possibility of romance.

Elizabeth needed a different approach.

“Macpherson and I have never met. He simply wants to see me and appraise me as he would any property he was about to acquire.”

“You could do the same,” the queen suggested. “Perhaps you’ll find out he’s more than just the wild and uncouth Highlander you imagine.”

Too late. Elizabeth didn’t want to find anything positive about the man or this union. The mere thought of being shipped off to Benmore Castle to live among people she didn’t know made her shudder. The idea of marriage no longer held any romance. She wanted to keep the life she had now. She wanted to go to France with her father.

Clare stopped sewing and laid her work in her lap. Even before Clare opened her mouth, Elizabeth realized she might have to kill her.

“The word already circulating the castle is that he’s quite handsome,” Clare offered.

“And he’s a pirate,” the queen added with barely concealed enthusiasm. “That alone speaks of a life of adventure and excitement. A real man. And I understand he’s wealthy.”

“Then he’ll have no trouble choosing a suitable wife,” Elizabeth responded, looking from one to the other. “He can find a woman of beauty and charm. Someone with a gentle temperament. An eighteen-year-old who would be submissive to his every whim . . . when he’s not out robbing defenseless merchant ships. Anyone, so long as I am not that woman.”

She couldn’t care less what he wanted. She didn’t want to know what kind of wife he sought. She wished he’d just go away.

“Come now,” Margaret said gently. “If you feel that way, meet with him and tell him just that. Tell him you release him of his responsibility.”

She couldn’t. She’d never openly defy her father. Never bring dishonor to the family name. The Highlander would have to back away from the marriage.

Elizabeth wrung her hands and started pacing the room, unable to understand the panic clutching at her when she thought of actually meeting with the man and making such a request. Would he agree? Could she convince him? What would happen if he refused?

He had to be an arrogant blackguard. She’d heard the rumors. Alexander Macpherson was, by all reports, handsome and even charming. He’d been in Stirling only two days, and already there’d been talk of the man’s great height, the intense blue eyes, the smile that made a lass forget her own name. He was accustomed to having his way with women. He took what he wanted, and he wanted this marriage. Why else would he come here now? He would never agree.

“I can’t,” she cried out with a plaintive look at the queen. “If only for my father’s honor, I can’t be the one who breaks this contract. But I don’t want to go through with this wedding.”

She paced the chamber, feeling as trapped as the deer in the tapestry. Each time she passed a window, she stopped and looked out at the workers, the walls, and the mist-enshrouded mountains beyond. The rain had been falling for two days, from the moment Macpherson arrived. Queen Margaret and Clare had their heads together, and they were whispering steadily.

“Elizabeth,” the queen said finally. “Let’s be clear on this. You want the Highlander to back out of this contract.”

“That’s it, Your Highness.”

“But you understand that it’s crucial for both of you to emerge from this with your honor intact,” the queen continued. “Whatever happens, you don’t want to start any rumors that might tarnish your reputation or his.”

The situation was impossible. She forced herself to take a full breath. Tarnishing her reputation was not an answer. Her father’s honor mattered. She felt helpless about what to do. Clare and the queen quietly exchanged a few more words.

Clare was the one who spoke up. “Perhaps we can play to the Highlander’s sense of honor.”

A last shred of hope. Perhaps he had a sense of honor. Would he listen to her plea? She doubted it. She couldn’t risk it.

“What if Macpherson believed your affections already lay with another man?” the queen suggested. “Nothing scandalous. But what if he thought you were in love?”

“But I’m not. How could I conjure such a person out of thin air? And how would I make him believe such a thing?”

“We’ll change places,” Clare said.

It was impossible. Clare Seton was the queen’s lady-in-waiting and betrothed to Sir Robert Johnstone, a wealthy Lowlander. People knew her. Her family was well-connected at court.

“You’re certain that Macpherson has never laid eyes on you?” the queen asked.

“Never,” Elizabeth replied. She hadn’t gone anywhere in public since the day he’d arrived in Stirling. Desperate, she looked on in anticipation as the two women exchanged a conspiratorial look.

“This afternoon, I’m to meet with Sir Robert,” Clare told her, “at Cambuskenneth Abbey.”

Elizabeth knew her friend was to be married at summer’s end. It was a love match, to be sure, and hardly the same situation as she was facing. She waited, not liking where this conversation was going.

“I think the plan is brilliant, Clare,” Queen Margaret said, picking up the thread. She turned back to Elizabeth. “You will go and meet the Highlander where he’s staying, introducing yourself as Clare Seton. While you’re there, you will weave tales of anguish. You’ll tell him that ‘Elizabeth’ has stolen your betrothed.”

