

**TEMPTATIONS**

A Historical Romance Sampler

by

TEMPTATIONS

A Historical Romance Sampler

Copyright © 2020 by Glynnis Campbell

Glynnis Campbell – Publisher

P.O. Box 341144

Arleta, California 91331

Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net

ISBN: 978-1-63480-063-1

Cover design by Richard Campbell

Formatting by Author E.M.S.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net.
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**Table of Contents**

Copyright

TEMPTATIONS

THE WARRIOR MAIDS OF RIVENLOCH

> The Shipwreck – Sample
> 
> A Yuletide Kiss – Sample
> 
> Lady Danger – Sample
> 
> Captive Heart – Sample
> 
> Knight's Prize – Sample

THE WARRIOR DAUGHTERS OF RIVENLOCH

> The Storming – Sample
> 
> A Rivenloch Christmas – Sample
> 
> Bride of Fire – Sample

THE KNIGHTS OF DE WARE

> The Handfasting – Sample
> 
> My Champion – Sample
> 
> My Warrior – Sample
> 
> My Hero – Sample

MEDIEVAL OUTLAWS

> The Reiver – Sample
> 
> Danger's Kiss – Sample
> 
> Passion's Exile – Sample
> 
> Desire's Ransom – Sample

SCOTTISH LASSES

> The Outcast – Sample
> 
> MacFarland's Lass – Sample
> 
> MacAdam's Lass – Sample
> 
> MacKenzie's Lass – Sample

CALIFORNIA LEGENDS

> The Stowaway – Sample
> 
> Native Gold – Sample
> 
> Native Wolf – Sample
> 
> Native Hawk – Sample

Dear Reader

About Glynnis Campbell

Contact Information

_Glynnis Campbell's_

Temptations

**_Irresistible romance and adventure await._**

**_Which will you choose?_**

TEMPTATIONS offers you a sample platter of delights from each of my stories, mouthwatering tidbits to whet your appetite for more.

Visit Viking-plundered shores and the wilds of the American west, towering Scottish castles and ships on the high seas... Ride with knights in shining armor and maids wielding blades... Gamble with gunslingers in frontier saloons... Match wits with pirate crews and bands of medieval outlaws... Tag along on breathtaking escapades with Pictish royals, Tudor spies, Native American renegades, and Highland lairds.

Who will lay claim to your heart? Will you be charmed by a kilted champion or captivated by an armored foe? Swept away by a dangerous devil or bewitched by a brilliant hero?

_The choice is yours..._

**_The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch_**

The Shipwreck (novella)

A Yuletide Kiss (short story)

Lady Danger

Captive Heart

Knight's Prize

**_The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch_**

The Storming (novella)

A Rivenloch Christmas (short story)

Bride of Fire

Bride of Ice

Bride of Mist

**_The Knights of de Ware_**

The Handfasting (novella)

My Champion

My Warrior

My Hero

**_Medieval Outlaws_**

The Reiver (novella)

Danger's Kiss

Passion's Exile

Desire's Ransom

**_The Scottish Lasses_**

The Outcast (novella)

MacFarland's Lass

MacAdam's Lass

MacKenzie's Lass

**_The California Legends_**

Native Gold

Native Wolf

Native Hawk

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

**Damsels in shining armor...riding to the rescue!**

Deirdre, Helena, and Miriel, three kick-arse Scots wenches known as The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, aren't about to become any man's chattel, until they meet heroes who are strong enough to tame their wild ways and worthy enough to win their wayward hearts.

_Sneak Peek at..._

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THE SHIPWRECK

The Prequel Novella to

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

_THE NINTH CENTURY_

_EASTERN COAST OF PICTLAND_

The Viking was staring at her again with his penetrating eyes. Avril didn't think she'd ever seen eyes so blue—as blue as a summer sky, nay, a robin's egg. Rattled, she turned aside to add another log to the fire.

"I think your arm is broken," she mumbled. Why she'd told him that, she didn't know. After all, it didn't matter. She wasn't about to fix it for him.

"It's a wonder my head isn't broken," he said with a humorless smirk.

She blushed at the reminder of her unchivalrous blow and picked up the poker again, eager to change the subject. "How is it you know my language?"

"I learned it from a Pict slave."

She clenched her teeth. A slave? She jabbed at the glowing coals, but refused to rise to the bait. Maybe she should turn HIM into a slave.

As if he'd read her mind, he asked, "What do you intend to do with me?"

She'd been asking herself that same question all morning. For the moment, she'd hold him hostage. If any of his men turned up alive, she might be able to bargain for her safety with his life. But she wasn't sure there were survivors. Even if there were, there was no telling whether he was of any value to them. The Northmen didn't seem to have the same regard for life as her people did.

"I haven't decided yet," she said.

"If you're going to kill me," he growled, "get it over with."

She frowned. Kill him? In cold blood? Obviously, he knew nothing about chivalry. She straightened with pride, planting the poker between her feet like a blade.

"I can't do that. Unlike you, my sense of honor prevents me from slaying unarmed men."

He lifted a brow in mockery. "Give me a blade then," he suggested.

Avril gave him a sardonic smirk. She wasn't so foolhardy as to think she could easily triumph over a gargantuan Northman. But she didn't appreciate his insulting attitude. "I may be honorable, but I'm not soft in the head."

He half-smiled. "You look soft to me."

Her composure slipped, but only for an instant. "I assure you, you wouldn't be the first man I sent limping from the field of battle."

His eyes narrowed suggestively. "And you wouldn't be the first woman I laid out flat on her back."

**Want more?** **Keep reading!**

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A YULETIDE KISS

The Prequel Novella to

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

_PICTLAND_

_9th CENTURY_

The way the harlot had burst in, as if chased by demons, made Brude think his brothers had forced the woman to do their bidding. And that he couldn't allow.

Then, when she turned and he saw her delicate features—her fair and beautiful face, framed by the soft gray of her hood, her wide and innocent blue eyes, her tender pink lips—he knew this had been a mistake.

Now that she'd laid eyes on him, she would surely run in horror from the room.

But she didn't.

In fact, after she'd given him a cursory glance from head to toe, as if she were sizing him up for a coat of chainmail, she gave him a fearless nod of approval.

For an instant he was stunned.

Then a loud banging against the door made her curse in surprise.

He clapped a hand to the hilt of his sword.

But before he could draw steel, the lass threw herself at him.

She was stronger than she looked. His shoulder blades hit the wall with a thud as she knocked him backward, clinging to his hauberk. He raised his hands defensively, not wishing to do her harm.

When another pounding broke the latch on the door, he expected his brothers to come charging in.

His first instinct was to protect the woman.

But he was prevented when she seized the back of his neck and pulled his head down to hers, pressing her lips against him in a forceful and demanding kiss.

At first, he was too shocked to move. Her mouth felt soft and foreign, inviting and compelling. For an instant, nothing else seemed to matter.

But the commotion of the intruders crowding into the doorway finally won his attention. As he pulled away and peered over her hood, he saw several blond giants mixed in with his brothers. Vikings. Perhaps they wanted the beauty for themselves.

He glanced down at her hooded face, which she was keeping carefully concealed from the others.

She looked up at him with beseeching blue eyes, wordlessly begging him not to give her to them.

At that moment, his brother Taran growled at the Vikings, "How dare you interrupt a man at his bed sport."

"Bed sport? Bed sport!" one of the Vikings exclaimed. "That is no harlot!"

Galan argued, "Indeed? Well, she took our coin readily enough!"

The lovely blue-eyed maid suddenly hissed a whisper at Brude, "Kiss me!"

A second blond warrior crossed his arms over his chest. "If she's a harlot, I'll eat my helm."

"If she isn't a harlot," Galan said, standing nose-to-nose with the Viking, "I'll eat your helm, and I'll take my coin back."

The lass in his arms skewered Brude with a poisonous glare and bit out words in a harsh whisper. "Kiss. Me."

She wasn't the first woman to look at him with such viciousness. He was used to hateful leers. The few women who weren't terrified of him despised him.

What he wasn't prepared for was the sharp point of the woman's dagger pressing against his ballocks.

Needing no more convincing, he lowered his head and gave her what she demanded. She withdrew the dagger.

Somewhere, distantly, as he reveled in the sensual pleasure of her kiss, he heard the Vikings deciding they'd made a mistake, that she couldn't possibly be the woman they sought after all.

But Brude scarcely noticed when they closed the door. Nothing could distract him from the intriguing sensation of the woman's yielding mouth, the fresh fragrance of her skin, the warm caress of her gentle breath on his face.

Kimbery meant to end the kiss as soon as she heard the door close.

She just never heard it close.

Instead, a hot and sultry wind rushed through her ears, swirling around her head, blocking out all other sound, blowing through her soul with devastating force.

The kiss went on and on—gentle, searching, sweet. The warmth of his flesh thawed her winter-chilled face. The masculine rasp of his beard against her skin excited her. The unexpected suppleness of his lips made her ache with tenderness. It felt like she'd waited all her life for this.

Her head spun.

Her breath quickened.

Her heart melted.

Then the dagger dropped from her limp fingers and hit the floor.

The sound split them apart faster than an axe.

She staggered back, blinking as if awakening from a dream.

The man looked just as astounded. There were still stern creases in his forehead, but the dark fire in his eyes had softened to smoldering coals. His jaw, unyielding before, was now relaxed, and his mouth—his delicious, warm, supple mouth—was open in wonder.

Flustered, she averted her gaze.

He bent down slowly, intending to retrieve her dagger.

Panicked that he might confiscate it, she dove for the weapon and rose, brandishing it before her.

Backed against the wall, he had nowhere to go.

She licked her lips. Now what was she going to do?

For a long while they only stared at each other. Finally, he narrowed his gaze at her, drilling into her with his night-black eyes.

"You're not a harlot, are you?" he asked.

She stared back at him, working out the best reply.

If she said nay, he'd call the Vikings back and turn her over to them.

If she said aye, he might be more willing to assist in her escape. Of course, saying aye also came with the risk of certain entitlements he might expect.

On the other hand, how much could he do while she held a dagger on him?

"Aye, of course I am," she said, challenging him with a lift of her chin.

"You're here of your own free will?"

"Aye."

"And you were paid?"

"That's right," she said. At least, she thought that was right. That was how it was usually done, she assumed. A harlot would be paid before she... Kimbery gulped.

"Then why are you holding a dagger on me?" he asked.

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LADY DANGER

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

Book 1

_THE BORDERS, SCOTLAND_

_SUMMER 1136_

"So. Where is the _third_ wench?" Sir Pagan murmured casually, feeling _far_ from casual as he and Colin du Lac hunkered behind the concealing cloud of heather, spying upon the two splendid maids bathing in the pond below.

Colin almost strangled on his incredulity. "God's breath, you greedy sot," he hissed. "Isn't it enough you have your choice of the pair of beauties yonder? Most men would give their sword arm to—"

Both men froze as the blonde woman, gloriously drenched in sunlight, sluiced water up over a creamy shoulder, rising above the waves enough to bare a pair of perfect breasts.

The blood drained from Pagan's face and rushed to his loins, making them ache fiercely. Lord, he should have swived that lusty harlot in the last town before he came to negotiate such matters. This was as foolish as shopping for provender with a full purse and an empty gut.

But somehow he managed an indifferent grunt, despite the overwhelming desire disrupting his thoughts and transfiguring his body. "A man never purchases a blade, Colin," he said hoarsely, "without inspecting all the swords in the shop."

"True, but a man never runs his thumb along the edge of a sword presented him by the _King_."

Colin had a point. Who was Sir Pagan Cameliard to question a gift from King David? Besides, it wasn't a weapon he chose. It was only a wife. "Pah." He swatted an irritating sprig of heather out of his face. "One woman is much the same as another, I suppose," he grumbled. "'Tis no matter which of them I claim."

Colin snorted in derision. "So say you _now_ ," he whispered, fixing a lustful gaze upon the bathers, "now that you've laid eyes on the bountiful selection." A low whistle shivered from between his lips as the more buxom of the two maids dove beneath the glittering waves, giving them a glimpse of bare, sleek, enticing buttocks. "Lucky bastard."

