The Enchantress E-Book

May McGoldrick

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

Seitenzahl: 471

Beschreibung

Book 2 of the Highland Treasure Trilogy  The three Percy sisters hold the secret to a long-lost treasure, coveted by the Lord Deputy of England. Each sister escapes England via a different route.  Fleeing persecution from the English king, level-headed Laura took shelter in the Highlands of Scotland. But when she found herself abducted by the fearsome Laird of Blackfearn, all her well-made plans were torn asunder. His reckless and wild ways left Laura burning in his wake...and awakened in her a passion as untamed as his own!

Leseprobe

THE ENCHANTRESS

Highland Treasure Trilogy, Book 2

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

Book Duo Creative

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

The Enchantress: Highland Treasure Trilogy, Book 2 Copyright © 2010 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

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

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

Cover Art by Dar Albert. www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

Created with Vellum

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

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick

About the Author

To Hilary, our favorite Ross

1

Fearnoch, the Northern Highlands

December 1535

The gold coin tumbled slowly across the knuckles of the silent Highlander standing against the sandstone wall. When the group across the open square stopped at a stall containing bundled wool, the coin paused as well, its Tudor rose gleaming even in the shadows.

“The one with a face like a pig’s arse called her Laura, master.” The toothless farmer talking to him spat into the half-frozen mud and glared across the market square. “The lass might be dressed only in the rags they’ve given her, but she’s of quality, there’s no doubtin’.”

Across the cold, windswept square, the two watched the Sinclair men herding the women along. The gold coin resumed its journey along the deft knuckles of the tall Highlander.

“Though she’s a young thing, from the way she talks, there’s no doubt she’s English. If it weren’t for that, I’d wager more ‘n one of yer crofters would have stolen her already from these swine.” He spat again. “Aye, it’s a fearful shame, master. Why, if I was twenty years younger, I’d...”

William Ross of Blackfearn left the farmer without a word and, tucking the gold sovereign into his wide leather belt, stepped out of the shadows of Fearnoch Cathedral and into the midday sun. As he strode through the scattered crowds of townsfolk and farmers to a cart by the ancient stone cross at the center of the square, he was immediately joined by two of his men.

“It’s her, master. It’s the same one you’ve been looking for.”

William absently dug the fingers of one hand into the coarse wool bundled in the wagon.

“And all of them don’t go together. The two other women are nuns from that tumble-down convent near Little Ferry.”

Watching the group stop by another stall, William stared at the hooded Englishwoman’s back. Encircled by the Sinclair brutes, she appeared to be a wee, fragile thing. At this point, though, he didn’t want to even think about the hardship she must have gone through over these past three months, living as a captive among those blackguards. He reminded himself that there couldn’t be any bloodshed. Not while he was trying to rescue her, at any rate. He’d promised his brother that much.

“Should we take her now?” his man continued, glancing at the scar-faced farmer standing with them. The other man’s hand moved to the hilt of a dirk half hidden beneath the red and black plaid of the Ross tartan. His face showed his eagerness for a fight. “They’ve been plenty rough with her. Without so much as a ‘by yer leave’, the ugly one shoved her right out of the wool seller’s tent up by the north road.”

“There was talk of the dungeons at Rumster Castle.”

“They’ve been locking her up for months, master.”

“The lass had her hood pulled low over her face to hide the tears.”

“Aye, and her shame, the poor woman.”

“There’s only a half dozen Sinclair men with her. We can take them, master,” the first man growled. “It’d be a good deed to help the wee lass and set the bastards back a step.”

“Wait here.” William turned his back, leaving the two looking helplessly after him as he strode unhurriedly around the stone cross toward the wool merchant’s stall.

As William approached, the Sinclair men visibly stiffened. They knew who he was. He ignored them.

The two nuns, gathered right outside the wool merchant’s stall, were whispering in French, and William heard snatches of their conversation. They, too, seemed to know him, though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why. He’d never had any dealings with the little group of French nuns living at the convent on Loch Fleet.

Brushing past the Sinclair men, William sauntered into the stall, casually picking up a piece of fleece and setting it down. The Englishwoman, reaching over, immediately picked up the fleece and set it in another pile. Though she was speaking quietly and continuously to the merchant, she appeared resolute about bringing some organization to the jumbled piles of wool the man had carted to market.

Suddenly, William found himself listening intently. There was something captivating about the soft lilt in her voice. Although her timid attempt at mimicking the Highland tongue was charming, her English accent—as Ren, the old farmer, had said—gave her away immediately. Peering covertly at her, he could just see a lock of black hair that had fallen free of her worn hood. Looking back down at her small hands, chafed by hard work and cold weather, he realized that she was sorting the fleece by color and quality.

An amused smile tugged at his mouth.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the leader of the Sinclairs was watching him carefully. William picked up another fleece, one that still retained marks of black tar in the thick wool. He intentionally dropped the fleece on the ground and moved over a step.

The Englishwoman immediately picked it up, but as she did, raised voices could be heard from the square. Glancing around, the Highlander realized that a shouting match between a haughty townswoman and a crofter driving a dozen red shaggy-haired steers through the market square had drawn the Sinclairs’ attention momentarily.

William looked at the Englishwoman. She was standing with the fleece in her hand, ignoring the commotion in the square. She was clearly undecided about which pile the fleece belonged in. Without a word, he took it out of her hands and placed it on the pile of fleece that she’d deemed of the poorest quality.