“That won’t do,” Elizabeth cried, understanding the game they were trying to arrange.

“Time is pressing, and Clare’s plan is what we have.”

The queen paused and glared at her, making sure Elizabeth was paying attention.

“You will accompany the laird down to the abbey. Hearing your tale of woe, he’ll deny that romance because she belongs to him. You will tell him his eyes will prove her words true. That Elizabeth is in anguish over the upcoming wedding. She is meeting with her paramour this very hour at the abbey across the river.”

“No!”

“Hush.” The queen tsked her to silence. “At the abbey, Clare—pretending to be you—will be waiting with Sir Robert. When the Highlander sees ‘Elizabeth’ with the man she loves, he will be overcome and release her—er, you—from the engagement.”

“But none of that is true.”

The queen rolled her eyes. “Help us here. Help us rescue you.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. This had to be the most ridiculous plan she’d ever heard. It would never work.

“When they reach the abbey,” Queen Margaret said to Clare, “I expect you to be putting on a tragic show of love and loss.”

“I can do that,” Clare said.

“But I can’t,” Elizabeth blurted out. “This is far too complicated.”

“Why? What can go wrong?” the queen asked.

A thousand things, she thought. “Macpherson is a warrior. This is certain to bruise his honor, and we don’t know how he’ll respond. What if he decides to approach them? Engage Sir Robert in a fight? What do I do if—?”

“I’ll make sure my guards will be there to keep anything from getting out of hand,” Margaret told her. “That is not a worry. But for this plan to work, you must do your part. Before he even sees them, you must convince Macpherson to take pity on ‘Elizabeth Hay’ and back away from this marriage. You’ll need to do the lion’s share of the work at the tavern and along the way.”

So she must pretend to be someone else. Lie about a non-existent liaison. Fool this man with a ruse he might see through in a moment.

This was a hopeless plan. Elizabeth was in real trouble.

3

Two days he’d been stuck here, and Macpherson was getting damned tired of the place. The inn where he was staying, just down the hill from the castle, was a ramshackle affair, but it was the best one in the borough, boasting fairly clean rooms, an actual bed, a reasonably honest innkeeper, and the best ale for twenty miles. He needed to be in Stirling, but the Highlander had no interest in staying with anyone who kept houses here. So he’d let the entire inn.

As Alexander sat at a long table in the empty taproom finishing his letter, one of the shutters of a window looking out onto the street banged loudly. The wind coming in from the southwest was rising. If he were at sea, he’d be taking in sail and preparing for a squall.

He looked over the letter. He was no lawyer, and certainly no poet, but it would have to do. Corking the inkhorn, he gestured for his squire David to return the writing implements to the innkeeper, who’d just carried in a fresh cask of ale from the cellars. The day had been uncomfortably warm with hard rain occasionally blowing through. Alexander thought for the fiftieth time how he wished he were breathing the fresh salt air from the deck of his ship or the clean mountain air from the ramparts of Benmore Castle.

He couldn’t wait to leave the Court. The very air here suffocated him. The sycophants, panderers, fops, the cowards pretending to be warriors, the games, the women dressing to lure their friends’ husbands, the painted smiles, the fluttering eyes. This was the place where virtue went to die. Summoned numerous times by the king to Falkland Palace, he was well-schooled in the poisoned atmosphere of the court. Stirling Castle was no different. And his intended was comfortably embedded in this festering climate. No wonder she couldn’t allow herself to give notice of his requests.

The wiry young squire returned and stood waiting a few paces off while the Highlander read over the letter one more time and then folded it.

“Take this to the White Tower,” Alexander ordered. “I want it hand-delivered to Mistress Hay.”

“You know, m’lord,” David said cautiously, “I shan’t have any more luck getting this message to the lady than I did before.”

Alexander glared at the young man. “You need to impress on the queen’s guard that this is important. The blasted wedding is only seven days off. The letter must get to her now. Tell him, or whoever you talk to, that the content of this is vitally important to . . . to my intended. Now get your skinny arse up that hill to the castle.”

“Aye, m’lord,” David said, rightly sensing danger in his master’s tone.

Taking up the letter, he bolted for the open door, nearly running down a shape that moved into his path from the street.

“Beg pardon, m’lady.”

Alexander looked up in surprise at the woman coming into the taproom. The hood of her light cloak had tipped back, revealing golden blond hair bound in a thick braid that disappeared down her back. Her dress of deep green was belted with a sash of black velvet that matched the color of the cloak. This was not the baker’s daughter, come to deliver the bread for supper.

She did not look right or left but went directly to the innkeeper, who seemed as surprised as the Highlander.

“Don’t know what I can do for you, mistress,” the man said. “But the inn is closed for the next sennight.”