Pagan _did_ consider himself lucky.

When King David first offered him a Scots holding and a wife to go with it, he'd half expected to find a crumbling keep with a withered old crone in the tower. One glance at the imposing walls of Rivenloch eased his fears on the first count. And to his astonishment, the prospective brides before him, delectable pastries the King had placed upon his platter, were truly the most appetizing he'd seen in a long while, perhaps _ever_. His stirring loins offered proof of that.

Still, the idea of marriage unnerved Pagan like a cat rubbed tail to whiskers.

"God's eyes, I can't decide which I'd rather swive," Colin mused, "that beauty with the sun-bleached locks or the curvy one with the wild tresses and enormous..." He released a shuddering sigh.

"Neither," Pagan muttered.

"Both," Colin decided.

Deirdre of Rivenloch tossed her long blonde hair over one shoulder. She could feel the intruders' eyes upon her, had felt them for some time.

It wasn't that she cared if she was caught at her bath. The sisters suffered from neither modesty nor shame. How could one be ashamed or proud of having what _every_ woman possessed? If a stray lad happened to look upon them with misplaced lust, it was no more than folly on his part.

Deirdre ran her fingers through her wet tresses and cast another surreptitious glance up the hill, toward the thick heather and drooping willows. The eyes trained upon her now were likely just that, belonging to a couple of curious youths who'd never seen a naked maid before. But she didn't dare mention their presence to Helena, for her impetuous sister would likely draw her sword first and ask their business afterward. Nay, Deirdre would deal with their mischief later herself.

For now she had a grave matter to discuss with Helena. And not much time.

"You delayed Miriel?" she asked, running a palm full of sheep tallow soap along her forearm.

"I hid her _sais_ ," Helena confided, "and then told her I'd seen the stable lad skulking about her chamber earlier."

Deirdre nodded. That would keep their youngest sister busy for a while. Miriel allowed no one to touch her precious weapons from the Orient.

"Listen, Deir," Helena warned, "I won't let Miriel sacrifice herself. I don't care what Father says. She's too young to wed. Too young and too..." She sighed in exasperation.

"I know."

What they both left unspoken was the fact that their youngest sister wasn't forged of the same metal they were. Deirdre and Helena were their father's daughters. His Viking blood pumped through their hearts. Tall and strong, they possessed wills of iron and skills to match. Known throughout the Borders as the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, they'd taken to the sword like a babe to the breast. Their father had raised them to be fighters, to fear no man.

Miriel, however, to the lord's dismay, had proved as delicate and docile as their long departed mother. Whatever warrior spirit might have been nurtured in her had been quelled by Lady Edwina, who'd begged that Miriel be spared what she termed the perversion of the other two sisters.

After their mother died, Miriel had tried to please their father in her own way, amassing an impressive collection of exotic weapons from traveling merchants, but she'd developed neither the desire nor the strength to wield them. She'd become, in short, the meek, mild, obedient daughter their mother desired. And so Deirdre and Helena had protected Miriel all her life from her own helplessness and their father's disappointment in her.

Now it was up to them to save her from an undesirable marriage.

Deirdre passed her sister the lump of soap. "Trust me, I have no intention of leading the lamb to slaughter."

The spark of battle flared in Helena's eyes. "We'll challenge this Norman bridegroom then?"

Deirdre frowned. She knew that not every conflict was best resolved on the battlefield, even if her sister did not. She shook her head.

Helena cursed under her breath and gave the water a disappointed slap. "Why not?"

"To defy the Norman is to defy the King."

Hel arched a brow in challenge. "And?"

Deirdre's frown deepened. One day Helena's audaciousness would be her undoing. "'Tis _treason_ , Hel."

Helena puffed out an irritated breath and scrubbed at her arm. "'Tis hardly treason when we've been betrayed by our own King. This meddler is a Norman, Deirdre...a _Norman_." She sneered the word as if it were a disease. "Pah! I've heard they're so soft they can't grow a proper beard. And some say they bathe even their hounds in lavender." She shuddered with distaste.

Deirdre had to agree with her sister's frustration, if not her claims. Indeed, she'd been just as outraged upon learning that King David had handed over Rivenloch's stewardship, not to a Scot, but to one of his Norman allies. Aye, the man was reported to be a fierce warrior, but certainly he knew nothing about Scotland.

What complicated matters was that their father had launched no protest. But then the Lord of Rivenloch hadn't been right in his mind for months now. Deirdre frequently found him conversing with the air, addressing their dead mother, and he was ever losing his way in the keep. He seemed to live in some idyllic time in the past, where his rule was unquestioned and his lands secure.

But with the crown resting uneasily on Stephen's head, greedy English barons had begun to wreak havoc along the Borders, seizing what lands they could in the ensuing chaos.

So for the past year the sisters had hidden their father's infirmity as best they could, to maintain the illusion of power and to prevent the perception of Rivenloch as an easy target. Deirdre had served as steward of the holding and captain of the guard, with Helena as second in command, and Miriel had overseen the household and the accounts.

They'd managed adequately. But Deirdre was wise enough to know such subterfuge couldn't last forever. Maybe that was the reason for this sudden appointment by the King. Maybe rumors of their father's debility had spread.

So Deirdre had thought long on the matter and finally come to grips with the truth. While Rivenloch's knights were brave and capable, they hadn't fought a real battle since before she was born. Now, land-hungry warmongers threatened the Borders. Only a fortnight ago, a rogue English baron had brazenly attacked the Scots keep at Mirkloan, not fifty miles distant. Indeed, it might serve Rivenloch well to have the counsel of a warrior seasoned in combat, someone who could advise her in her command.

But the missive that had arrived last week bearing King David's seal, the one Deirdre had shared only with Helena, also commanded the hand of one of the Rivenloch daughters in marriage to the steward. Clearly, the King intended a more permanent position for the Norman knight.

The news had hit her like a mace in the belly. With the responsibility of managing the castle, the furthest thing from any of the sisters' minds had been marriage. That the King would wed one of them to a...foreigner...was inconceivable. Did David doubt Rivenloch's loyalty? Deirdre could only pray this compulsory marriage was his attempt to keep the holding at least half in her clan's hands.

She wanted to believe that, needed to believe it. Otherwise, she might be tempted to sweep up her own blade and join her hotheaded sister in a Norman massacre.

Helena had ducked under the water, cooling her wrath. Now she sprang up suddenly, sputtering and shaking her head like a hound, spraying drops everywhere. "I know! What if we waylay this Norman bridegroom in the wood?" she said eagerly. "Catch him off guard. Slice him to ribbons. Blame his death on The Shadow?"

For a moment, Deirdre could only stare mutely at her bloodthirsty little sister, whom she feared might be serious. "You'd slay a man unawares and accuse a common thief of his murder?" She scowled and grabbed the soap back. "Father named you rightly, Hel, for 'tis surely where you're bound. Nay," she decided, "no one is going to be killed. One of us will marry him."

"Why should we have to marry him?" Hel said with a pout. "Is it not loathsome enough we must surrender our keep to the whoreson?"

Deirdre clutched her sister's arm, demanding her gaze. "We'll surrender nothing. Besides, you know if one of _us_ doesn't wed him, Miriel will offer herself up, whether we will it or not. And Father _will_ let her do it. We can't allow that to happen."

Deirdre stared solemnly into her sister's eyes, and they exchanged the look of unspoken agreement they'd shared since they were young lasses, the look that said they'd do whatever it took to protect helpless Miriel.

Helena bit out a resigned curse, then muttered, "Stupid Norman. He doesn't even have a proper name. Who would christen a child Pagan?"

Deirdre didn't bother to remind her sister that _she_ answered to the name of Hel. Even Deirdre had to agree, however, that Pagan was not a name that conjured up visions of responsible leadership. Or honor. Or mercy. Indeed, it sounded like the name of a barbaric savage.

Helena sighed heavily, then nodded and took the soap again. "'Twill be me then. I will wed this son of a whelp."

But Deirdre could see by the murderous gleam in Hel's eyes that if she had her way, her new husband wouldn't survive the wedding night. And while Deirdre might not mourn the demise of the uninvited Norman, she had no wish to see her sister drawn and quartered by the King for his murder. "Nay," she said. "'Tis _my_ burden. I'll marry him."

"Don't be a fool," Hel shot back. "I'm more expendable than you. Besides," she said with a scheming grin, rubbing the sheep tallow soap back and forth between her hands, "while I lull the bastard into complacency, you can marshal forces for a surprise attack. We'll win Rivenloch back from him, Deirdre."

"Are you mad?" Deirdre flicked water at her reckless sister. She had little patience for Helena's blind bravado. Sometimes Hel boasted like a Highlander, thinking all England could be conquered with but a dozen brawny Scots. "'Tis _King David's_ will to marry off this Norman to one of us. What will you do when _his_ army comes?"

Hel silently pondered her words.

"Nay," Deirdre said before Hel could come up with another rash plan. " _I_ will wed the bast-...Norman," she corrected.

Helena sulked for a moment, then tried another tactic, asking slyly, "What if he prefers me? After all, I have more of what a man favors." She rose from the water, posturing provocatively to lend proof to her words. "I'm younger. My legs are more shapely. My breasts are bigger."

"Your mouth is bigger," Deirdre countered, unaffected by Hel's attempt at goading her. "No man likes a woman with a shrewish tongue."

Hel frowned. Then her eyes lit up again. "All right then. I'll fight you for him."

"Fight me?"

"The winner weds the Norman."

Deirdre bit her lip, seriously considering the challenge. Her odds of besting Hel were good, since she fought with far more control than her quick-tempered sister. And Deirdre was impatient enough with Hel's foolishness to take her up on her offer at once and see the matter settled. Almost.

But there were still the spies on the hill to deal with. And unless she was mistaken, that was Miriel hastening across the meadow toward them.

"Hush!" Deirdre hissed. "Miriel comes. We'll speak no more of this." Deirdre squeezed the water from her hair. "The Normans should arrive in a day or two. I'll make my decision by nightfall. In the meantime, keep Miriel here. I have something to attend to."

"The men on the hill?"

Deirdre blinked. "You know?"

Hel lifted a sardonic brow. "How could I not? The sound of their drool hitting the sod would wake the dead. You're sure you don't need assistance?"

"There can't be more than two or three."

"Two. And they're highly distracted."

"Good. Keep them that way."

"God be praised," Colin said under his breath, "here comes the third." He nodded toward the delicate, dark-haired figure scampering across the grassy field sloping down to the pond, disrobing as she came. "Lord, she's a pretty one, sweet and small, like a succulent little cherry."

Pagan had suspected the last sister might be missing a limb or several teeth or most of her wits. But though she looked frail and less imposing than her curvaceous sisters, she, too, possessed a body to shame a goddess. He could only shake his head in wonder.

"Sweet Mary, Pagan," Colin said with a sigh as the third maid jumped into the pond, and they began splashing about like disporting sirens. "Whose arse did you kiss? The King's himself?"

Pagan frowned, bending a stem of heather between his fingers. What _had_ he done to deserve his pick of these beauties? Aye, he'd served David in battle several times, but he'd met the King in Scotland only once, at Moray. David had seemed to like him well enough, and Pagan _had_ saved a number of the King's men from walking into a rebel ambush that day. But surely that was no more than any commander would have done.

"Why would David hand over such a prize?" he pondered aloud. "And why to me?"

Colin snickered in amusement. "Come, Pagan, are you so unaccustomed to good fortune that you'd cast it away when it's dropped into your lap?"

"Something's wrong."

"Aye, something's wrong," Colin said, at last tearing his attention away from the three maids to focus on Pagan. "You've lost your wits."

"Have I? Or am I right to suspect there may be a serpent in this garden?"

Colin's eyes narrowed wickedly. "The only _serpent_ is the one writhing beneath your sword belt, Pagan."

Maybe Colin was right. It was difficult to think straight when his braies were strained to bursting. "Tell me again, what exactly did Boniface say?"

Pagan never rode onto a field of combat blind. It was what had kept him alive through a score of campaigns. Two days earlier he'd sent Boniface, his trusted squire, in the guise of a jongleur, to learn what he could about Rivenloch. It was Boniface who had alerted them to the daughters' intention to bathe in the pond this morn.