She turned in shock at his forwardness, a scowl darkening her face. But then, for William Ross of Blackfearn, something stopped, and the world stopped with it. Perhaps it was her eyes that halted him in his tracks. Their deep, violet-blue color was not like any he’d ever seen. Except perhaps for Molly, the wench he visited occasionally at the Three Cups on the Inverness road. Nay, these eyes were even deeper, more violet than Molly’s.

An eon may have passed—William couldn’t be sure—and still he found himself staring. It occurred to him that perhaps it was the surprise in her pale face that made his heart pause for that lingering moment. It was a face of an enchantress, English or no.

William thought she was about to speak, but the woman hesitated as one of her captors eyed her menacingly. She said nothing and looked away.

When he glanced back at the Sinclair men, he saw the nuns had separated themselves from the party, each moving toward a different part of the marketplace. Turning away, William ambled as casually as he could out of the stall, stopping a young lad who was walking about and hawking apples. The uproar had died down, and the cattle were disappearing down the dirt street.

“Hurry on, lass.”

Shooting a quick look back at them, William could see that the Englishwoman was still standing in the stall. The Sinclair men had no patience with her and the leader tugged at her elbow.

“If you’re not back by vespers,” the leader growled, “it’ll mean a dozen lashes, if you understand my meaning.”

With a hasty nod she left the fleece behind, and immediately the group moved through the crowd toward a group of tented stalls belonging to traveling merchants in from Inverness.

At the next stall the woman paused again, but this time only for a moment as she straightened out a display of women’s shoes. The disgusted curses of one of the Sinclair warriors rose above the sounds of the market throng.

Flipping his uneaten apple to a street urchin running by, William crossed the way and slipped into the alley between the merchants’ tents and a low wall behind them. Beyond the wall was a ditch, and a stand of trees was visible beyond that.

Working his way past serving lads sitting idly on half-empty carts of merchandise, he moved silently into the alleyway between the third and fourth tents. A merchant selling brightly colored Flemish cloth was calling out to the guarded woman. The cloaked and hooded Englishwoman drew near the tented stall, and William stepped back into the shadows.

As he did, a gypsy band came to life across the way, their tambourines and bells and flashing-eyed women immediately drawing the gazes of the Sinclair warriors.

The Highlander seized his chance. With a silencing look at the merchant, William reached out, grabbed the startled woman by the wrist, and dragged her in one quick motion into the alleyway.

“I’m a friend,” he whispered against her ear.

Covering her mouth with his hand nonetheless, William took her around the waist with his other and speedily backed along the alley. As they reached the low wall at the end, the Ross turned and released the squirming woman, setting her back on her feet and turning her to face him. Her hood was pulled forward, and a lock of thick black hair had tumbled out across her eyes.

“We’ve only a moment before they discover you’re missing. But I’ve horses waiting beyond that stand of trees. You’re safe now.” The Englishwoman was clearly stunned. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “You’ve nothing to fear. You’ve been rescued.”

The woman’s eyes swept questioningly over him, focusing on the coin that he suddenly pulled from his leather belt. The Tudor rose flashed in the sunlight.

“I’ve no time now to explain. If we’re to get you out of Fearnoch, we’ll have to⁠—”

William Ross’s words died on his tongue as the woman’s full-throated scream—loud enough to be heard in Edinburgh—cut like a sword through the crisp winter air.

2

Gilbert Ross leaned into the fireplace and tried to peer up the chimney. Seeing nothing, the young priest got up from his knees and straightened the iron pokers leaning neatly against the wall. The smoke continued to back up in the fireplace, drifting into the room and hanging like a pall just above his blond, tonsured head.

The sound of the door opening behind him drew his gaze. Two clerics hesitantly peered inside the chamber.

He gestured to them. “Father John, it’s time we sent for the mason.”

The younger of the two men nodded vigorously and withdrew, immediately disappearing down the corridor.

“And Father Francis, if you find this chamber too suffocating for our work...”

“I’m used to this, Provost.” The older priest stepped into the room and closed the door. “For as long as I can remember, this chimney has smoked. Father Jerome gave up on it long ago, I think.” He shook his head. “It’s a nuisance during the winter months.”

Giving up on things had been his late predecessor’s guiding rule, Gilbert Ross had quickly realized after taking over the position as provost of the Church of St. Duthac. Gilbert stepped over Willie, his barrel-chested dog, who continued to snore unconcernedly while his master pulled open a shuttered window. Gilbert filled his lungs with the cold winter air that swept in beneath the escaping smoke.

“One of the fishermen from the village has just returned from the market at Fearnoch, Provost. She’s there.”

Gilbert turned and found the priest already positioned at his customary position at the trestle table, his gnarled hands untying the black ribbon around an oversized account book.

“And my brother?”

“He is there as well. In the company of Ross farmers already at market, but with none of his warriors.”

The hint of criticism was obvious in the old priest’s tone, and Gilbert stiffened a bit defensively. He and his older brother William had been pupils to Father Francis from the time they were lads, packed off by their mother—over their father and their eldest brother Thomas’s objections—to the ancient church school. Even though William was now laird of the Ross clan—and Gilbert himself was now the provost of St. Duthac—he knew that Father Francis would always view them as lads to be scolded.

Aye, he knew what was coming.

“Gilbert...er, Provost...for a man of William’s position to act⁠—”

“Father Francis, I thought William showed great wisdom when he assured me, and you were sitting right where you are now, when he assured me that he would take care of this problem without bloodshed.” Gilbert moved as well to the table and took his place across from his old mentor. “Considering the fact that, since Thomas’s death two years ago, Ross and Sinclair men haven’t clashed seriously, don’t you think it a responsible step for William to avoid starting up the fighting again?”

Francis grumbled under his breath, his fingers traveling across the pages.