“Closed?” she repeated, perplexed. “But I was told that the Macpherson laird is staying here.”

“Aye.” The innkeeper nodded toward Alexander. “There’s the very man himself.”

The blond head swung around, noticing him for the first time. “Oh!”

Above her high cheekbones, large alert eyes fixed on him. Wide, full lips pressed together as she studied him. The lass was young, pleasing to look at, but from the set of her shoulders and the hands clasped tightly together, he decided she was a woman on a mission. She started toward him.

Alexander stood. “What can I do for you, mistress?”

She didn’t see a bench protruding from beneath a table until it was too late. Alexander dove toward her as the woman’s arms flew out to arrest her fall, and he caught her just before she hit the stone floor. As he lifted her back onto her feet, he realized he was holding her in his arms a bit longer than he should. And he wasn’t complaining.

Pressed against his chest, she was all curves beneath the cloak and layers of clothing. Alexander’s head filled with the most tantalizing scent he’d ever smelled on a woman. A combination of roses and . . . something else. Citrus flowers. Sweet memories of sailing in the Mediterranean flooded back to him.

With her feet once again on the floor, she tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. They were wedged between two tables. Her attempt at sliding past him resulted in his chin brushing across the top of her head. The softness of the golden hair startled him.

By the time Alexander was able to look into her face, the woman’s earlier appearance of determination was gone. Her face was flushed, and she was making a great production of rubbing a bruised knee even as she straightened her dress and cloak.

“Perhaps we should start again,” he said, not trying to hide his amusement. “As I said, I’m Alexander Macpherson. What can I do for you, mistress?”

Her gaze was slow to rise to his face, but when it did he was caught by the color of her eyes. They were blue, but not the azure shade of a clear Scottish sky. They were dark blue, like the sea off the coast of Morocco.

“My name is . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am Clare Seton.”

The name meant nothing to him, so he waited for her to say more.

“I serve as a companion to the queen. One of her ladies-in-waiting.”

Finally. The lass must have been sent by Elizabeth Hay. His haughty intended was at least acknowledging that he’d arrived in Stirling.

“I’ve come on behalf of your future bride,” she continued.

His curiosity was aroused by the appearance of this young woman. Why would Elizabeth refuse even to accept a message carried by his squire but now send this lass? Either something was amiss, or here was yet another reminder of how unversed he was in courtly ways. In either case, now might be a good time to keep his nose in the wind.

“And what of it?” Alexander leaned back against the trestle table and crossed his arms.

“If you’d be kind enough to take a walk with me, everything will become clear.”

Remaining where he was, he looked at her steadily and saw her squirm under the scrutiny.

“Only down to the river. Well, actually . . . to Cambuskenneth Abbey,” she stammered. “It’s not too far. Not a mile down the hill.”

“Why?”

She looked away before saying in a lowered voice, “To meet with Elizabeth.”

Alexander let her words float in the air for a moment before replying.

“Why not meet me at the castle? Or come here herself?”

“It wasn’t possible. She had some business to attend to.” The young woman was twisting her hands before her. “She was certain you wouldn’t mind joining her at the abbey.”

He didn’t mind, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Indeed, he was impatient to get this business over and done with. He’d walk from here to Edinburgh if he needed to. His ship was waiting at anchor off Blackness in the firth, and he was ready to be on it.

Besides, he mused, it would be best to do the deed in person, rather than leave her to read it in that letter he’d sent off.

But he didn’t like being ignored, and something in him—the devil probably—was enjoying seeing this Clare Seton squirm a wee bit. He only wished it were Elizabeth Hay herself. Still, he wondered what they’d told this one to expect from him.

“Actually, I do mind,” he said flatly, turning away from her.

“But . . . but is it really asking too much to meet with your intended before the wedding?” the young woman stammered.

“Exactly what I’ve been thinking for the last two days,” he replied, pouring himself a bowl of ale. “Is it beneath her to see my squire? She repeatedly sent him away without even a word.”

“I am sure she meant no disrespect.”

“And I mean no disrespect now. But if she wants to see me, she can come to me.” He picked up his ale, dismissing her.

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“Am I?” he said sharply. “You have my answer. Be on your way.”

No sound of rustling skirts. No steps retreating toward the door. Only the creaking of the inn’s sign outside, swinging in the gusts of wind. Perhaps she wasn’t so frightened, after all. He drank down the bowl, pretending she wasn’t there.

“Please reconsider it,” she asked in a soft voice.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, surprised by the note of dejection in her tone. Her head was held high, but she was strangling two fingers with the leather tie from her cloak.