Colin rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, recounting what the squire had reported. "He said the lord's wits are addled. He has a weakness for dice, wagers high, and loses often. And, oh, aye," he seemed to suddenly remember. "He said the old man keeps no steward. He apparently intends to pass the castle on to his eldest daughter."

"His _daughter_?" This was news to Pagan.

Colin shrugged. "They're Scots," he said, as if that would explain it all.

Pagan furrowed his brow in thought. "With Stephen claiming the English throne, King David needs strong forces to command the Border lands," he mused, "not _wenches_."

Colin snapped his fingers. "Well, that's it, then. Who better to command Rivenloch than the illustrious Sir Pagan? 'Tis known far and wide that the Cameliard knights have no peer." Colin turned, eager to get back to his spying.

In the pond below, the voluptuous wench playfully shook her head, spattering her giggling sister and jiggling her weighty breasts in a manner that made Pagan instantly iron hard. Beside him, Colin groaned, whether in bliss or pain, he wasn't sure.

Suddenly realizing the significance of that groan, Pagan cuffed him on the shoulder.

"What's that for?" Colin hissed.

"That's for leering at my bride."

"Which one's your bride?"

They both returned their gazes to the pool.

Pagan would be forever appalled at the lapse of his warrior instincts at that moment. But by the time he heard the soft footfall behind him, it was too late to do anything about it. Colin never heard it at all. He was too busy feasting his eyes. "Wait. I see only two now. Where's the blonde?"

Behind him, a feminine voice said distinctly, "Here."

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CAPTIVE HEART

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

Book 2

_THE BORDERS_

_SUMMER 1136_

Helena was drunk. Drunker than she'd ever been in her life. Which was why, no matter how she struggled against the cursed brute of a Norman oaf wrestling her down the castle stairs, she couldn't break his hold on her.

"Cease, wench!" her captor hissed, stumbling on a step in the dark. "Bloody hell, you'll get us both killed."

She would have grappled even harder then, but her right knee suddenly turned to custard. Indeed, if the Norman hadn't caught her against his broad chest, she'd have tumbled headlong down the stone steps.

"Ballocks," he muttered against her ear, his massive arms tightening around her like a vise.

She rolled her eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over her. If only her muscles would cooperate, she thought, she could wrench loose and push the bloody bastard down the stairs.

But she was well and truly drunk.

She hadn't realized just _how_ drunk until she'd found herself in the bedchamber of her sister's bridegroom, Pagan Cameliard, dagger in hand, ready to kill him.

If she hadn't been drunk, if she hadn't tripped in the dark over Pagan's man, slumbering at the foot of the bed like some cursed faithful hound, she might have succeeded.

Damn, it was a sobering thought. Helena, the daughter of a lord, and an honorable Warrior Maid of Rivenloch, had almost slain a man quite _dis_ honorably in his sleep.

It wasn't entirely her fault, she decided. She'd been up until the wee hours, commiserating over a cup, indeed _several_ cups, with her older sister, Deirdre, lamenting the fate of Miriel, their poor little sister, betrothed against her will to a foreigner. And under the influence of excessive wine, they'd sworn to murder the man if he so much as laid a hand on Miriel.

It had seemed such a noble idea at the time. But how Helena had gone from making that drunken vow to actually skulking about the bridegroom's chamber with a knife, she couldn't fathom.

Indeed, she'd been shocked to discover the dagger in her hand, though not half as shocked as Sir Colin du Lac, the brawny varlet over whom she'd tripped, the man who currently half-shoved, half-carried her down the stairs.

Once more, Helena had become a victim of her own impulsiveness. Deirdre frequently scolded Helena for her tendency to act first and ask questions later. Still, Helena's quick reflexes had saved her more than once from malefactors and murderers and men who mistook her for a helpless maid. While Deirdre might waste time weighing the consequences of punishing a man for insult, Helena wouldn't hesitate to draw her sword and mark his cheek with a scar he'd wear to his grave. Her message was clear. No one tangled with the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch.

But this time, she feared she'd gone too far.

Pagan's man grunted as he lifted her over the last step. Damn the knave—despite his inferior Norman blood, he was as strong and determined as a bull. With a final heave, he deposited her at the threshold of the great hall.

The chamber seemed cavernous by the dim glow of the banked fire, its high ceiling obscured by shadow, its walls disappearing into the darkness. By day it was a lofty hall decked with the tattered banners of defeated enemies. But by night the frayed pennons hung in the air like lost spirits.

A cat hissed and darted past the hearth, its elongated shadow streaking wraithlike along one wall. In the corner, a hound stirred briefly at the disturbance, chuffed once, and then lowered his head to his paws again. But the other denizens of the great hall, dozens of snoring servants, huddled upon mounds of rushes and propped against the walls, slumbered on in oblivion.

Helena struggled anew, hoping to wake one of them. They were _her_ servants, after all. Anyone seeing the lady of the castle being abducted by a Norman would send up an alarm.

But it was impossible to make a noise around the wad of the coverlet her vile captor had stuffed into her mouth. Even if she managed, she doubted anyone would rouse. The castle folk were exhausted from making hasty preparations for the travesty of a wedding in the morn.

"Cease, wench," Sir Colin bit out, giving her ribs a jerk of warning, "or I'll string you up _now_."

She hiccoughed involuntarily.

Surely hanging her was an idle threat on his part. This Norman couldn't execute her. Not in her own castle. Not when her only crime had been protecting her sister. Besides, she hadn't killed Pagan. She'd only _attempted_ to kill him.

Still, she swallowed back the bitter taste of doubt.

These Normans _were_ vassals of the King of Scotland, and the King _had_ commanded that Pagan wed one of the daughters of Rivenloch. If Helena had succeeded in slaying the King's man...it would have been high treason, punishable by hanging.

The thought made her sway uneasily in Colin's arms.

"Whoa. Steady, Hel-fire." His whisper against her ear sent an unwelcome shiver along her spine. "Don't faint away on me."

She frowned and hiccoughed again. Hel-fire! He didn't know the half of it. And how dared he suggest she might faint? Warrior maids didn't faint. That was only her feet tangling in the coverlet as they shuffled through the rushes in the great hall.

Then, as they lurched across the flagstones toward the cellar stairs, a different, all too familiar sensation brought her instantly alert.

Shite, she was going to be sick.

Her stomach seized once. Twice. Her eyes grew wide with horror.

One look at the damsel's beaded brow and ashen pallor told Colin why she'd stopped in her tracks.

"Shite!" he hissed.

Her body heaved again, and he snatched the wadded coverlet from her mouth, bending her forward over one arm, away from him, just in time.

Fortunately, no one was sleeping there.

Holding the back of her head while she lost her supper, he couldn't help but feel sorry for the miserable little murderess. She obviously wouldn't have tried to slay Pagan in his sleep if she hadn't been as drunk as an alewife.

And he certainly didn't intend to have the maid hanged for treason, no matter what he'd led her to believe. Executing the sister of Pagan's bride would destroy the alliance they'd come to form with the Scots. She'd obviously done what she'd done to protect her little sister. Besides, who could drop a noose around a neck as fair and lovely as hers?

Still, he couldn't allow the maid to think she could attack a King's man without consequence.

What Colin couldn't fathom was why the three sisters of Rivenloch so loathed his commander. Sir Pagan Cameliard was a fierce warrior, aye, a man who led an unparalleled fighting force. But he was kind and gentle with ladies. Indeed, wenches often swooned over the captain's handsome countenance and fine form. Any woman with half a brain would be ecstatic to have Pagan for a husband. Colin would have expected the sisters, sequestered so long in the barren wilds of Scotland, to vie eagerly for the privilege of wedding an illustrious nobleman like Pagan Cameliard.

Instead, they quarreled over who would be _burdened_ with him. It was perplexing.

Poor Helena had ceased heaving, and now the pretty, pitiful maid quivered feebly, like a storm-tossed kitten locked out of the barn. But Colin dared not let compassion override caution. This kitten had shown her claws. He let her up, then instantly drew his dagger, placing it alongside her neck.

"I'll spare you the gag now, damsel," he told her in a stern whisper, "but I warn you, don't cry out, or I'll be forced to slit your throat."

Of course, if she'd known Colin better, she would have laughed in his face. It was true, he could kill a man without a moment's hesitation and dispatch an enemy knight with a single expert blow. He was strong and swift with a blade, and he had an uncanny instinct for discerning the point of greatest vulnerability in an opponent. But when it came to beautiful women, Colin du Lac was about as savage as an unweaned pup.

Happily, the damsel believed his threat. Or perhaps she was simply too weak to fight. Either way, she staggered against him, shuddering as he wrapped the coverlet tighter about her shoulders and guided her forward.

Beside the entrance to the buttery were a basin and a ewer for washing. He steered her there, propping her against the wall so she wouldn't fall. Her drooping eyes still smoldered with silent rage as she glared at him, but her pathetic hiccoughs entirely ruined the effect. And fortunately, she hadn't the strength to lend action to her anger.

"Open your mouth," he murmured, using his free hand to pick up the ewer of water.

She compressed her lips, as contrary as a child. Even now, with fire in her eyes and her mouth tight with mutiny, she was truly the most exquisite creature he'd ever beheld. Her tresses cascaded over her shoulders like the tumbling froth of a highland waterfall, and her curves were more seductive than the sinuous silhouette of a wine-filled goblet.

She eyed him doubtfully, as if she suspected he might use the water to drown her on the spot.

He supposed she had a right to doubt him. Only moments ago, in Pagan's chamber, he'd threatened to, what was it? Take her where no one could hear her scream and break her of her wild ways at the crack of a whip? He winced, recalling his rash words.

"Listen," he confided, lowering the ewer, "I said I wouldn't punish you until the marriage is accomplished. I'm a man of my word. As long as you don't force my hand, I'll do you no harm this eve."

Slowly, reluctantly, she parted her lips. He carefully poured a small amount of water into her mouth. As she swished the liquid around, he got the distinct impression she longed to spew it back into his face. But with his blade still at her throat, she didn't dare. Leaning forward, she spit into the rushes.

"Good. Come."

When they'd first arrived, Pagan's betrothed had given them a tour of the Scots castle that would be their new home. Rivenloch was an impressive holding, probably magnificent in its day, a little worn, but reparable. The outer wall enclosed an enormous garden, an orchard, stables, kennels, mews, and a dovecote. A small stone chapel sat in the middle of the courtyard, and a dozen or more workshops slouched against the inner walls. A grand tiltyard and practice field stood at the far end of the property, and the imposing square keep at the heart of the holding included the great hall, numerous bedchambers, garderobes, a buttery, a pantry, and several cellars. It was to one of the storage rooms beneath the keep that he now conveyed his captive.

Placing Helena before him, he descended the rough stone steps by the light of a candle set in the stairwell's sconce. Below them, small creatures scuttled about on their midnight rounds. Colin felt a brief twinge of remorse, wondering if the cellars were infested with mice, if it was cruel to lock Helena in there, if she was afraid of the creatures. Just as quickly, he decided that a knife-wielding wench prowling about in a man's chamber, prepared to stab him in his sleep, was likely afraid of very little.

They'd almost reached the bottom of the stairs when the damsel made a faint moan and, as if her bones had melted away, abruptly withered in his arms.

Knocked off-balance by the sudden weight against his chest, he slammed into the stone wall with one shoulder, cinching his arm around her waist so she wouldn't fall. To prevent a nasty accident, he cast his knife away, and it clattered down the steps.

Then she slumped forward, and he was pulled along with her. Only by sheer strength was he able to keep them from pitching headlong onto the cold, hard flagstones below. Even so, as he struggled down the last few steps, the coverlet snagged on his heel and slipped sideways on her body. He lost his grip upon her waist and made another desperate grab for her as her knees buckled.

His hand closed on something soft and yielding as he slid off the last step and finally found his footing at the bottom of the stairs.

Colin had fondled enough breasts to recognize the soft flesh pressed sweetly against his palm. But he dared not let go for fear she'd drop to the ground.