The old priest was still scowling darkly as he carried on with the pretense of looking for the last ledger entry. Gilbert braced himself. He knew Father Francis was not finished. Provost or not, he would hear the frequently repeated reprimand once again.

“There was something else, Father?” Gilbert said gently.

The old man exploded. “Aye, there’s something else, as you well know. William can no longer hold to the reckless, ne’er-do-well days of his youth. By Duthac’s Shirt, William is laird now. The leader of the Clann Gille Aindrias, the ruler of all this land from Fearnoch Firth to The Minch. He carries in his veins the blood of his namesake, the great William, earl of Ross, who led our own kinsmen under the Bruce at Bannockburn. It was his hand that put the Ross seal on the Declaration of Arbroath.”

“I know, Father Francis,” Gilbert interrupted softly, stopping the older priest’s ardent sermon. “I’m William’s brother. I, better than anyone, know of our name, our blood, and William’s responsibilities.”

The priest nodded sternly. “Aye. You’re a fine man, Gilbert, and I’m as proud of you as if you were my own son, but it’s time you used your power as provost of St. Duthac’s to benefit not only those who make the pilgrimage here, but the people of Ross as well.”

“Father Francis, I’ve been provost of this church and its lands for a wee bit more than a month now, and if you’re saying that my desire to bring some semblance of order to this place, that my plans to stop the deteriorating condition of St. Duthac’s is somehow compromising my responsibilities to the people⁠—”

“I’m saying no such thing.” The old priest placed both elbows on the table and stared evenly into Gilbert’s eyes. “What I am saying is that for the first time in your life you can wield some authority over your older brother. You can influence William, direct him in the affairs of⁠—”

“William is the laird of Ross, Father. I am a priest.”

“Aye. You have spiritual authority.” Father Francis pointed a long, bony finger at Gilbert. “I’ve seen how he treats you, now that you’re provost. He does not deal with you as he did when you two were growing up, when you were just the younger brother to banter with and to battle constantly. There’s a new respect that he is giving you now.”

Only in the presence of others, Gilbert thought. “So what is it exactly that you recommend I do with this new power over my brother?”

The semblance of a smile increased the deep wrinkles of the old priest’s face.

“You must order him to change.”

“To change?” Gilbert repeated, not comprehending. “William?”

“Aye. It’s time William Ross of Blackfearn grew up. It’s time that he began putting more value in his own life. By the saint, Gilbert, he thinks more of the lowliest shepherd lass’s well-being than he does his own. You know as well as I that he’d sleep in his stable if he thought some old beggar woman would be more comfortable in the laird’s chamber.” The old priest leaned over and lowered his voice. “It’s time that he learned to act the part of laird. It’s what I tried to prepare him for. He should pick up where Thomas left off by renovating that holding of his—bringing back some of the grandeur of Blackfearn Castle. Blackfearn is the largest castle this side of Inverness. He must stop ignoring his position in life. Stop acting like a common crofter—eating and sleeping in the fields and in the stables. He must take his place as the leader of his warriors and his people.”

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, but the priest rolled on.

“It’s true that the title of earl was stripped from your great-grandsire all those years ago. But in the eyes of these people and every nobleman in the Highlands, William is now the true earl of Ross. He is their chieftain. He is the laird.” Father Francis laid a gnarled hand on Gilbert’s wrist. “And as such, he is responsible for marrying properly and begetting a bairn to keep your great lineage alive.”

Gilbert again began to speak, but Father Francis raised a hand to him and gestured toward the mantel above the fireplace and the simple sketch there on a wooden board. A sketch of a little girl’s face.

“And I’m not even mentioning William’s failure to bring Thomas’s wee daughter, Miriam, back to her own clan folk.”

Gilbert sat back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully at the elderly priest. There was no purpose in arguing. Half of what the chaplain said was true. More than half. Still, though, there was no way that Gilbert could see his brother marrying.

Much to Gilbert’s chagrin, William openly preferred the company of the fallen women at the Three Cups Tavern to any lass who had been properly brought up. In fact, this past fall when he’d finally allowed Gilbert to drag him along to visit with the earl of Caithness’s daughter—under the pretense of a hunting party—William had said as much to the poor lass herself. Gilbert cringed at the memory of the young woman running, horrified, across the heather-covered meadow back to the arms of an indignant mother.

Gilbert and William were only two years apart in age while Thomas had been more than twelve years their senior. As the result of this age difference, the younger brothers had been inseparable as lads. And later on, when Gilbert had pursued a life in the church and William had been sent away to St. Andrew’s—and later to the household of Lord Herries—the two still had managed to remain close. They were not just brothers but friends as well. And it was as a friend and not as kin that Gilbert Ross had determined that his older brother was perfectly content with whom he’d become—despite the fact that he’d been called upon to be laird. Changing him at this stage in his life would be as difficult as chiseling in stone with a willow branch.

“It’s up to you, Gilbert. You have the power and the influence to do a great deal more good than repairing an ancient chimney. St. Duthac’s will survive. You, however, have the ability to preserve the Ross name and, in so doing, save that undisciplined rogue you call brother at the same time.” Father Francis lowered his eyes to the open page of the ledger. “You have the insight to force him to settle into a calmer and more respectable life. To find the right lass. That’s what he needs, Gilbert. Just the right lass to calm his wild ways.”

Perhaps, Gilbert thought with a resigned smile. But pity the woman.

* * *

William Ross cursed out loud as the squirming, kicking banshee landed a solid punch to the small of his back. Who would have thought that fighting off an entire company of Sinclairs would be easier than controlling the woman he’d thrown over his shoulder?