“Even if you don’t care to meet with her, I need to go to the abbey, and I assumed you would accompany me. I didn’t bring an escort.” She unwound the tie from her fingers, seeing she’d drawn his attention to it. “I would truly appreciate it if you . . . if you’d come with me.”

Alexander looked into her eyes for a long moment. She was lying. She’d come here for some other reason. He was the master of a dozen ships. He was the laird of Benmore Castle. He’d learned early on the need for being able to see through a man . . . or woman. He could recognize when a person was lying. And that was exactly what she was doing. But why?

His gaze moved downward, taking in the pulse jumping wildly on the smooth column of her neck. He was becoming intrigued with this Clare Seton and whatever her game was.

“I can understand if you don’t care to meet her. But I know Elizabeth quite well. Perhaps you’d be interested in asking some questions about the woman you intend to marry.”

Alexander tossed the bowl on the table.

“Very well, mistress, since you need an escort. And frankly, I’m getting tired of sitting here waiting.” He gestured toward the door. “Lead the way.”

4

Queen Margaret would love him. Clare Seton might reconsider her nuptials. Every lady-in-waiting in the White Tower might drool over him. But not I, Elizabeth thought.

Well, perhaps a little.

She was twenty-three years old and she’d been navigating the courts of the world since she was a girl, but this afternoon—for the first time in her life—she was finding that she was not immune to men. At least not to this Highlander.

But why now? Why did he need to be so handsome? Intensely blue eyes, the lines of his face and jaw so perfectly carved, his nearly black hair tied neatly in the back and falling past his shoulders. How different he was from the genteel courtiers who wore the latest German fashions and fluttered about the women, attempting to woo one or the other with sweets and poems no doubt written by some Italian. Nay, this Highlander would have no time for any of that. With shoulders as wide as any draught horse, he was so tall he needed to duck to go out the inn door. A bit rough in manner perhaps, but Alexander Macpherson was beyond handsome and he was all man. And Elizabeth didn’t miss the way others took notice as they walked past.

“Don’t be a fool,” she murmured to herself.

The wind was buffeting her, and the rain that began again almost as soon as they left the inn was falling harder now. Before they left the borough, it was coming down in sheets, driven nearly sideways by the gusts. She couldn’t remember a storm so powerful.

Her cloak and hair were whipping about her. Elizabeth peered ahead as they descended toward the cluster of cottages huddled along the banks of the River Forth. Once they reached the bridge leading to the abbey, they might see Clare and her fiancé at any time, if they were still out braving the weather. In any event, she needed to be alert. But the man striding beside her was definitely a distraction.

The Highlander suddenly reached out and pulled her against him as a donkey cart coming down the hill behind them came dangerously close to her.

She slipped, and her face pressed against his side. His tartan against her cheek did nothing to soften the hard, muscled body. The scent of wool and leather and man filled her senses. This was the second time he’d caught her. She righted herself and pulled away.

When she looked up at him, Macpherson was glaring at the farmer in the cart, who appeared to be laughing to himself as he continued on his way.

She needed to clear her head. She needed to keep her mind on why she was here and what she intended to do. Before they reached the abbey, she had to convince him that he was better off walking away from the upcoming nuptials.

“Elizabeth and I have been friends for a year now,” she said over the wind, encouraging him to ask questions.

“The Setons are an old family,” he said, ignoring her comment. “You’re a respectable lot, despite being Lowlanders.”

This was not the direction she wanted the conversation to go.

“Now that I think of it,” he continued. “I’ve met a few of you in recent years.”

Disaster, Elizabeth thought in panic. She knew almost nothing of Clare’s family.

“How about Elizabeth?” she asked. “I’m told you two have never met.”

He was looking at the sky, which was becoming darker and turning an odd shade of green. The torrential rain had already formed muddy streams in the road. Aside from the frown on his face, the Highlander seemed unaffected by the elements.

“Allow me to tell you about Elizabeth,” she repeated over the gusts.

“No need. Tell me about yourself.”

Her foot disappeared into a water-filled gulley, almost to her knee, and he caught her again as she pitched forward. It was impossible not to notice the power and the ease with which he lifted her and set her on her feet. It was also impossible not to notice that he was slow to release her. For an insane moment, his handsome face came perilously close as he adjusted her hood and pulled her cloak around her.

“How long have you been in the service of the queen?”

“A year,” she answered. “And I’m to be married end of the summer.”

“Who’s the lucky man?”

“I don’t think you know him. He’s a Lowlander.”

Truth and lies suddenly became a jumbled knot in her head. She tried to remember what she planned to say to him and what she’d already admitted.

“I assumed that,” he responded. “What’s his name?”

“Sir Robert Johnstone.”

“I know him.”

Damnation. Hellfire.