In the next instant, she roused again, drawing in a huge gasp of outrage, and Colin knew he was in trouble. Luckily, since he'd received his share of slaps for past fondlings, he was prepared.

As her arm came around, not with a chiding open palm, but a fist of potent fury, he released her and ducked back out of range. Her swing was so forceful that when it swished through empty air, it spun her halfway around.

"Holy..." he breathed. Had the maid not been drunk, the punch would have certainly flattened him.

"Y' son of a..." she slurred. She blinked, trying to focus on him, her fists clenched in front of her as she planned her next strike. "Get yer hands off me. I'll kick yer bloody Norm'n arse. Swear I will. S—"

Her hands began to droop, and her eyes dimmed as she swayed left, then right, staggering back a step. Then whatever fight she had left in her fizzled out like the last wheezing draw on a wineskin. He rushed up, catching her just before she collapsed.

Cradled against his flank, all the fury and fight gone out of her, she looked less like a warrior maid and more like the guileless Helena he'd first spied bathing in Rivenloch's pond, the delectable Siren with sun-kissed skin and riotous tawny hair, the woman who'd splashed seductively through his dreams.

Had that been only this morn? So much had transpired in the last few weeks.

A fortnight ago, Sir Pagan had received orders from King David of Scotland to venture north to Rivenloch to claim one of Lord Gellir's daughters. At the time, the King's purpose had been a mystery. But now it was clear what he intended.

King Henry's death had left England in turmoil, with Stephen and Matilda grappling for control of the throne. That turmoil had fomented lawlessness along the Borders, where land-hungry English barons felt at liberty to seize unguarded Scots castles.

King David had granted Pagan a bride and thus the stewardship of Rivenloch in the hopes of guarding the valuable keep against English marauders.

Despite the King's sanction, Pagan had proceeded with caution. He'd traveled with Colin in advance of his knights to ascertain the demeanor of the Rivenloch clan. The Normans might be allies of the Scots, but he doubted they'd receive a hearty reception if they arrived in full force, like a conquering army, to claim the lord's daughter.

As it turned out, he was right to be wary. Their reception, at least by the daughters, had been far less than hearty. But by God's grace, by midday on the morrow, after the alliance was sealed by marriage, peace would reign. And the Scots, once they were made merry with drink and celebration, would surely welcome the full complement of the Knights of Cameliard to Rivenloch.

Helena gave a snort in her sleep, and Colin smiled ruefully down at her. _She'd_ offer him no word of welcome. Indeed, she'd likely prefer to slit his throat.

He bent to slip one forearm behind her knees and hefted her easily into his arms.

One of the small storerooms looked seldom used. It held little more than broken furnishings and tools, piles of rags, and various empty containers. It had a bolt on the outside and a narrow space under the door for air, which meant it had likely been employed at one time for just this purpose, as a gaol of sorts. It was an ideal place to store a wayward wench for the night.

He spread the coverlet atop an improvised pallet of rags to make a bed for her. She might be an assassin, but she was also a woman. She deserved at least a small measure of comfort.

After he tucked the coverlet about her shoulders, he couldn't resist combing back a stray tendril of her lush golden-brown hair to place a smug kiss upon her forehead. "Sleep well, little Hel-hound."

He exited, closing and bolting the door behind him, and then sat back against it, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. Perhaps he could steal one last hour of sleep before morning.

If all went well, by afternoon the deed would be done, and the rest of the Cameliard company would arrive. Once Pagan was decisively wed, it would be safe to release Helena.

He marveled again over the curious Scots maid. She was unlike any woman he'd ever met—bold and cocksure, yet undeniably feminine. At supper, she'd boasted of being an expert swordswoman, a claim none of her fellow Scots had disputed. And she'd regaled him with a tale of the local outlaw, trying to shock him with gruesome details that would have unnerved a lesser woman. She'd exhibited the most unbridled temper when her father announced Miriel's marriage, cursing and slamming her fist on the table, her outburst checked only by the chiding of her older sister. And her appetite... He chuckled as he remembered watching her smack the grease from her fingers. The damsel had eaten enough to satisfy two grown men.

And yet she inhabited the most womanly form. His loins swelled with the memory of her naked in the pond—the flicker of her curved buttocks as she dove under the waves, the gentle bounce of her full breasts as she splashed her sisters, her sleek thighs, narrow waist, flashing teeth, the carefree toss of her sun-streaked hair as she cavorted in the water like a playful colt...

He sighed. There was no use getting his braies in a wad over a damsel who currently slumbered in drunken oblivion on the other side of the door.

Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Helena was unique. Intriguing. Vibrant. He'd never met a woman so headstrong, so untamed. As fresh and wild as Scotland itself. And as unpredictable.

Indeed, it was fortunate Pagan had chosen quiet, sweet, docile Miriel for a bride, and not Helena. _This_ wench would have been a handful.

_More_ than a handful, he considered with a wicked grin, recalling the accidental caress he'd enjoyed moments ago. Damn, she had a delectable body. Maybe he could eventually charm the maid into allowing him to take further liberties. His loins tingled at the thought.

Earlier, when he'd foiled her assassination plans, imprisoned her in his arms, and, in the flush of anger, threatened to break her, she'd skewered him with a green glare as raging hot as an iron poker. But she'd been besotted and desperate and not in her right mind.

By the time she awoke in the morn and recognized what she'd done in a drunken furor, she'd likely blush with shame and weep with regret. And when, by the light of day, she realized the mercy this Norman had shown her—his patience, his kindness, his compassion—she might feel more agreeable to his advances. Indeed, he decided, his mouth curving up in a contented smile as he drifted off to sleep, maybe then she'd _welcome_ his caress.

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KNIGHT'S PRIZE

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

Book 3

_THE BORDERS_

_AUTUMN 1136_

Rand stood in the middle of Rivenloch's enormous practice field with his arms crossed self-consciously over his chest. He'd drawn the glances of many a wench in his two dozen years, but none to match the scrutiny to which he was now subjected.

So this was Helena, Muriel's sister. She was a comely lass, with her emerald eyes, wild tresses, and generous breasts. If not for the armor and the menacing sword buckled about her hips, not to mention the Cameliard bridegroom she had waiting somewhere, she might have been dangerously tempting.

At the moment, however, all he could think about was the fact she was circling him like a stable master shopping for a horse, narrowing her eyes at his chest and staring at his legs, alternately nodding in satisfaction and clucking her tongue in disfavor. He half expected her to pry open his mouth and take a good look at his teeth.

"So you've come to court Miriel?" she asked, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms in challenge.

Miriel. Not Muriel. Or Miriam. Or Mirabel. Damn it, he _had_ to remember the lass's name. "Aye, with your permission."

Since their father, Lord Gellir, was feeble of mind, Miriel's suitors were apparently required to seek the approval of her two older sisters.

"Do you think you can protect her?" she asked.

"Protect her?"

"Can you fight?"

He stifled a smile. He'd been a mercenary for six years. Of course he could fight. "If need be."

Then in one fluid movement, she drew her sword and faced him. "Prove it."

His arms fell out of their fold. Surely she wasn't serious. He furrowed his brow. Maybe it was a trick.

"Let's see what you've got," she urged.

He glanced toward the spectators. Sir Rauve and his companion were there, a couple of other knights, a wee lad sucking his thumb, and a trio of maidservants. None of them looked surprised by Helena's challenge.

"My lady, I don't think _—_ "

"Come on, fight me." She poked his chest with the point of her sword.

He retreated a step. Bloody hell! She _was_ serious.

"With all due respect, my lady, I cannot _—_ "

"Cannot what? Protect Miriel? Then you may not court her."

"Of course I can protect her, but _—_ "

"Then prove it." Reaching across with her left hand, she tugged his sword from its sheath. "Show me." She handed him the weapon, hilt first.

He took the sword, but refused to wield it. "My lady, 'tis not a matter of _—_ "

Her sword slashed toward him so swiftly that it was all he could do to block the blow with his own blade. Reeling in astonishment, he almost missed deflecting her second strike as well. He stepped back, but she followed, her weapon swinging with such unexpected speed that he could scarcely keep it from biting him.

This couldn't be happening, he marveled. He couldn't be sparring with a lady. It was unseemly. And undignified. And unchivalrous.

Naturally he could have beat her soundly. He was far more powerful than she and surely far more experienced, no matter how quickly she moved. But he dared not unleash the full measure of his strength.

"My lady, I beg you, stop!"

She jabbed him in the shoulder. "What? No ballocks?" she taunted.

"God's breath! I won't fight with a woman."

"And what if that woman means to kill you?"

Her eyes glinted like green fire, and he wondered if she _did_ mean to kill him. Perhaps that was what Sir Rauve meant when he predicted Rand wouldn't last an hour.

Still, when he'd earned his spurs, he'd sworn to do no harm to a lady. He might be a half-Scots bastard and a lowly mercenary, but he proudly upheld the vows of knighthood.

So, praying he was making the right choice, he cast his sword to the ground in surrender.

"Helena!" came a scream from outside the lists.

He glanced away from Helena's eyes, which had taken on a wicked gleam, and looked toward the source of the outburst. A lovely little lass was rushing across the sward, her unwieldy blue skirts gathered in her fists, her unbound hair streaming out behind her like a dark pennon. Her face was beautiful, as delicate and pale as an apple blossom, but her pretty features were twisted with worry.

"Don't kill him!" she cried, skidding to a stop beside the others at the wattle fence.

Helena called back over her shoulder. "I wasn't going to kill him." One corner of her lip curved up. "I was only going to maim him."

Miriel wasn't about to let Helena slice one hair from Rand's head. "Nay!" She hoisted up her skirts and began scrambling over the wattle fence.

"My lady." Sir Rauve seized her shoulder, trying to stop her. "'Tis best you stay out of it."

His patronizing tone tested Miriel's good nature. Nonetheless, she managed to smile sweetly at his restraining fist as she bit out, "Unhand me, you great oaf."

His black eyes widened in surprise, and he let her go at once.

As she rushed across the field, it was all Miriel could do to keep her temper in check. Curse it all! She'd had enough of being treated like a helpless babe. It had been _she_ who'd saved Rivenloch from the English, after all. It had been _her_ secret passageway. Her weapons. And her genius. Even if no one knew it. She wasn't an infant to be coddled and swaddled in a smothering mantle. Especially not by a sister only a few years older than she.

Helena was going to ruin everything.

As Miriel drew near, Helena sighed, her gaze softening in condescension. "Silly lass, I was only going to teach him a lesson."

Maybe it was the years of being silent when Miriel wanted to scream. Or pretending she was helpless when she could easily overcome men twice her size. Or standing in the long shadow of her illustrious sisters. Whatever the reason, against all Sung Li's training in self-control, counter to everything she knew about the importance of serenity, contrary to her usual complacent behavior, when Miriel felt the blood simmer in her veins, she acted on pure impulse.

With a great heave of rage, she shoved Helena away.

Surprise made Helena stagger backward, but her warrior instincts were strong. Out of habit, she swept the point of her sword to Miriel's throat, eliciting a huge gasp from the onlookers at the fence, who'd never seen anyone brandish a weapon at meek Miriel.

Equally stunning was the speed with which a second blade knocked Helena's aside.

It was Rand's dagger that did the deed, and both Miriel and Helena swiveled their heads toward him in awe.

The exchange happened so fast, Miriel hardly knew what to say. And poor Rand, his brow creased with confusion and distaste and amazement, stood suffering in indecision, his fingers clenching reflexively around the dagger handle.

Helena's wonder quickly turned to disgust. She silently fumed, her pride doubtless stinging from the fact that Rand had gained the upper hand. Her humiliation was made complete when Sir Rauve called out from the fence, "Do you require assistance, my lady?"

"Nay!" she snapped. Then she muttered to Miriel, "Now see what you've done? Why did you come between us?"

Miriel's jaw dropped. That Helena would so readily lay the blame at Miriel's feet only made her more determined to defy her sister once and for all. "Because, you overbearing, meddlesome wench," she snarled, "this is not your affair. 'Tis mine."

The shock on Helena's face was priceless.

Before she could lose her nerve, Miriel turned to Rand, who looked as bewildered as a fox cornered by a pair of mad hens. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she reached forward, snagged him by the tabard, and hauled him toward her. Then she planted a kiss hard on his mouth.