The woman’s scream had brought all hell down around their ears. The moment he’d tried to drag her over the low wall, she’d dug in her heels, caterwauling as William had never heard before. For a wee thing she was vigorous.

The riot that immediately ensued upturned carts and tore down tents. The Sinclairs were quick to pour into the alleyway, but the Ross farmers were equally quick to head them off once they knew the laird was involved.

Grimacing at the pain shooting through his lower back, William swung his sword at the advancing leader of the Sinclairs, and the sound of clashing steel rang out above the sounds of the shouting crowd.

Shoving the Sinclair warrior back into the tumultuous battle behind him, William once again tried to back over the low wall. As the Sinclair leader lunged at him again, the toothless old farmer from the market square tackled him with a vitality that William would have never thought he had in him, thumping the man’s head resoundingly on the frozen earth. The Sinclair sword clattered against the wall at William’s feet.

As the farmer sat up on the man’s chest and winked, the woman dangling over the laird’s shoulder dug her claws into William’s buttocks. He shifted her weight farther up over his shoulder and heard her gasp at the threat of dashing her head against the wall.

“We’re going out the south lane to a boat at the firth,” he shouted to the old farmer. “Keep these blackguards busy for me.”

“Aye,” the crofter shouted back before two brawlers came tumbling over him.

She was again using her fists on his buttocks and legs.

“Quit your squirming,” William growled, vaulting the wall and starting across the ditch. “Or I’ll ding you so hard, lass, you’ll think you’re back in England.”

“Let me go, you filthy brute, or I swear I’ll dig your ugly eyes out of their sockets with my own fingers.”

He started up the far embankment toward a stand of trees and the horses. “Is that not a wee bit violent for a mild and gentle English damsel? Nay, let me think on this again. You’ll take my eyes out so you can put them back in my face, and more to your liking. How do you sort eyes, m’lady? By color or⁠—?”

“I’d stuff one into that gaping maw of yours if there were a chance you’d choke on it.”

“Now, there’s an arrangement I would never have thought of.” Reaching the two waiting horses, William hesitated and sheathed his sword. He could hear the brawl still going full-tilt in the market square. There was no way that the woman clawing his back was going to ride alone. Yanking free one of the tethers, he swatted the horse on the rump, sending it trotting off a ways.

Her gasp of shock at being thrown like a sack over the withers of the other horse brought a devilish smile to his lips, and he leaped onto the animal himself. As William spurred the steed into action, he took a firm hold on the cloak at the nape of her neck, keeping her draped precariously over the horse.

“I’ll kill you,” she screamed, eliciting a gruff laugh from him. “I swear I will!”

The jump over a low stone wall and down across an icy brook turned her threats into another gasping cry. Her hands clutched his boot in desperation as he looked over his shoulder. Three of the Sinclair men had broken away from the chaos and were running across the market square after them.

In a moment William and his prize had entered the scrubby pines to the south of Fearnoch, and he abruptly wheeled his charger to the west, galloping over stony, uneven ground—and away from the boat landing on the firth.

“Let me up, you blackguard,” she cried out, squirming again. “The little I had in my belly is ready to...is ready to...”

“Feel free, lass. It’d be far better to get rid of it down there than in my lap.”

In a few minutes of hard riding, they broke out of a patch of trees and onto a well-traveled road that led from the town along the line of hills to the west.

The woman was now groaning at every dip and turn in the road, but William was not ready to slow their flight. When the road turned southward again toward Fearnoch Firth, the Ross laird reined his horse sharply to the right, leaving the main road and continuing west through thick groves of pine.

Looking back over his shoulder again, William could see no sign of the Sinclair men. They were on foot and heading south toward the firth. It would be far too late once they realized their mistake. The pursuers would never catch them now.

Swerving just in time to dodge a low-hanging branch, he shoved the woman’s head hard against the flank of his horse to avoid her face being whipped by the lower branches.

After a few more jumps over fallen trees, they splashed through a half-frozen stream. Slowing on the far bank, he peered down at her. She was no longer squirming or even groaning.

William eased the pressure on the back of her neck and raised her face a bit. It was a rather odd shade of green, he thought. Well, she hadn’t been exaggerating about being ill. His horse’s shoulder and forearm showed signs of the woman’s breakfast.

At the foot of a stone ledge beside the stream, the Highlander reined his horse to a stop and climbed off. The sight of her, draped like a rag across the withers of the horse, brought a frown to his face. He reached across the animal and dragged the Englishwoman toward him. His frown deepened as she drooped over his arm in a dead faint. He crouched on the gravel of the bank and cradled her in his arms.

Pushing the hood of her heavy cloak over her head, William stared at the woman. Something tightened in his chest at the sight of her pale and disheveled condition. Her black hair had for the most part escaped its braid and now was lying in a tantalizing array around a perfectly formed face. Her eyes were half closed, and her full lips were parted, her breaths unsteady. Even in her tousled condition—nay, perhaps because of it—William knew that she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Shaking off such thoughts with a snort, he pulled at the tie that bound the cloak at her throat. With little help the outer garment dropped away, revealing the careful embroidery work in the soft gray wool of her dress. A pulse fluttered at the base of her ivory throat, and William’s gaze swept downward over womanly curves not even her demure dress could hide. He looked away at the gurgling stream, feeling a sudden ache in his loins at the sight of a woman so beautiful. And so vulnerable.

“Easy does it, Will,” he murmured to himself. “This is not the lass for you.”

When he looked back at her a trice later, her eyes were just beginning to focus. The violet blue orbs gazed up into his face without recognition for a long moment, and then suddenly narrowed. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly subdued it and looked away from her face. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he stood her up, gently leading her to the edge of the stream.