Why didn’t Clare say anything about this? How could it be that she didn’t know? How could Elizabeth take the Highlander to the abbey and show him a man he knew and a woman who was pretending to be her? It wouldn’t work. She was doomed.

She’d tried to tell Queen Margaret the plan would be a disaster. She wouldn’t listen. Elizabeth swore she would kill Clare the next time she caught up to her.

When her foot slid on the rock, all she could think was that the damned thing was smooth, it was slick with mud and rain, and it had no right being in the middle of a good dirt cart path. She cried out. As she flailed wildly with both arms and feet in the air, time seemed to slow to a crawl until her face was only a splash away from hitting the ground. How he was able to scoop her up before she landed was a mystery. But before she knew it, her face was nestled into the crook of his muscled neck. Her lips were pressed against warm, taut skin. His scent filled her, and the urge to let her body sink into his nearly numbed her sense of reason.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” he asked. “Some wind and a wee bit of water, and you’re helpless as a bairn. I can’t imagine how many servants it took to convey Elizabeth Hay down this hill.”

A tingling warmth shot through her. Finally, he’d mentioned the name of the woman he was to marry.

As he put her down, Elizabeth drew back, pulling her cloak tight against the driving rain. With her eyes riveted on the increasingly treacherous cart path, she began to walk, and he fell in beside her.

Panic again seized her as they reached the bottom of the hill. She needed to set up the ruse now if there was any hope of it working. And that hope was fading by the moment.

“Elizabeth comes this way often,” she said as they started into the ragtag riverside village. “Sometimes daily, I believe. There is . . . well, I should just tell you. She meets someone.”

“Is Sir Robert in Stirling?” he asked, ignoring her.

“He is. But I’ve just told you that your intended meets a—”

“Where is he staying? I’d like to pay him a visit.”

Was he deaf? Could he think more than one thought at a time? Apparently not.

Despite the storm, a surprisingly large number of people crowded the road to the bridge. Carts and a stubbly flock of newly shorn sheep slowed their progress. The bridge was just coming into view. Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. They were almost at their destination, and she’d done nothing to set up the ruse Queen Margaret and Clare devised.

But the plan was shite anyway. Nothing was working. She might as well turn around right now, climb back up that muddy hill to the castle, and put on her wedding dress. What madness had caused her to think any of this could possibly work?

And what a delightful way to start their long, long, long life together. They weren’t even married yet, and she’d already lied to him. Told him she was someone else. Damnation.

She needed to face it. She needed to tell him the truth. If there were no options and she was going to marry him, she simply needed to accept her fate—pirate husband, a hovel in the Highlands, death as a hunted sow, and all.

“Mam . . . Mammy . . . Mam!”

Elizabeth’s head came up as two wet and muddy urchins ran up and attached themselves to her legs. She leaned down and looked into their dirty faces.

“What’s the matter? Have you lost your mum?” she asked gently, looking around, hoping the real mother was nearby.

A young lass, perhaps a head taller than the two appendages still clinging to her, hurried over. Instead of dragging them away, however, the girl took her hand, nearly tugging her off her feet.

“Come home, Mama. Himself is waiting, and you know how he is.”

“What? Who is waiting?” Elizabeth asked, finding herself being pulled toward an alleyway. She looked over her shoulder at the Highlander. “These children must be lost. Let me see if I can help them find their—”

The rest of the words were lost as a lean hand clamped onto her arm and turned her around. “Blast you, wife. Why are ye not at home? And what are ye doing nuzzling with the pirate?”

Elizabeth gaped up into the soot-smudged face of a tall, wiry blacksmith.

“But . . .” she managed to blurt, “but I’m not your wife.”

“Don’t ye be starting with that. We’ve been through this afore, ain’t we? Now, stop shaming us and get ye home.”

She glanced at the Highlander, who was looking on with surprise at what he surely must see as a mistake unfolding before him. The three children continued to tug on Clare’s skirts and cloak, crying out and making demands. The man claiming to be her husband was wearing a heavy leather apron, and the grip on her arm testified to his trade.

“Let me go,” she cried.

Rather than releasing her, the man began to drag her away.

Elizabeth could not understand how this was happening, but it was clear enough that she was in dire straits. She looked back in desperation at Alexander Macpherson. He was standing with his hand on the hilt of the dirk sheathed at his belt, looking at the children and villagers who were beginning to crowd around him.

“Do something, Highlander. Please! I’m not his wife.”

No one seemed willing to get involved, Macpherson included. He was simply standing with a look on his face that she could not decipher.

When two of the castle’s guards suddenly appeared at the edge of the throng, Elizabeth dug her feet in and cried out to them. The crowd grew silent and parted, but the men made no attempt to approach.