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The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch

You know the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch... **** Deirdre, Helena, and Miriel. Now meet their daughters... Jenefer, Hallie, and Feiyan. The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch prove the apple doesn't fall far from the tree as they cross blades and break hearts in the Lowlands of Scotland!

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THE STORMING

The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch

_THE BORDERS, SCOTLAND_

_1136_

"Hurry, m'lady! This way!"

Lady Hilaire Eliot's feet slipped on the slimy steps as she scrambled down the dark, dank passageway, following the bobbling firebrand her maidservant held aloft.

Even here, deep beneath the keep, Hilaire could hear the ominous pounding of the battering ram shuddering the wooden gates and stone walls of the castle.

She breathed a silent prayer. What she attempted was perilous. But what would become of her if she remained behind was far more terrifying.

This way, God willing, if she didn't trip and break her neck along the way, she'd slip out of the tunnel on the outer side of the curtain wall. She'd be halfway through the forest by the time the enemy splintered the door to the inner bailey.

"Please, m'lady!" entreated Martha the maidservant, eyeing Hilaire's harp. "Will ye not leave that cursed thing behind? In another moment—"

The thudding abruptly ceased, heralding the devastation of the outermost gates of the barbican, the first line of defense.

Martha emitted a fretful squeak.

But Hilaire only clutched the instrument closer. She'd been forced to abandon everything else—her home, her family, her friends. She'd be damned if she'd leave her precious harp behind.

She glanced at her shivering servant, who had always been more like an older sister to her. It had been unfair to drag Martha into this. The risk should have been Hilaire's alone.

"Ye go on back, Martha," she said, reaching for the firebrand. "I can make it on my own from here."

But Martha snatched the torch back out of reach and raised her stubborn chin. "I'm not about to desert ye, m'lady."

"'Tisn't your battle."

"I swore I'd keep ye safe. I don't intend to break my vow."

Hilaire shook her head. Martha's loyalty was touching. But there was no need to make her suffer for Hilaire's reckless choices.

"Don't fret, Martha. I'll keep safe, I promise," she insisted with a confidence she didn't quite feel. "Now hand me the torch so I can find my way out."

But Martha wouldn't hear of it. She shook her head once, then turned on her heel and continued down the passage, speaking over her shoulder. "I didn't swear an oath o' loyalty to Lord William just to abandon his daughter at the first sign o' trouble."

Hilaire appreciated Martha's sense of honor, but she doubted very much that Lord William Eliot would approve. He'd likely prefer the maidservant bring his daughter, kicking and screaming, back to the keep.

Ahead the passage narrowed and the stone steps ran out, becoming less a corridor and more a burrow.

Hilaire's pulse raced.

Her legs threatened mutiny.

Usually, Hilaire's daring exceeded her caution. She was as brave as her warrior brothers, as fearless as any of her father's knights. But she had one secret weakness. She hated the dark—closed spaces in particular. Sometimes at night, even the prospect of pissing in the confining garderobe made her heart flutter so much that she'd languish in misery till morning.

This place smelled of mildew and decay, like a grave. She could imagine rats and beetles and worms slithering in the clammy chinks of moldering rock.

Swallowing hard to dislodge the lump of terror in her throat, she forced one foot in front of the other, reminding herself that the tunnel would eventually open up again. If she could endure the harrowing journey for a quarter of an hour, she'd emerge again in the fresh night air.

The passageway had been excavated more than a century ago by her Eliot ancestors, who had lived through constant war. But these were more peaceful times. In all her nineteen years, no one had needed to make use of the tunnel.

If the truth be known, the attack raging above them wasn't even a true battle. It had started as a negotiation—a reasonable refusal to an unreasonable demand.

But her enemy hadn't accepted that refusal. He'd lost his patience. What had begun as a slow siege had become a storming—an assault severe enough to warrant drastic counter-measures.

"Wait!" Hilaire held up a hand, halting Martha. "Did ye hear that?"

The torchlight flickered across Martha's pinched features as she strained her ears. "What, m'lady?"

Hilaire's brow creased in worry. She thought she'd heard...

But perhaps it was only her bones creaking with cold or her knees rattling with fright.

She dismissed her fears with a shake of her head. "We should make haste."

The tunnel angled sharply downward as it passed underneath the curtain wall. Hilaire shuddered. Creeping down the incline was like descending into a cold hell.

"Mind the—" Martha warned, too late.

Hilaire's toe caught on a tree root. She stumbled and fell hard, landing on both knees in the soil. Her harp struck a discordant twang as she caught herself on one hand.

"Oh, m'lady! Are ye hurt?"

Hilaire silently cursed her clumsiness. Thankfully, her nubby woolen skirts had taken the brunt of the fall. Her palm was only bruised. "I'm fine."

But was she?

Here bold and courageous Lady Hilaire Eliot knelt like a pathetic wretch in the cold, dank mud. With nothing but her harp, a peasant's kirtle on her back, and a scared servant, she was fleeing her home and a future she couldn't bear to face. The weight of her circumstances and the depth of her dread pressed down upon her like a millstone.

How had she come to such a coil?

If only Lord William had betrothed her to someone sooner, before the king had the chance to arrange her marriage...

She would have wed anyone her father named—bandy-legged Edmund Beattie, somber Lord Robert of Kinmont, even Sir Simon Duff, who stuttered and walked with a limp—anyone but the monster the king had chosen for her.

People spoke of The Dire Dragan in whispers, for fear that uttering the Highlander's name might call his curse upon them. They claimed his countenance was dark with the shadow of damnation. His hair was as black as char. His eyes were as deep as a chasm. He never smiled, seldom spoke, and when he did, it was in a low growl more akin to an animal than a man.

Once, the pennant of The Dragan had flown proud. Its master, deserting his Highland home for the more civilized Borders, had been graced with the noble qualities of the creature blazoned on his crest—fierce power and a true heart. Once he'd been a warrior of great honor and renown.

But that was long ago.

Now it was said he need only sear a man's eyes with his burning gaze to send him cowering to his knees. The Dragan had become the most horrible of beasts, for he was ferocious, dangerous, and full of deadly fire.

Still, nothing was as terrible as the curse he placed upon women.

To them he brought death.

Three wives he'd already lain in the grave—one beside her young daughter, one with a babe still in her belly, and one before he could even get her with child. Three wives, and not one had borne him a son upon whom to bestow his title.

A woman would have to be mad to wed such a man.

And, by all that was holy, Hilaire was not mad.

Struggling to her feet, she set out with renewed determination.

They'd almost reached the lowest point in the passageway, where the curtain wall was anchored and where the tunnel thankfully ascended, when she heard it again—the sinister creaking of mortar and stone.

"Let me," she said, taking the firebrand from Martha in her free hand and squeezing past the maid to investigate the passage ahead.

The sound came from directly above her now. She turned back for an instant to see if Martha could hear it as well.

Then, with an unholy crack, the sky fell.

Giric mac Leod wiped his damp brow with the back of his sleeve and stabbed at the earth again with his spade, deepening the tunnel. He wondered for the hundredth time if he was doing the right thing.

What kind of fool stormed a bloody castle in the middle of the night, for God's sake?

It was a desperate action. And yet he could think of nothing else to do.

He'd known it was foolish to come. All his instincts told him this cursed wedding was not to be.

But he had no choice.

King David of Scotland, on the brink of peace with the king of England, was intent on forging as many alliances as possible along the border. Besides, the king had pointed out, The Dire Dragan was in need of an heir.

Thus, King David had handpicked the mother of that heir—the daughter of an English border lord—and would brook no refusal.

Giric heaved a weary sigh. He wished the king had chosen another bride, one less vehemently unwilling.

He clamped his mouth into a grim line and shoveled the dirt aside.

A less unwilling bride? That was laughable. No woman in her right mind would wed a man like him.

Clenching his jaw, he gouged another wound into the soil and cast the dirt over his shoulder—unintentionally showering the captain of his knights, arriving behind him, with soil.

"God's blood!" Campbell swore, spitting dirt from his mouth. "There ye are! I've been lookin' high and low for ye, m'lord! What the devil d'ye think ye're doin'?"

"Go away." He didn't need nosy Campbell interfering in his affairs.

"Why, ye're sappin' the castle," Campbell said in wonder, standing his ground. "But ye can't undermine the wall, m'lord, not by yourself."

"Begone, I said."

"Are ye daft? There's nothin' to shore it up. Ye haven't got the proper braces," Campbell insisted. "'Tis death to linger here!"

Giric didn't answer his man, only turned and continued shoveling. He might indeed have to sap the castle, but only as a last resort. What he intended was to dig a small passage, just enough to steal in under the curtain wall and claim his bride.

Campbell cursed again. "At least give me the spade then. I don't have any vassals I'm beholdin' to."

"Nay!" Giric barked over his shoulder, making the torch flicker. "The lady's to be my wife. 'Tis my risk."

He kept digging, jabbing at the soil with renewed resolve, punishing the earth for coming between him and his prize.

"But I came to tell ye the barbican's fallen," Campbell said. "Once we penetrate the inner wall—"

"Nay. Delay the attack. Just maintain the siege, and keep Eliot's men distracted."

"But, m'lord, we can easily take the castle by force."

"And slay my bride's kin?" He tossed the spade aside, and dug a small boulder from the embankment with his hands. "Nay. 'Tis far easier to repair the barbican than make amends for slaughter."

"At least let me call the sappers. They'll put up decent props, and in a day or so—"

"I haven't got a day or so," Giric grumbled, casting the stone away. "Besides, 'tis a matter for stealth, not force."

Campbell blew out an exasperated breath. "Ye know, m'lord," he said, his voice as bitter as moldy ale, "if I didn't know better, I'd say ye were itchin' to kiss death's arse."

There was some truth to that. Sometimes Giric didn't feel like he had much to live for.

Then, as if Campbell's words invoked some black doom, the air was suddenly severed by an ominous crack.

Silt sifted down over Giric's head, extinguishing the candlelight. Then an enormous slide of rock and earth pelted him, muting Campbell's shouts and utterly blotting out the night sky behind him.

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A RIVENLOCH CHRISTMAS

A Wee Holiday Tale

_THE SCOTTISH BORDERS_

_YULETIDE 1144_

Deirdre blamed the mistletoe. If her incorrigible husband hadn't scattered the wicked plant all over Rivenloch in the spirit of his Norman Noël, none of what happened would have happened.

It wasn't as if they'd never had Christmas at the castle before. Deirdre's Viking father had built a chapel in the courtyard for her Christian mother so she could celebrate her holy days. When Deirdre's mother passed away, the clan continued to mark Christmas in her memory—with a few sprigs of holly, a sizable feast, and a word or two of thanksgiving. But that was all.

This year, however, Deirdre's husband Pagan had decided that wasn't enough. When Deirdre's two sisters, Helena and Miriel, announced they were bringing their families to Rivenloch to spend the holiday season together for the first time in three years, Pagan had insisted on decking the castle halls in full Christmas splendor.

Deirdre couldn't tell him nay. She'd never been able to resist her husband. Especially when he gazed at her with such childlike enthusiasm. So she indulged him, even though she knew her practical sisters would never appreciate his efforts.

True to form, warlike Helena muttered that the festive boughs of holly were hiding all the glorious shields of defeated enemies hung on the walls.

Thrifty Miriel confided that the beeswax candles lighting every inch of the great hall seemed a great waste of coin.

The sisters' father, Laird Gellir, grumbled into his white beard, irked by anything at odds with his Viking Jul.

Her sisters' husbands, however, were quite impressed. Like Pagan, they had Norman blood in their veins. The décor likely reminded Colin and Rand of home.

But it was their collective children's wide-eyed wonder at the colorful mummers Pagan had hired to reenact the birth of Jesus that convinced Deirdre she'd been right to let him bring Christmas to Rivenloch.

An enormous log, large enough to burn for twelve days, was hauled in from the forest and placed on the fire.

The entire clan crowded into the hall for a giant feast—the first of twelve, featuring roast boar with all the trimmings.

Wassail flowed freely.

Carolers and a consort filled the hall with song.