“I can see you’re not much for riding.”

“I hate you!” Her voice was a mere whisper.

“Nay, you do not.” Seating her on the ground by the running water, William dipped his hand in the icy water and wiped her chin, the silky softness of her cheeks and brow. “You’re grateful to me. For saving your life. For rescuing you from those rascals.”

Her eyes were fixed on his face, and when he glanced at them, he could see the anger blazing in their depths. She slapped his hand away from her face, and he sent a silent prayer of relief heavenward. He didn’t need to be touching that face right now.

Rising to his feet, the Highlander took a step back. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her slender back as she leaned over the water, washing her face and drinking from the icy brook.

A long moment passed. The woman was kneeling beside the water, tidying her hair with her back to him. Suddenly William realized she must be cold. Striding across the loose gravel, he was reaching down to pick up her cloak when another thought struck him. Despite being a captive for months and despite what he’d gone through to save her life, she was still no more than a pampered court lady. And an English one, even worse!

“Are you a madman?”

She was standing up and facing him, her hands on her hips and eyes flashing. He threw the cloak at her, and she caught it. Yanking it around her shoulders, she quickly fastened the ties at her throat. She looked like a warrior donning armor for battle.

“Mad? Nay, I’m a Ross.”

The anger in her gaze flickered with uncertainty, a frown replacing the glare for just an instant before a very tantalizing half smile broke out on the corner of her lips. Shaking her head slightly, she turned away, using the corner of her cloak to dry her face. It took great willpower on his part not to close the distance between them and take over the task himself. If she was not who she was, he would easily give up a night’s sleep kissing away those droplets, drying each glistening bead with the soft touch of his mouth.

“I don’t know enough of the clans and the ways of you Highlanders. Am I to understand that being a madman and being a Ross are the same thing?”

“Mind your tongue.”

She carefully tucked a loose strand of hair into her braid and glanced at him, catching him staring. He scowled at her and looked over at his horse.

“Why did you take me from the village?”

“I didn’t take you. I rescued you.” He shook his head and cast a quick look at her, grumbling, “Most likely saved your life.”

She rolled her eyes in disbelief and pulled the heavy hood over her hair.

“Och,” William uttered under his breath. He was a fool to think she’d actually appreciate what he had done. “It was not my choosing to come after you. And if you give me trouble, woman...”

“Do you intend to do me harm?”

The Highlander grunted an obscenity and, turning around, whistled for his horse. “So like the rest of them.”

“The rest of whom?”

“The rest of your type. Selfish. That’s the whole lot of you. It’s bred into you and nurtured at every turn. And ungrateful, too. You’ll bite the hand that feeds you. Of that I’ve no doubt.”

“Ungrateful?”

He led his horse back to the brook. He could hear her approaching behind him. Ignoring her, he crouched down beside his horse and started rinsing off the steed’s shoulder and leg.

“I’m supposed to be grateful because you turned a peaceful market square into a battleground in a matter of moments? Because you took me, against my will, from the people who⁠—?”

“I’m finished talking to you, woman. The sooner I’m rid of you, the better.” He stood up beside the horse. “If you give your word to behave, I’ll let you ride behind me this time. Gilbert is no doubt thinking I⁠—”

The blow to his head was sharp and heavy, and William stumbled forward against his horse. The flashes of a thousand suns exploded in front of his eyes, but the Highlander half turned in an attempt to see the woman behind him.

“Wh...yer...message...”

He tried to take a step toward her as she swung the rock again. He watched, unable to lift his arm and ward off the blow.

“Sister.”

And then, suddenly, he was falling. The woman disappeared from his sight. The flashing suns disappeared. Even the gravel of the streambed disappeared, and an abyss opened beneath him, as black and silent as a grave.

3

“She may be the gentlest creature I’ve ever known.” The old nun pursed her wrinkled lips. “She’s certainly the smartest and the most agreeable woman her age I’ve ever met. Oui, I tell you, Laura Percy was an angel sent from God above to help us in a time of greatest need.”

The wiry, squint-eyed monk motioned to the three burly Lowlanders to remain in the corridor as he followed the aging nun into the cold work room. Peering critically about the sparsely furnished room, the clergyman’s gaze came to rest on the tiny fire burning in the hearth.

The nun gestured toward a pair of low three-legged stools set by the hearth, and the monk wordlessly removed a small basket filled with spools of fine colored thread from one. The old woman sat on the other and picked up a stretcher of half-embroidered linen, waiting for the monk to continue.

“So then, it must be at least three months that she’s been here.”

She nodded. “She arrived here at a most critical time. I had been bedridden with the flux for days. My own nuns were distraught at the thought of me dying and leaving them to fend for themselves. What with our little bit of planted ground ready for harvest, and the linens we’d completed needing to be taken to harvest markets—it was all too much for them, I’m afraid. And then...well, suffice it to say that we were in great, great need.”

The monk idly picked up a rough-cut block of peat from the floor beside the hearth and examined it. “I assume she arrived by boat?”

“Oui,” she said in response, her hands deftly working the intricate design with her needle. “I was far too ill to notice, but from what my nuns have told me, the same storm that flattened our flax field beside the storage shed brought her to us. It was a fierce storm, they tell me, and the ship bringing Laura north was forced to take shelter here at Loch Fleet rather than try to make the journey back into Fearnoch Firth. Of course, I didn’t learn of the details until I began to recover weeks later. By the grace of God, Laura simply took over, calming my nuns and managing to bring about order again. Why, the child even took charge of my care.”