“Help me,” she begged. “You know me. I’m one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Tell this man to let me go. There is something gravely amiss here.”

The guards looked at each other, and Elizabeth thought they actually looked amused. Fury and indignation began to crowd out her fear. When they all got back to the castle, she’d make sure there would be hell to pay.

“Your name, lass?” one of them asked, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the rain.

Elizabeth gaped at them. They knew her. They surely knew her. But she couldn’t say her name. If she said it now, the Highlander would hear, and all would be lost.

“Clare . . . Clare Seton,” she responded more quietly than she’d cried for help.

The guard looked at her and shook his head. “We saw Mistress Clare at the abbey just now. Can it be there are two of you?”

The queen assured her that the guards would be there to protect her. That they would be told of the plan. Something must have gone wrong. Had she been set up by her own friends?

Over the heads of the crowd, Macpherson was watching attentively, standing as still as a bronze statue. She heard laughter from some of the throng of people around her.

The smith was still holding her arm. The rain continued to pour down, battering her face. Struggling against his grip, she felt cold fear wash down her back.

Her gaze darted back to the Highlander. A look of suspicion had edged into his features. He was clearly waiting for her reply to the guard’s accusation.

It was no use. The ploy hadn’t worked anyway. She had to give it up. Speak the truth.

“Very well,” she finally called to the two castle men. “I’m Elizabeth Hay. You know who I am. Order this man to release me.”

The guards moved off before she finished speaking

“Where are you going?” she shouted. “Help me. Stop!”

The horror that came with the realization that they were not going to help her lasted only a moment. The panic that replaced it instantly turned her blood to fire.

Turning on the blacksmith, she struggled, trying to wrench her arm free.

The man’s grip slipped and she fell backward, skidding along in the mud and scattering a half-dozen sheep. But there was no time for escape. The smith had a hold on her again before she could even get her feet under her.

When he pulled her upright, Elizabeth saw that the road had erupted in a brawl. The Highlander appeared to be fighting the entire village. Two brutes who’d been waiting for the trouble to start were Macpherson’s primary foes, trading blows with him while village women and children swarmed around him.

The world had gone mad.

“The de’il,” the blacksmith muttered, his eyes wide with panic. “What now?”

Suddenly, he was dragging her toward the river as fast as he could go, and Elizabeth realized she was getting farther and farther from the only person who could help her. Screaming for the Highlander as she fought to get free, she saw him disappear beneath the mob and the two huge men.

Her abductor stopped only when they reached a boat, tied to a stake at the edge of the flooding river. The three children pretending to be hers were gone. It was now just Elizabeth and the blacksmith, if that was truly what he was. No one would ever know what became of her.

The smith shoved her into the boat, and she sprawled in the bottom, stunned by a knock to her head as she landed. Before she could react, he’d pushed off and leaped into the boat himself.

Even as he struggled against the wind to get the oars into the locks, the fast-moving current was carrying them away from the shore and quickly downriver. The boat rocked and shuddered in the raging waters, which poured in over the sides.

Furious with herself for thinking lies and trickery would succeed, Elizabeth cursed her decision to go along with the queen’s plan. What was happening was simply divine retribution. She’d been out of her mind, and she was now paying for it.

5

She was no blacksmith’s wife.

The panicked woman’s scream cut through the roar of the wind and shouts of the villagers keeping Alexander from getting to her. And that was exactly what they were doing. Not fighting him as much as holding him back while the sooty scoundrel dragged Elizabeth away.

And she was Elizabeth Hay. Even though they’d never met before today, she matched every description he had of her. Besides, he could easily imagine some bored court chit doing something this outrageous—pretending to be someone else just to meet him covertly.

But why they had to venture out in a gale was still a mystery.

“Help me, Highlander,” she shrieked over the caterwauling and the weather.

Whatever was going on, the blacksmith was dragging her out of sight toward the river.

Enough of this.

With a roar, he tossed a clinging assortment of villagers clear of him. One of the two bruisers in the mob came at him. Alexander’s fist connected with the square jaw and the monster went down. Shoving the next attacker into the advancing crowd, he ran for it, jumping across the shafts and traces of a donkey cart and racing in the direction of Elizabeth’s cries.

As the flooded bank of the river came into view, Alexander saw the boat carrying the blacksmith already out in the raging current. At first, he saw no sign of Elizabeth, but then the top of a golden head appeared above the gunwale.

The gusting rain blasted his face like needles as he ran along the water’s edge. The boat was spinning out of control. The smith was clearly no waterman. They were far from shore and about to disappear around the river’s bend.

Alexander knew this waterway. Looping through the low, flat land beneath the castle, it quickly grew wider between here and the Firth of Forth. Turning his back on it, he cut across the bulge of land formed by the loop of the river. Moments later, he reached the bank once again.