That was when the cursed mistletoe began to wreak havoc in the household.

Pagan had hung it in every corner.

Above every doorway.

And from every beam of Rivenloch's great hall.

The irksome sprigs were everywhere.

And when Deirdre innocently asked what the mistletoe was for, Pagan had been only too glad to show her.

Of course, when they arrived, Colin and Rand had to demonstrate its use to their wives as well.

Thus began the trouble...

Currently, Deirdre watched the mummers from the foot of the corner stairs of the great hall. She had to smile at the way her four children were gazing at the spectacle in slack-jawed amazement.

She absently rubbed a hand across her belly. Nothing showed yet. But soon there would be a fifth to add to their brood. She planned to tell Pagan tonight, after the performance.

Of course, the announcement of one's fifth child wasn't terribly surprising or newsworthy. Still, she knew Pagan would be pleased. He was a doting father who took great pride in their growing army of warrior lads and lasses.

Her gaze again slipped sideways to observe her children—Hallie, Gellir, Brand, and Julian. There was her devoted husband now, crouched between the two lasses. He was pointing out the bright star painted on a screen behind the players.

Sometime after the mummers' Mary and Joseph had secured lodging at a stable, and before the three kings arrived with gifts, Pagan left the children. He sidled up to Deirdre, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She sighed in pleasure and snuggled closer. Even after all this time, she never tired of his affection.

Then he cleared his throat.

She glanced at him.

He was giving her that look. The smoky, sparkling, gray-green gaze that always made her heart beat faster.

The knave. He knew very well what that look did to her. And when his eyes lifted to indicate the branch of mistletoe dangling from the archway, it didn't matter that they'd been wed for seven years. Her heart fluttered like a windblown pennon.

Thankfully, he pulled her into the shadows of the stairwell to claim the kiss she owed him. After all, one lavish spectacle in the great hall was enough.

Pagan tasted like sweet mulled wassail. Apple and cinnamon and ginger. She drank his desire with eager thirst.

He cradled her jaw with one battle-callused hand, sweeping the pad of his thumb across her cheek.

The fingers of his other hand traced the upper edge of her gown, toying with the silver Thor's hammer she always wore around her neck. Then they dipped dangerously low beneath the linen of her shift. He stroked the top of her breast with a feather-light touch.

When the rogue delved farther to graze her nipple, she gasped and pressed closer. Beneath his belt, against her abdomen, she could feel firm evidence that he had more in mind than just kissing.

She moaned with anticipation, weaving her fingers through his thick, freshly washed curls.

Curls that wound loosely around her knuckles like a fond caress.

Curls as warm and golden as the blaze burning on the fire.

Curls he'd passed on to two of their children and...

She let out a sigh of regret.

A tiny frown settled between her brows as she pulled away.

"Ah, Pagan, we can't," she whispered. "The children."

"What children?" he murmured, easing forward for another kiss.

But Deirdre, as the eldest daughter, had always been the responsible one. That was why her father had entrusted her with the lairdship of Rivenloch. As much as she longed to continue their play, she placed a restraining palm on Pagan's chest.

"We can't just leave them..." she trailed off. Leave them what?

"Leave them what?" Pagan said, echoing her thoughts with a sly grin. "Completely enthralled by the Christmas play? Happy as a litter of pups? Safe in the company of the entire clan?"

He was right, of course. The children were safe. They'd never miss their parents. In fact, everyone in the hall was so well entertained, Pagan and Deirdre probably wouldn't be missed by a soul.

She answered his smile. Lord, he was irresistible. Especially when his eyes smoldered like that.

He tilted his head to trail kisses down the side of her neck. Delicious shivers coursed through her. Like sword iron in a hot crucible, her knees melted beneath her.

After that, she had no willpower whatsoever.

Somehow she managed to stagger up the stairs to their chamber.

When he closed the door behind them, Deirdre wasted no time. Breathing heavily, she backed toward the bed and slipped the dark blue velvet kirtle from her shoulders.

He advanced, sliding her sleeves ever lower to nibble at her exposed flesh.

Meanwhile, she seized his leather belt, unbuckling it with practiced haste and casting it aside. It slithered across the oak floor like Eden's tempting serpent.

He swept the gold mesh coif from her hair, and her long tresses tumbled over her bare shoulders.

Hungry to taste his warm flesh, Deirdre wrenched his indigo surcoat down. It lodged across his broad shoulders. She went for her dagger, intent on slicing through the laces.

But Pagan seized her wrist and halted her with a sensual chuckle. "Patience, wench. You know, they untie."

She didn't want to wait that long. Then again, she didn't want to have to explain the severed laces to their guests. She dropped the blade.

With a wicked twinkle in his eyes, Pagan slowly spread the laces and drew the surcoat over his head. He tossed the garment onto the chest at the foot of the bed. Then he hooked his thumbs expectantly in the waist of his trews, perusing her from head to toe.

"Well, m'lady?" he asked. "I believe it's your turn."

She unbuckled her own belt and dropped it to the floor. She kicked off her soft leather shoes. Finally, with her eyes fixed on her husband's cocky mouth—the mouth she wanted to feel over every inch of her skin—she lifted the kirtle off over her head.

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BRIDE OF FIRE

The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch

Book 1

_RIVENLOCH, THE BORDERS, SCOTLAND_

_AUTUMN, 1155_

The servants had worked hard to make a home for him here. In his bedchamber, a modest peat fire already burned on the hearth. His chair sat beside it, fitted with a feather pillow embroidered with his initials. His personal things were arranged on the table against the wall—his whale bone comb, a pen and parchment, a pitcher of water with a basin, a candle, a cake of soap, a mirror of polished steel.

He picked up the mirror and winced at the bruised and battered face looking back at him. His swollen eye had a black ring around it. His lip was cut. His stubbled jaw was red and abraded. And at the top of his brow, near the hairline, swelled the lump of a bruise.

He hadn't looked so fearsome and pathetic at the same time since he'd engaged in his first tournament melee as a youth.

He'd meant to introduce himself to his neighbors on the morrow. But that seemed unwise now. He was a mess. He didn't relish turning up at the neighbors' doors, looking like a wildcat that had lost a fight with a wolf.

He replaced the mirror and went to stir the fire to life. Then he lit the candle from the flames, bringing the rest of the chamber to light.

The bed was assembled and made up with linens, bolsters, an embroidered wool coverlet, and sheepskins.

But as he looked at the pair of pillows gracing the bed, he felt a sudden, sharp, unexpected pang, like a dagger stabbed in his heart.

This bed—this chamber—was meant for the laird and his _lady._ It was too imposing and extravagant for one man alone.

She should have been here.

Alicia should have been here.

Sleeping beside him.

Sharing his chamber. His castle. His life.

Choking down his grief, he crossed the room to place the candle in the wall sconce. As he passed by the open window, his eye caught on something outside.

The image was so fleeting, he was sure he'd imagined it.

Just past the window, he stopped in his tracks.

The candle flickered in his trembling hand.

For one terrible instant, he would have sworn he'd seen her standing beyond the fence. Alicia. His dead wife.

Emotions coursed through him as swiftly as lightning. Shock. Disbelief. Wonder. Relief. Longing. Anguish. Misgiving. Dread.

His heart pounded as he continued to stare blankly at the empty black sconce on the white plaster wall, trying to make sense of what he'd just glimpsed.

His eyes must be playing cruel tricks on him. What he'd seen couldn't be Alicia. Alicia was dead. He'd laid her in earth himself. And only fools believed the dead returned as ghosts.

Nay, what he'd seen was likely only a sapling blowing in the wind.

Taking a steadying breath, he slowly backed to the window again and peered out.

Alarm sucked the spit from his mouth.

It wasn't his imagination.

It wasn't a sapling.

It was a lass.

The sight of her challenged his grasp on reality. Her veil swirled around her like a misty aura, glowing from the light of the full moon.

He'd never believed in ghosts. But he had to admit he'd never seen anything look so ghostly.

If he'd seen the figure more clearly the first time, he would have recognized at once it wasn't Alicia. The lass might be enveloped in a filmy white shroud, but beneath the sheer veil her naked body was quite visible.

Unlike slim Alicia, this lass possessed voluptuous curves. Unlike Alicia with her tightly braided black hair, this lass had gold-burnished waves that cascaded down her shoulders. And there was no way shy Alicia, even as a ghost, would have stood naked in the middle of a field.

He narrowed his eyes and studied her.

She stared back at him, unmoving. A gust of wind teased at her veil, revealing long, shapely legs and a delicate dark patch where they joined her body.

The sight caused an unwelcome twinge in his trews.

Still she didn't move.

He lowered a dubious brow.

Perhaps the lass was frozen solid.

Another breeze lifted the veil higher, exposing full breasts tipped by nipples as tempting as cherries. A groan caught in his throat as the twinge grew into a definite swelling.

Then guilt struck him like a blacksmith's hammer, overriding his desire. How could he be aroused when he'd just lost his wife? How could he even _look_ at another lass?

Self-disgust tested his temper.

He wanted the lass gone. Now.

"What do ye want?" he yelled down impatiently.

She slowly raised a straight arm to point at him and intoned in a husky moan, "Yooouuu. Muuuuust. Gooooooooooo."

Her sinister directive would have sent chills up the spine of a lesser man. But he knew very well she was mortal. And when she delivered her message, he quickly recognized her ploy for what it was. The mischievous imp had decided to badger her new, unwelcome neighbor.

He supposed it could be worse. She could have thrown rocks at the windows or hung a dead cat on the fence.

As he continued to stare down at the beautiful, hostile lass, he almost wished she _were_ a ghost. It was unsettling to have a naked lass cavorting beneath his window. And he didn't much care for her issuing demands.

He crossed his arms over his chest, unwilling to bend to her beauty or her intimidation.

"I must go?" he called out in unimpressed tones. "Is that so?"

"Aaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyeeeeeee," she wailed, making a slow and graceful turn that gave him an inviting glimpse of her tempting backside.

He didn't want to think about it. "Who says so?"

"Iiiiiiiiii d-d-d-oooooooo."

He could hear the shiver of the cold in her voice. He wondered if someone else had put her up to this. Perhaps a gang of local whelps had wagered on who would do the badgering, and she'd lost.

The lass must be half-frozen. Surely she couldn't keep this up for long. Sooner or later, she'd decide pestering the new neighbor wasn't worth the price of becoming an icicle.

"Ye do?" he asked. "And just who do ye think ye are?"

"A ghooooooooooooost."

As she lifted her arms, a gust of wind plastered the veil to her body, outlining the seductive curve of her waist.

Desire made him lose his words for a moment. Finally he managed to shout back, "Nobody warned me Creagor was haunted."

"Ohhhh, aaaayyyeee," she cried, waving one arm toward the forest. "Byyyyyyyyyy maaaaaaaaaany ghooooooosts."

If he weren't so tired...and battered...and inappropriately aroused, he might have found her performance amusing.

She lowered an accusing finger at him again. "Yooouuu. Muuuuust. Go—"

"I heard ye the first time," he bellowed back, closing one of the shutters. "Well then, carry on! Just see ye don't freeze to death. I don't want to wake in the mornin' to the sight o'—"

A wail interrupted him.

This time it wasn't the lass.

It was his bairn.

For some unfathomable reason, the nursemaids had decided to keep his son in the chamber adjoining his.

He grimaced. No doubt his shouting and the lass's moans had awakened the child.

He muttered a curse under his breath. Then he opened the shutter again and snarled at the lass, "See what ye've done, ye whelp? Off with ye now! Go!" He shooed her with a gesture.

She didn't shoo. Instead, she planted her hands on her hips and shouted back at him in a decidedly unghostly voice.

"Me? You're the horse's arse bellowing out the window!"

Her insult added fuel to the fire of his ire. How dared she call him names? And in his own home?

"Och, that's a bonnie thing!" he yelled. "Cursin' in front of a bairn!"

"Is that what that wailing is?" she challenged, flipping the veil back to reveal her lovely, smirking face...and her infuriatingly breathtaking naked body. "I thought 'twas one of your soldiers, crying for his ma."

It took a moment for the slight to sink in, so distracted was he by the lass's unabashed beauty.