The mother superior’s hands paused in their rapid movements, and her dark eyes focused on the monk.

“Some of my nuns believe it was their prayers that directed the storm’s winds, and that ship bearing Laura, to our little bit of coast.”

The monk stared at the woman a moment, and then threw the block of peat into the fire.

“Aye, no doubt,” he growled. “And you say you’re expecting her back anytime now?”

“Oui.” The woman’s busy hands returned to their work. “Before dark, to be sure. But first, I must tell you as much as I can about all the good deeds that Laura Percy has done around here. Since you have the privilege of escorting her back to her mother, I want you to have all the details. You must compliment Lady...what was her name again?”

“Percy,” the monk grunted, tossing another block of peat on the fire.

“But wasn’t she a Scottish lass?”

“Aye, Nichola Erskine Percy. She’s Scottish.”

“Oui. Lady Erskine.” The nun nodded agreeably, ignoring the growing note of irritation evident in the monk’s tone. “She has done a very fine job of raising her daughter.”

The monk came restlessly to his feet and walked to the small window that looked out over the road from Fearnoch. “I’ll tell Lady Nichola.”

“Laura has a gift, I believe, for managing things. All it takes her is one look at things, and she knows exactly what to do.”

“How many went to Fearnoch with her this day?”

The nun paused, surprised at the monk’s brusque question. “Ah. Well, you’re correct in assuming that we don’t send her there all alone. With our little Convent of St. Agnes on the road from Rumster Castle, I could see no sense in risking her life. I simply asked a favor of Sir Walter, our benefactor, and he happily agreed to it.”

“What kind of favor?” The monk half turned toward the nun, rubbing his hand over his grizzled chin.

“The favor of an escort on market days, of course. Laura is half English and a pretty thing, at that.” The nun’s hands paused again mid-stitch. “So I thought it best for everyone involved. From what I hear, Sir Walter’s men have become quite protective of her over these months. With so many rogues traveling along these coasts, it’s quite important to protect a thing as precious as our Laura.”

The monk nodded and, frowning, turned his attention back to the window and the road beyond. The shadows were lengthening rapidly.

“The only complaints that I hear, every now and then, is that our Laura likes to take her time when she goes to Fearnoch. Did I tell you that she’s really good at⁠—?”

“You did,” the monk interrupted bluntly and turned again toward the nun. “Did she arrive here with many possessions?”

“Possessions? Nay, not our Laura.”

“How much? A trunk?”

The nun paused suspiciously for a long moment before finally nodding with understanding. “Of course. In taking her back, you need to know of⁠—”

“How much, woman?”

“So little,” the nun blurted, appalled. “Nothing that would require a trunk. She had only a small traveling bag.”

“And that contained what?”

“Personal items. Necessities. Nothing more.” The nun stopped abruptly and then glared in annoyance at the monk. “I don’t believe the contents of Mistress Laura's traveling bag are anyone’s business.”

“Since she’s been here, has she received anything from her mother?”

“Her mother?” she asked, surprised, before shaking her head. “Nay. I believe that she does get lonely every now and then.”

“So she hasn’t heard anything from the mother.”

The monk’s sharp tone again caused the nun to pause in mid-stitch. “That is correct. She has not. You’re the first to bring any news of her from the Borders.”

“Or from her sisters? Has she received anything from them?” He stepped into the middle of the room. “A message? Or perhaps a package?”

“A package?” The nun’s eyes narrowed in concern. In an abrupt motion she rose to her feet, dropping her work into the basket on the floor. “I don’t believe I care for these questions. In fact, I think I’ve already revealed more than I should. I certainly have no wish to confide anything Laura would want to tell you herself.”

“Was there a package?”

“Laura will be here soon enough herself. If she wishes, she can answer any other questions that you have. For now, you may remain here where it’s comfortable and warm. I, however, must go to see to it that there’s enough to feed you all.”

The monk stepped between the aging nun and the doorway, blocking her exit.

“Was there a package?” The cleric’s face was dark and threatening. “If you will not answer, I’m certain I could call in one of your other nuns and get the answers I seek.”

The woman set her jaw obstinately. “I am in charge of this convent. Now, I don’t know what kind of behavior is acceptable in the Borders—or wherever it is you come from—but here you have no right to speak this way.”

“Remember that I’ve been sent by⁠—”

The nun held up her hand sharply, silencing the surprised monk as her eyes continued to blaze.

“For someone put in a position of trust by this young woman’s kin, you certainly disappoint me. Now, sit back down by that fire and compose yourself. I’ll send Laura to you as soon as she returns from Fearnoch.”

With a curt nod of dismissal, the mother superior of the Convent St. Agnes stepped nimbly around the monk and swept out of the room.

* * *

“What about my sister?” Dropping the rock into the sand and gravel, Laura knelt beside the sprawling body of the unconscious Highlander and poked his shoulder with one finger. Getting no response, she shook him. “What were you trying to say about my sister? Which sister?”

There was no answer. Perhaps she hit him too hard, she thought. Moving quickly around to the other side, she peered carefully at the face speckled with sand and pebbles. Laura carefully brushed away some sand that was clinging to the man’s long eyelashes. Cautiously, she pressed her hand against the side of the warrior’s throat. She could feel the blood pulsing beneath the taut skin, but his face had taken on an ashen hue. He looked none too healthy.

Feeling through the thick waves of dark chestnut-colored hair for a lump—or two—she drew back involuntarily when her fingers encountered the warm wetness of blood on his scalp. Parting the hair, Laura bit her lip at the size of the gash that she’d given him.