The boat hadn’t yet come into view around the bend. Branches of trees, barrels, and whole sections of a dock or a bridge floated by. A battered coracle flipped and skidded across the surface, carried by the wind. The storm was so wild now that he couldn’t even see the other riverbank. Without hesitating, he dove in and began pulling himself into the middle.

As his strong strokes carried him through the churning, wind-chopped froth of brown, Alexander realized this was yet more confirmation that she could be no one but Elizabeth. Their upcoming wedding was big news in Stirling. Someone had clearly decided to kidnap the bride, assuming that Alexander would pay handsomely to recover his future wife.

Whoever was the brilliant mastermind behind the plan obviously didn’t think it through very well. After all, he was the pirate Alexander Macpherson; he was the one who demanded payments. The Black Cat of Benmore paid no one.

Swimming hard, he rose to the top of a swell just as the boat swept into view. Elizabeth was up, trying to fight her captor, but the smith shoved her back down. Her head sank below the gunwale. The craft tipped as it turned in the current, and Alexander thought for a moment it was about to swamp.

As it reached him, the boat was still moving quickly. Reaching up over the side, he grabbed the man’s leather apron and toppled him into the water. The man’s momentum took them both under, and the current carried them beneath the boat.

Alexander lost his grip on the man’s shirt and took a solid kick to the chest, pushing him down deep in the river. The Stirling folk called this Abhainn Dubh, the Black Water, and with good reason. He could see nothing.

Kicking upward, he was ready for battle. As he broke the surface, he was next to the boat, but there was no sign of the kidnapper. Taking in air, he spun around in the water and spotted the blackguard swimming hard for the shore.

Bloody Lowlanders. No fight in them at all.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Alexander grabbed the side of the boat and started to pull himself up.

He saw the oar swinging at his head at the same time that he saw Elizabeth’s dismayed face. It was too late. He heard a hard cracking sound. An instant later, the world went black.

Damnation. Disaster.

“Oh, my Lord! What have I done?”

The oar dropped into the river, and Elizabeth grabbed for the Highlander’s shirt and tartan before he could slip back into the torrential waters. As she tried to pull him in, a gust of wind hammered her from behind, nearly pushing her overboard.

He was heavy. They say the dead weigh more than the living.

“Come on, Highlander,” she panted. “Wake up. Don’t be dead.”

Elizabeth felt him slip back a little, but she wasn’t about to give in. If he wasn’t dead, she couldn’t let him drown. Pulling, tugging, she staggered as the boat rocked madly under her feet, taking more water.

She stared in horror at the depth of the water in the bottom. They were doomed.

“Why do you have to be so damned big?”

Bracing herself, she heaved just as a wave lifted his body. Managing to get his head and his arms into the craft, she paused to catch her breath. The wind was whipping her wet hair into her eyes, and she pushed it back with one hand even as she clung to his tartan with the other. She had no idea how she could get him into the boat, and he was pulling that side dangerously low.

Macpherson groaned.

“Thank the Lord!” she gasped.

She had to save him. He’d come out into a raging river to rescue her, and this was his reward.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry. Really, I am.”

Reaching over him, Elizabeth took hold of his thick belt. She was starting to feel as if the heavens were beating on her. The gusts continued to batter away. She was soaked to the skin and feeling exhausted, but she couldn’t think about that now. She was responsible for him. She was responsible for getting him into this mess.

“We can do this. But you must help me,” she pleaded to the warrior, tugging again to no avail. “Wake up, you great ape!”

Breathing heavily, Elizabeth rested her face against his head, and she saw the swelling and the cut above his temple.

“I did that. I know I did that,” she whispered in his ear. “But you’re not going to let a wee bump get you down, are you? Show me some of that Highland spirit.”

He groaned again and a booted ankle hiked up over the side. At the same time, the boat tipped further, and she froze as more water poured in.

“We’re going to drown,” she muttered. “But at least we’ll do it in the safety of the boat. Keep on coming.”

Reaching to help him, she grabbed hold of the kilt. The boat pitched again and the wool cloth pulled up over his legs. Sprawled across his back, Elizabeth found herself looking at a bare, muscular arse. She blinked, unable to tear her eyes away.

“No time for that,” she murmured, righting herself and hauling him by the belt.

This time it worked, and Elizabeth fell backward as he rolled himself in over the side.

Unfortunately, it worked far better than she expected. His head rested like a stone on her chest, his hair in Elizabeth’s face. His body covered the rest of her, pinning her down and immersing all but her face in the sloshing water at the bottom of the boat.

“Nay, Highlander. This will not do.”