But when her words registered, accentuated by the heightened screaming of his son next door, such fury boiled up in him that he swore steam hissed from his ears.

He wasn't worried about the bairn. Bethac would see to his needs.

But someone had to put that wicked-tongued lass in her place.

He slammed the shutters, snatched up his claymore, and headed for the door.

With any luck, she'd be gone by the time he got downstairs.

If she was foolish enough to stand her ground, she'd flee once she caught sight of Morgan Mor mac Giric charging toward her with his sword. There was a reason for the "Mor" title. Aside from the golden giant Colban, no one in the clan matched Morgan for height, might, and muscle.

One glimpse of him, and she'd scurry off like a frightened coney.

****

****

"Shite," Jenefer bit out as the Highlander slammed the shutters and disappeared from the window.

Now she'd done it. The brute was coming downstairs. Which would have been fine if she were closer to her longbow.

But she'd left it in the trees. After all, what ghost carried a bow and arrows? Now it would take her too long to fetch.

Damn her cousins! She never should have listened to them. She'd always said this should be a battle of arms, not of wits. The Highlander hadn't been convinced for one moment that she was a ghost.

What she wouldn't give to have her bow—nocked and primed—in her hands right now.

Of course, bow or not, she wasn't about to run. Only cowards ran away from a fight. So she tossed off the veil, which would only get in the way. Then she blew into her icy hands and bounced up and down on her toes, hoping to warm up her blood enough to put up a good fight.

The babe upstairs was still carrying on. Its wails of woe sailed on the wind, almost as piercing as the cold. She wondered why its mother wasn't seeing to it. Then again, knowing the barbaric Highlanders, they probably toughened up their babes by letting them cry.

Sooner than she expected—had the Highlander _flown_ down the stairs?—the timber gates burst open. What emerged was the biggest warrior she'd ever seen.

The breath deserted her lungs. Her eyes went wide. Every instinct told her to flee.

But she swallowed down her fear and braced her knees for impact, even though the fists she made seemed suddenly puny in the face of the beast coming toward her.

He was a good fifty yards away. But his long strides were swallowing up the ground at a rapid pace.

In a flash, all the gruesome rumors she'd heard about Highlanders streamed through her brain.

They ate live mice.

They slept in the snow.

They fought wolves barehanded.

They drank the blood of their enemies.

Twenty yards away.

Like a thunderhead, he boiled toward her with savage intent and the dark threat of violence.

A dozen yards.

Icy sweat covered her now. She was badly mismatched. But she refused to surrender. Better that she should die bravely on her two feet than cower in fear.

Six yards.

This close, she could see his face contorted with murderous rage and hear his feral growl of warning.

Her heart pounded. But she challenged him with an unwavering scowl.

Three yards.

He swept his claymore up in one massive arm, as if he planned to lop off her head then and there.

Still she held her ground and stared death in the eyes.

A yard away, really too close to strike, he finally stopped before her.

She held her breath.

His blade hung over her head. But his furious face was now marked by puzzlement. It was also marked by signs of a recent fight.

He could have killed her. But he hadn't. And that meant he _wouldn't._

For an extended moment, they only stared at each other, like fire and ice, at an impasse.

Then he suddenly snarled, towering over her and shaking his blade in an attempt to scare her.

All she had left was the element of surprise. While he held his sword aloft, she drove her fist forward, punching him in the nose as hard as she could.

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The Knights of de Ware

From a long line of legendary warriors come three brothers to carry on the rich and powerful de Ware legacy: Duncan the Champion... Holden the Warrior... Garth the Hero...

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THE HANDFASTING

The Prequel Novella to

The Knights of de Ware

_THE HIGHLANDS_

_YULETIDE 1199_

"And thereto I pledge ye my troth."

Ysenda gulped. That hadn't been so difficult. And yet those simple words held such great weight.

His voice sounded much surer than hers. "I, Sir Noёl de Ware, take ye, Lady Cathalin ingen Gille, Maid o' Rivenloch, as my bride—"

"To my wedded wife," she corrected in a murmur.

"To my wedded wife...till death...comes..."

She fought back a giggle. "Till death parts ye and me."

"Till death parts ye and me..."

"And thereto I pledge ye my troth," she prompted.

"Aye," he said, finishing with a triumphant smile. "And thereto I pledge ye my troth."

"'Tis done then," her father said in satisfaction, clapping the matter from his hands.

Ysenda hardly heard him. Her attention was riveted on the man before her—the man who had somehow, improbably, just become her husband. A warm twinkle glimmered in his eyes. His smile was captivating. And the thumb he stroked softly over the top of their joined hands sent a curious tingle through her veins.

The laird raised a cup of ale in salute, and the clan followed with cheers.

But Noёl wasn't finished. He held his hand out to the man on his left, who placed a gold ring in his palm. Unwinding the handfasting ribbon to free her hand, Noёl then gently slipped the ring onto Ysenda's third finger.

She stared down at it. It was heavy, carved with the figure of a wolf's head.

"'Tis the great Wolf o' de Ware," he told her.

She bit her lip, troubled by its scowling face. The ring was loose on her finger. She hoped that it wouldn't slip off, that she wouldn't lose it, for it rightfully belonged to Cathalin.

He bent his head down to murmur, "I vow, my lady, from this time forward, ye shall have the protection o' the Wolf."

For one foolish moment, she wished that could be true. She wouldn't mind having an army of fierce wolfish knights at her beck and call.

She gave him a faltering smile, which he returned with a wide grin that made her heart skip. But this was Cathalin's husband, not hers. And part of her burned with envy at that truth.

He was still clasping the fingers of her right hand when he lifted his left hand to cup her cheek. He tipped her head up, commanding her gaze. His dark eyes sparked at her like a smoldering coal. She had trouble drawing breath. His thumb brushed at the corner of her mouth, coaxing her lips apart. In a sensual daze, she let her jaw relax as her eyes lowered to his tempting mouth.

He was going to kiss her.

Cathalin's bridegroom was going to kiss HER.

She should have stopped him. But she had to play out this fiction, for her brother's sake.

At least that was what she told herself as he closed the distance.

But it wasn't completely true.

She wanted to see what it felt like to kiss a man. And she wanted to pretend, even if only for a moment, that she was just as worthy and desirable as her sister.

When he touched his lips to hers, the cheering clan seemed to fade away. There were only the two of them, connected by their joined hands and their searching mouths. Her eyes fell closed. His light breath upon her cheek sent a current of pleasure rippling through her.

And then he leaned closer, increasing the sweet pressure.

She expected, by his formidable appearance, that his kiss would be rough and aggressive. But the warrior somehow reined in his strength. His lips were soft, tender, and deft. His fingertips gently caressed the sensitive flesh beneath her ear, making her shiver.

As he kissed her, he entwined the fingers of his right hand with hers and drew her closer, until their tangled hands formed a lover's knot between their hearts. Ysenda felt like warm candle wax, melting into him. Her heart beat forcefully against her ribs. A quiet, joyful moan sounded in her throat as he inclined his head to deepen the kiss.

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MY CHAMPION

The Knights of de Ware

Book 1

_SUMMER 1318_

"You, Linet de Montfort," Duncan said, "are afraid of me."

Her mouth fell open, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say in her defense.

He shook his head. "You, who so boldly insulted El Gallo on the docks, who dared to confront Sombra himself, you're afraid of a lowly beggar."

"I'm not afraid," she whispered in denial. Yet deep in her heart, she knew it was true.

"You cower from me. You pretend it's disgust," he announced with self-mocking arrogance, "but I hardly think—"

"I _do_ find you disgusting," she tried to convince him. But she couldn't look him in the eyes with the lie, not while that wild black curl fell across his forehead, not while his eyes shone with blue mischief.

The last thing she expected was his roar of laughter.

"Oh, aye—disgusting! And what in particular do you find disgusting?" he inquired, closing in on her again.

She eased backward. Nothing about the beggar was disgusting. Everything about him was fascinating—fascinating and dangerous.

"My nose? My eyes?" His voice softened, luring her in even as she retreated across the barn. "My mouth?"

She started to take another step away, but a spade abandoned on the stable floor tripped her up, making her stumble backward. The beggar reached out for her elbow just in time to keep her upright. But by then her back was against the planking of the stable.

"Perhaps it's my...touch that disgusts you," he said.

She was trapped now, pinned between a wall and a man whose sheer, raw masculinity rivaled the wood for strength.

"Shall I show you," he whispered, "how I kissed the crofter's wife?"

"Nay." She stiffened like a stick. Not a kiss—anything but a kiss, she thought, even as her lips tingled in anticipation. No matter what he did to her, no matter how her heart raced, she refused to bend beneath his onslaught.

"I placed my disgusting thighs here." He stepped between her legs, nudging them apart with his knee until his body was pressed intimately against hers, leaving her breathless, leaving no doubt as to his desire. "Then I placed my vulgar arms thus." With one hand, he trapped her wrists against the solid wall of his chest, slipping the other gently around her throat. His fingers were like Lucca silk against her skin as they slid up the side of her neck and tangled in the curls at the back of her head.

Her breath grew shallow. She dared not look at him.

"Then," he breathed against the corner of her mouth, "I pressed my crude...lips...so."

His mouth closed over hers as if she were a chalice of sweet wine, his tongue flicking lightly along the rim of her lips, tasting her, tempting her. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting her own desires, willing the embers glowing inside her to subside. But it was useless. His kiss stole the very thoughts from her brain.

For one brief moment, he withdrew, granting her respite from the chaotic emotions clouding her mind. For an instant, she could almost think.

Then he kissed her again. This time he embraced her completely, plundering her senses, devouring her with all the ardor of a starving man. Her blood rushed through her ears, as if he'd summoned it all the way from her toes. Every inch of her skin responded to his touch like iron filings awakening to a lodestone.

Even when he pulled away at last, when his thumb brushed her bottom lip, she felt the lingering molten heat of his kiss. She could no more silence the ragged sigh that slipped out between her teeth, the sigh that pleaded for more, than she could stop the tides.

She never meant to surrender. But once she felt the demand of his searching mouth, once the muscles of his body contoured themselves to her, all care ceased. She knew only that she wanted...something more.

Duncan knew what she wanted. And he fully intended to appease her. He released her hands—hands grown limp in his—to wrap one possessive arm around her back. Then, to his amazement, before he could muster his forces for another onslaught, the hungry little vixen threw herself with abandon against him, into a kiss of her own making. She crushed her breasts against his ribs and opened her mouth to him, exploring his shoulders, his face, his hair with frenzied hands.

And he lost control.

Never, _never_ had it happened before. He'd made love to dozens of women, kissed scores more. God's bones, the de Ware brothers were the envy of the barony when it came to seduction. But always he was in control. It was he who set the pace, planned each move, each word, and knew the moment of surrender. He always knew how far he could go and how to gracefully back away. Now, for the first time, he was utterly and completely powerless to stop himself.

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MY WARRIOR

The Knights of de Ware

Book 2

_MARCH 1333_

Cambria was dreaming. Her father was smiling, walking toward her across a sunny meadow with his arms outstretched in welcome. But as he drew near, from out of nowhere a great gray wolf appeared between them, its paws massive, its eyes penetrating. The beast opened its jaws in a mournful howl as a great black shadow fell across the laird.

She woke with a scream stuck in her throat. Her heart raced as she tried to break the threads of the nightmare. She rested her damp head in trembling hands. They came more frequently now, the dreams that haunted her sleep, dreams that seemed to portend the future. This one was a warning, she was certain. The Wolf boded ill for her father.

Shaken, she rose on wobbly legs, dragging the fur coverlet with her, and peered out the window. Damn! The sun was in the sky already. Katie had let her oversleep, probably out of kindness—Cambria had been up past midnight polishing armor—but she couldn't afford to be late, not today. She let out a string of curses and tossed the fur back onto the pallet.

A loud crash echoed through the stone corridors and shook the oak floor, bringing her instantly alert.