Drawing from her sleeve the finely embroidered kerchief that the mother superior had given her as a token of gratitude, Laura dabbed the gash gently. In a moment the snow white linen was crimson with his blood.

Looking about her at the surrounding groves of pine as she rinsed out the kerchief in the icy stream, Laura considered her next move.

She’d delivered the blow, certain that the man must be in the service of vile Sir Arthur Courtney or another of the English king’s deputy lieutenants. Certainly, the Tudor coin he’d been tossing around when he first dragged her out of the market square had hinted as much.

But now, looking at the insensible creature lying beside her, vulnerable and injured, Laura began to have misgivings about her earlier assumptions.

What had he said? she thought. He had somehow been under the impression that she needed to be rescued. But rescued from whom, she wondered? And then, his final words before...well, before passing out. Laura was sure he’d said the words ‘message’ and ‘sister’.

It was conceivable that Catherine or even Adrianne had indeed hired this man to bring her a message. It was also conceivable that, seeing her in the company of those Sinclair warriors, the man thought that she needed help. Suddenly, Laura began to feel a bit queasy.

He’d said he was a Ross. Looking at the red and black weave of his tartan, she’d learned enough about the Sinclairs’ rival clan to recognize it. The Ross clan controlled huge tracts of land to the south and west of Fearnoch. And from what she’d gathered from the Sinclairs, the two clans had been feuding over the lands to the north of Fearnoch Firth since the dark days of the Viking marauders. Quickly, she untied the scabbard of his sword from his belt and laid it aside with the man’s dirk.

Suddenly, everything made sense. As far as her two sisters knew, she had gone not to the Convent of St. Agnes, but to a little convent connected with the Shrine of St. Duthac, just to the south in the village of Tain.

South of Fearnoch Firth.

South. In Ross lands.

The revelation made her feel no better.

Laura quickly bent down and soaked the kerchief again in the cold, clear water. As she gently cleaned the wound, she chided herself for her error. It was only natural that her sisters would contact someone from the Ross clan. And it was also natural, given the animosity between the Ross clan and the Sinclairs, that this man would think she was being held against her will.

“Why couldn’t you explain this to me before?” She knelt over the unconscious warrior. “It’d serve you right if I just left you here to freeze, treating me as you did.”

But Laura knew she couldn’t do that. In all probability, no one would be passing through this thickly wooded glen until spring. And though the blood had stopped flowing from one of the two wounds and the man’s color was improving, she had no way of knowing how long he’d be unconscious. If the cold didn’t kill him, some wild animal would certainly drag him off.

Glancing over her shoulder, Laura saw his horse standing quietly and watching her curiously. “You won’t let me leave him here, will you?”

The handsome steed snorted and pawed the ground.

“Very well. Then come and help me.” Stretching one hand out toward the animal, she quietly waited until, after a moment of hesitation, the horse moved across the gravel and came right to her, rubbing his muzzle in her open hand. Taking hold of his reins, Laura got to her feet and, for assurance, tied the animal to a tree branch hanging down from the steep embankment above the rocky ledge. Two large leather bags hung across the steed’s flank, and she turned her attention to the bags’ contents.

“We can’t take him back to your own people,” she said, pulling a plain gray blanket from one of the bags. The horse tossed his head and snorted in response.

Laura frowned. “No matter what you say, we cannot do that. I have no knowledge of the roads leading to the south. I have no idea how far it is to Tain. And besides, even if I left it to you to take us there, and we made the trip successfully, my life will be forfeit for certain for dealing such a blow to one of their kin.”

The animal flicked his ears at the woman and looked away.

“I am not going south,” she said adamantly, opening the blanket and putting it to the side. Next, she leaned down and again checked the man’s head. The bleeding had stopped.

“At the same time, it would probably not do to be found by the Sinclairs. Heaven knows what they’d do to your master after all he did to them back in Fearnoch. Then I’d never find out what he knows of my sisters.”

The horse’s next snort had an agreeable tone to it.

“Aye. The Convent of St. Agnes it is, then. But I’ll need your help, my friend, to get him on your back.” She leaned over the Highlander again and rolled him onto his back. He groaned as his wound touched the stony streambed, and she paused to look at him.

By the Virgin, he is a handsome man, she thought self-consciously, kneeling down beside him. But then, she’d known that from the moment she’d first gazed into his deep blue eyes in the market square. Tall and lean with shoulder-length hair framing sunburned and strong features, he had a reckless air about him. Involuntarily, she touched the thin scar that ran along the left side of his jawline. Not just reckless. He’d looked dangerous. Very dangerous.

He groaned again, and she snatched her hand away and stood up.

“Leave it to my sisters to pick a man with looks this fine to come after me.” Moving between his legs, she reached down and took hold of both his hands. Pulling with all her might, she managed to get him to a sitting position. But the horse was still too far away, and she realized now that, at any rate, she simply could not lift the man’s dead weight onto the horse’s back. She was trapped. She let go of the man’s hands and winced at the sound of his head thumping on the frozen ground.

Deciding on an alternative method, Laura rummaged through the Highlander’s travel bag again and took out a coil of rawhide, leaving the man’s tam and an old, oft-mended shirt in the bag. Tying his hands and ankles was easy, but dragging him up onto the narrow rock ledge beside the stream bed was extremely difficult. It took far longer than she would have thought.

Totally out of breath, Laura hung the man’s legs down over the ledge and sat him up.

“Stay.” She propped the Ross warrior up carefully. Quickly, she climbed down and maneuvered the horse into a position where she could pull the man across the animal’s back. Standing in one stirrup, Laura pulled the man’s wrists, and—as she fell backward onto the stony streambed—he dropped heavily across the steed’s withers. She eyed the result with satisfaction and scrambled to her feet, wiping the sweat from her brow. The horse snorted and flicked his ears.