His head hurt. He wanted to sleep. But the troublesome sea beast had dragged him into the deep. The creature had to have a dozen hands and feet. Kicking him, squeezing him, pinching him, poking him in the ribs, tugging at his hair. He tried to get a grip on the attacking appendages, but the Kraken had too many to contain.

“Highlander!”

Someone was shouting in his ear. He couldn’t answer, not until he’d tamed the fiend.

Feet. He trapped a pair of them. Hands. There were too many. He growled when the creature latched its teeth onto his ear. He lifted his head and forced his eyes open.

He was nose-to-nose with a woman.

“At last!” she yelled into his face. “We’re drowning. We need to get off this boat. Oh, Lord. Focus your eyes.”

The small boat, the woman, how he’d come to be here—it all came back to him in a rush. The troublesome creature of his dream was no Kraken. It was Elizabeth.

“Please tell me that you’re awake.”

His head was pounding. Why did she insist on yelling?

“Quiet, lass,” he barked, matching the sharpness of her tone. “I wasn’t asleep. You took an oar to my head.”

“I didn’t know it was you.”

Before he could respond, her face sank back beneath the surface of sloshing water. She came up a moment later, sputtering and butting him in the forehead. He thought his brain was about to explode.

“Are you trying to knock me out again?”

“Nonsense, you ignorant beast. I’m drowning.”

Drowning? Everything around him was still foggy. He blinked, repeating what she’d said.

Of course. They were still in the boat. The two of them were sprawled in the bottom, and she was trapped beneath him, working hard just to keep her face above water. The blasted thing was nearly full of water.

It would only take one more powerful wave. Then the craft would go to the bottom, and they’d be left floating in the river.

“Where are we?” He pushed himself back onto his knees. “How long was I out?”

She sat up, clutching the edges as he looked around. A gust of rain slapped him in the face. They were in the middle of a full-blown tempest.

“I don’t know,” she replied, trying to pull her legs out from beneath him. “I was too busy saving your life to pay any attention.”

Once they were out of this mess, he’d have a few things to lecture her on, starting with that point.

Alexander squinted toward the river’s edge on either side. The river had widened out considerably, though with the sheets of rain and near darkness, it was difficult to see exactly how far they were from either bank. The wind was howling, kicking up waves and threatening to send them under at any moment. They had to be below the abbey, but how far was hard to say.

“Where are the blasted oars?” he demanded, looking around him.

“It was them or you,” she replied over the wind. “I decided to keep you.”

Perhaps he’d not be too harsh in his lecture.

They struck some half-submerged timber, and the current shoved the boat sideways. That was all it took. They swamped, and Alexander grabbed her arm.

“Swim ashore,” he ordered. He pointed to what appeared to be the riverbank.

He had no opportunity to say anything more. The boat sank beneath them, disappearing in the black water and leaving him kicking to keep his head above the surface. Fighting the current, he looked for her. She was nowhere to be seen.

“Elizabeth,” he shouted as her head popped up a few yards away. As quickly as she appeared, she went under again.

Swimming hard, he closed the distance. She surfaced, her arms flailing as he reached her. When she started to go down again, he grabbed the back of her cloak and drew her up.

Gasping for breath, she wrapped her arms around his neck. She was digging her feet into his thighs, trying to climb his body.

“Go easy, lass. Float with the current,” he ordered, trying to loosen her death grip on him.

“I don’t know how to float,” she cried, holding even tighter. “I can’t swim!”

Of course. What need would a pampered royal castle dweller have for so basic a survival skill?

A wave washed over them, pushing both their heads underwater. She was practically sitting on his shoulders by the time he managed to fight his way to the surface. Spinning her in the water, he threw his arm across her chest. As he began kicking for the shore, she continued to fight him. But from the diminished depth of the scratches she was carving into his arm, he knew she was beginning to tire.

“I have you, Elizabeth,” he said in her ear. “Trust me.”

She heard him and stopped fighting. Turning her head, she looked over her shoulder at him. For a brief moment, their gazes locked. Her face had taken on an ashen hue; her lips were blue and trembling. Her body was still locked in a spasm of fear.

“I promise. I won’t let you drown,” he said.

He felt her begin to relax against him, letting him support her.

A curtain of rain and wind-whipped waves surrounded them, but Alexander did his best to keep the water from washing over her face and adding to her fright. Avoiding debris, he swam in the direction of land, or what should have been land.

They moved across the current that was carrying them quickly downriver. All he could see was brown choppy water flowing over what should have been fields.

After two days of hard rain and then this tempest, the flooding river had widened past its normal bank. Forests beyond were merely a murky black blotch in the gray-green light. He could see nothing of the pine-covered mountain ridge to the north.