“It serves him right to ride in the same fashion as he forced me to ride. And no matter how sick he gets, we’re not stopping until we get back to the convent.”

Using the remainder of the leather cord, Laura tied the sword to the saddle behind her. She picked up the warrior’s dirk and looked at the weapon thoughtfully. Then, cutting a small slit in the lining of her cloak, she slid the dagger into the opening. Next, she picked up the blanket off the ground and covered the Highlander’s large frame with it. Finally, she climbed up behind the man and, with one hand looped in the belt of her captive, clucked encouragingly to the horse.

With a quick look at the descending sun, Laura turned the horse’s head northward along the path next to the stream.

Even if he had lied when he’d shouted to his cronies, even if he’d headed west instead of south, Laura was confident she could find her way back to the convent. Loch Fleet, where the convent was located, stretched a few miles inland from the sea. She knew that she could not fail to find her way home.

But as she rode northward, the afternoon sun continued to fight its way through an encroaching patch of dark clouds and sink toward the western mountains, and the chill wind of the Highland winter began to bite into her skin. Her passenger had not stirred once since they began, and only the warmth of his body against her legs kept her anxiety at bay. Then, just as dusk began to descend in the forest, they broke out of a grove of trees, and Laura spotted the shimmering waters of the loch. The setting sun reflected warmly on the buildings of the small convent across the silvery body of water.

Luck was with her, she thought with a smile, for the Highlander had indeed taken them to the west of Fearnoch. Riding around the loch, past the ruins of the old castle on the western shore, would take no time at all.

It was nearly dark when they drew close to the convent, and Laura eyed the chimney above the chapter house with curiosity. The mother superior was extremely frugal with her fires, and yet the clouds of smoke billowing from the top of the chimney showed that she was still burning a fire there.

Knowing how little these nuns spent in terms of their comfort, she found that sign of extravagance somewhat alarming. But that was not the only thing that made her pause as she approached the convent’s low stone walls. As she peered through the small orchard past the outbuildings and the chapter house beyond, she could just make out the shadows of a number of horses tied by the convent gates.

Laura reined the steed to the left, off the path along the loch, spurring the animal along the wall toward the back gate, which led into the orchard and to a small stone hut just inside the walls.

The Convent of St. Agnes was not like so many other religious houses that entertained a steady stream of travelers. Though the nuns there were not cloistered, the meagerness of their existence was generally known, and better food and lodgings could be readily found nearby. As a result, with the exception of a weekly visit of a few Sinclair warriors coming to escort Laura and the other nuns to market, no one ever stopped here.

Climbing down from the horse to open the gate, Laura had a vague sense that these visitors were not the neighboring Sinclairs coming to report the news of her abduction at Fearnoch.

As she led her mount through the gate, Laura was delighted to see Guff, the convent’s laborer, come out of the hut and shuffle hastily toward her.

“We have visitors?”

“Aye, mistress. And a miserable lot, if ye ask me,” the farm hand grouched irritably.

As he took the reins from the young woman, he eyed the horse and the blanket covered body suspiciously.

“There’s not a man among ‘em, mistress, with as fine a steed as this ‘un. Did you commit murder to get ‘im?” he asked, hitching a grizzled chin at the unmoving body.

She smiled at the question and pulled the blanket off the Highlander.

“Haven’t the Sinclairs returned from Fearnoch?” Laura moved around to the other side of the horse to look at the wound on the Highlander’s head, and Guff followed her.

“Nay, not a soul, as yet. I was thinking you got ‘em tied up in one of your ideas. It’s hardly a...”

Glancing at the farm hand, she frowned to see him standing beside her, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“He is not dead, Guff. I just laid a small rock against the side of his thick skull. For his own good.”

“The laird?”

Laura looked from the farmer’s shocked face to the Highlander and back. “What did you say?”

“The laird, mistress. The Ross himself. William...William Ross of Blackfearn. His brother’s the new head priest at St. Duthac’s. They are a mighty family to the south—a good one so long as ye’re not a Sinclair. But I don’t think murdering their laird will set well with ‘em, mistress.”

Laura winced at the sudden knotting in her stomach, accompanied by the certain knowledge that something had indeed gone terribly wrong. Glancing back at the Highlander, she hesitantly pushed back the loose strands of hair from the man’s brow and looked into his face. Even in a dead faint, he suddenly looked murderous.

“Whist, Guff. He isn’t dead. Help me bring him into the chapter house.”

“Nay, mistress. Ye cannot take him there. I don’t know who these Lowlanders be, but the rascals have been hanging about here for most of the day, and I don’t like ‘em a bit.”

“Lowlanders?” Laura glanced at the direction of the chapter house. “Do you know what they want?”

“Aye. You.”

Laura tried to keep down the bile moving up in her throat. She could feel the fear burning in her face, and she tried desperately to fight off the panic. But then, the memory of her family being torn apart, of her father being taken from them by the English king’s soldiers, of learning later of his death in the Tower. Nay, the memories were all too vivid. All too recent.

“The mother superior came out of there just once this afternoon. But the crabbed old monk with ‘em sent for her right off.” Guff pulled the laird from the horse, hoisting him onto his shoulder. “I’ll take him inside my hut. Ye’d best tie his horse behind those trees and out of sight, mistress. From the looks of things, I don’t think it wise to have him found by these blackguards. I’ll tend to the horse later.”

She nodded quietly, and as soon as Guff disappeared through the low doorway, she led the charger to the grove of trees that the laborer had indicated.