The shouting of unfamiliar voices rumbled up from downstairs, and she heard the frenzied barking of the hounds. Her heart began to pound like an armorer's mallet. She scrambled over the bed, snatching her broadsword from the wall. With frantic haste, she struggled into her linen shift, cursing as her tangled hair caught in the sleeve. The crash of hurled crockery and women's terrified shrieks pierced the air as Cambria finally pulled open her chamber door and rushed out.

She was fairly flying down the long hallway when she heard the unmistakable clang of blades colliding. She hurtled forward, descending the spiraling steps that opened onto the gallery above the great hall.

At the top of the landing, she froze.

The scene before her took shape as a series of gruesome paintings, none of which she could connect to make any sense: brightly colored tabards flecked with gore; servants huddled in the corners, sobbing and holding each other in terror; hounds yapping and scrambling on the rush-covered stone floor; lifeless, twisted bodies of Gavin knights sprawled in puddles of their own blood; Malcolm and the rest of the men chained together like animals. Numbing cold enclosed her heart like armor.

But as her eyes moved from the overturned trestle tables to the slaughtered knights and cowering servants, trying to make reason out of the confusion before her, that armor shattered into a million fragments.

The laird. Where was the laird?

Panic began to clutch at her with desperate claws. She shifted her death grip on the pommel of her sword, frantically seeking out her father. If she could find him, everything would be all right. The laird would explain everything. He always took care of the clan.

She ran trembling fingers over her lips. Bloody hell, where was the laird?

As if in answer, two lads came forth from the side chamber, struggling with the weight of the grisly burden they carried between them.

Nay! Cambria silently screamed as she recognized the tabard of her father. Not the laird!

Even as her heart seized, she dared to hope he was still alive. But his body was limp, drenched with blood, far too much blood, and when his head flopped back, the glazed eyes stared sightlessly toward the heavens, where his spirit already resided.

The shrill keening in her soul pierced through her heart and escaped her lips. "Nay!" she screamed, hurtling down the steps. "Nay!"

No one made a move to stop her, neither friend nor foe, and the young boys bearing her father set him gently upon the stones and stepped aside.

Cambria dropped her sword and shook the pale body, unwilling to accept the laird's impossible stillness. He had to wake up. The clan needed him.

She stroked his forehead, but there was no response. She took his big hand in hers, but it was as heavy and slack as a slain rabbit. Blood soaked her linen gown, smearing across her breast as she embraced his silent form.

"Nay," she whispered, "nay."

He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. She'd already lost her mother. He couldn't leave her alone.

And yet there he lay, as silent as stone.

A wretched sob tore from her throat, choking her. Dagger-sharp pain lanced through the empty place in her chest.

The laird was lost to her forever.

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks onto her father, mingling with the blood of the Gavin who was no more. She wept while, all around her, the nameless invaders murmured on, calmly wiping the blood from their blades, blood of the brave Gavin men they'd killed. She peered at them through the wild strands of her hair, the obscene enemy who'd massacred her people.

Who were they? Who were these bastards who in one bloody moment had destroyed the Gavin?

The ache in her heart twisted into a bitter knot of hatred. Nay. She refused to believe it. These strangers hadn't destroyed the Gavin. No one could destroy the Gavin. Gavins had lived here for hundreds of years. They would never die. They lived in her. She was the life's blood of the clan now.

Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she reached down to clasp the pommel of her fallen sword. She kicked her gown out of her ankles' way and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Whirling, she came up with the blade and faced her foe. Several of the servants crossed themselves as she turned toward the knights with the fury of a madwoman.

"You bastards!" she shouted. "Face the wrath of the Gavin!"

Malcolm the Steward's eyes widened. Cambria was going to get herself killed. "Nay, lass!" he bellowed from the corner of the room.

His shout earned him a cuff from one of the knights that held him, but that didn't stop him from wrenching at the chains binding his wrists. He watched helplessly as his dearest friend's daughter began a battle she was sure to lose. The muscles of his throat worked painfully. He'd already lost his laird. He couldn't watch Cambria die as well.

But she was beyond hearing. He could see that. The lust for vengeance was in her eyes. Like an avenging angel, she raised her sword high in both hands. With a battle cry, she charged at the enemy, swinging the blade in a wide arc like a crofter harvesting grain.

Her steel flashed wildly as she attempted to take on the entire company, and the knights scattered, dodging her slashing broadsword. To Malcolm's satisfaction, the Englishmen were dumbfounded for a moment by the mere slip of a girl who faced them boldly, watching for advances and striking with a deliberate arm. His chin quivered with pride. He and her father had trained her well, the little lioness.

She slashed forward and back, using both hands on the pommel to strengthen her blows. Two men who underestimated her sincerity received serious wounds, wounds he feared she'd pay for later.

But the element of surprise couldn't remain long on her side. Though Cambria kept them at bay briefly, using what skills he'd taught her, the enemy far outnumbered her. Two of the knights finally caught her from behind, squeezing her wrists till she dropped the sword, which clattered heavily to the floor.

At least, Malcolm thought with relief, the English didn't slay _women_ in cold blood.

Half-crazed with fury, she struggled to get free, swearing, straining from the men's grasp on her arms and tossing her head violently.

Malcolm bit out a curse. Why hadn't the lass stayed in her bedchamber?

A dark-bearded knight yanked her head back by the hair. She bared her teeth at him and narrowed her eyes like a cornered animal.

Suddenly the unguarded doors of the great hall burst open. An enormous black steed galloped like thunder across the hard floor, bearing a helmed knight. He was flanked by several other riders, who hauled their horses to a skidding stop on the stones. Rushes scattered everywhere, and the knights fought to control their mounts in the close quarters.

Cambria was forced to her knees by the hulking dark captor beside her, and she squinted against the rising dust.

The golden knight stammered in surprise, inclining his head toward the newcomer. "M-my lord."

Tension hung in the air as he awaited a reply, but the silence was only broached by the snorting of the horses, the squeak of leather tack, and the sniffling of maidservants.

Cambria sucked in great gulps of air through her open mouth and tried to center her mind. She could feel her body drifting toward unconsciousness, toward a place where nothing could harm her. But she resisted its lure, clinging desperately to reality by reminding herself over and over that she was the Gavin. She clenched her nails into the palms of her hands to keep from fainting and focused intently on the rider at the fore, who was nudging his mount closer.

The knight set his huge warhorse into motion using only the slightest pressure of one of his armor-plated knees. The steed tossed its head proudly and ambled forward. Man and beast no doubt made a formidable foe in battle, their carriage that of champions.

With bullying arrogance, the rider let the steed come to within a foot of the golden knight till it huffed its breath into the man's eyes.

Cambria scowled up at the helmed rider. This must be the monster who'd ordered the laird's murder. She swayed momentarily with nausea, recalling too clearly her father's bloody surcoat and his dead, glassy eyes. She swallowed to control her rising gorge.

She prayed for the strength to hold out until help came. De Ware's knights were due to arrive today, and the English lord was bound by his word to protect Blackhaugh from all enemies. He'd be obliged to capture and punish these murderers. She hoped the Wolf would tear them limb from limb.

The knight removed his helm, tossing it to his squire. He eased the mail coif from his head and ran a hand through his dark curls.

Her heart stilled. She watched him, unable to move, unable to speak. A heavy weight seemed to press on her chest, making it impossible to breathe as she looked at his face.

He wasn't at all the villain she'd expected. In fact, he was the most striking man she'd ever seen. His face was evenly chiseled, so perfect it might have been pretty were it not for his furrowed brow and the scars that told of many seasons of battle. His hair, damp with sweat, reminded her of the rich shade of roasted walnuts, and it fell recklessly about his corded neck. His jaw was firm, resolute, but something about the generous curve of his lips marked him as far from heartless.

Most startling, however, were his eyes. They were the color of the pines in a Highland forest, deep and slightly sad, eyes that had seen violence and suffering, and had endured. Those eyes caused her heart to beat unsteadily, and she wasn't entirely certain why.

He angled his mount with another nudge of his knee and cocked a brow at the golden knight. "Have you finished here, Roger?" His voice was low, powerful, and laced with irony.

The golden knight regarded him with ill-concealed hostility. "Aye, my lord. They resisted, as you see, but..." He shrugged.

The knight shifted in his saddle and blew out a long breath. The carnage before him was inexcusable. As he'd suspected when he set out this morning to intercept Roger's advance, something here was amiss. He should never have trusted Roger Fitzroi. The man obviously didn't understand the proper use of violence. Judging by the faded shields of the conquered lining the great hall and the frayed edges of the Gavin knights' garments, this poor clan could hardly have posed a threat. Hell, there weren't even that many of them, he thought as his gaze roamed over the broken bodies.

And then he saw her, kneeling at his knights' feet in the midst of all the slaughter, and his breath caught.

She was an angel. Nay, he corrected as he continued to stare at the eyes that were too fierce, the jaw too square, the hair too dark. Not an angel. Something more fey—a sprite. Accustomed to the fleshy, languorous women at court, he found this lass's exotic looks as refreshing as a dip in a cool loch.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked the way he'd made women look many a time in his bed—hair spilled carelessly, lips a-quiver, cheeks flushed—and he longed to caress that fine-boned cheek, run his fingers through those too dark, tangled tresses, kiss that spot on her neck where her pulse visibly raced.

The wench was glaring at him with those cut-crystal eyes, and he was amazed to see her defiance falter only infinitesimally beneath his regard, a thorough scrutiny that usually made his foes tremble.

She reminded him of a wildcat he'd seen once on his travels through the moors, one caught in an abandoned snare. Before he'd cut the animal free, it had looked at him just this way—frightened, hateful, suspicious. He suddenly had an absurd longing to remove the pain from the liquid pools of her eyes as he'd done for the wildcat.

Ariel nickered softly beneath him and stamped an impatient hoof, jarring him back to reality. Damn, he thought, shaking off his insipid dreaming with a toss of his head. This new life of lordly leisure was making him soft.

He frowned into the girl's face. Then his gaze dropped lower. Her body strained against the thin linen of her gown, and he could clearly see a perverse crimson streak across her fair breast.

Desire fled, replaced by outrage. He snarled at Roger, "Have you taken to attacking innocents?"

Roger answered belligerently. "It's not her blood, my lord. It's that of her traitor father, Laird Angus. But this 'innocent' wounded two of my men!"

Holden snorted in disbelief. A wee Border lass was hardly capable of intimidating the formidable de Ware knights. He looked dubiously down at her again to see if he'd overlooked something. He was sorry it was the sprite's father who had died, but if the laird was a traitor, it would only have been a matter of time before he was executed for his treachery. Perhaps it was better he'd died nobly, with a sword in his hand.

"Who is your father's successor, lass?" he asked her quietly.

The girl lifted her chin bravely and replied, "I am."

He should have guessed. "And your husband?"

"I have no husband."

"Your betrothed?"

"I have no betrothed. I am...the Gavin." Her voice broke as she said it. He could see she was fighting back tears.

Several of his men smirked at the notion of a young woman claiming a castle. But he knew there was nothing odd about that for the Scots. He stared at the girl with a mixture of pity and disgust at the laird's foolishness in leaving his daughter unmarried and, therefore, unprotected. He swore he'd never understand the Scots' ways.

"I'll spare your life," he told her, "if you swear fealty to me."

To his amazement, the girl fixed him with a jewel-hard stare and shook her head firmly once. "Even now the castle is being surrounded by the king's army," she proclaimed. "You won't escape alive."

"Lass," a burly old Gavin man called from the corner, but his captor jerked his chain, ordering him to silence.

He scowled down at the girl and held up a hand to quiet his men's snickering. "The king...Edward's army?"

"Aye!" she hissed, her eyes sparking like sapphires. "Lord Holden de Ware will slay you for the murder you've committed! He is a powerful warrior, known to all as the Wolf for his savagery, and he has sworn to protect this keep!"

He stared at her, stunned. Her eyes gleamed with victory, and the thrust of her chin was confident and proud. He almost hated to dash her hopes.

But he had to.

He held her gaze with his own and explained softly, "I am the Wolf. I am Lord Holden de Ware."

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MY HERO

The Knights of de Ware

Book 3

_SUMMER 1329_

John had known all along she didn't love him. He'd known. Why else would he have exacted that terrible promise from her? Why would he have chosen those words? _Swear to me you'll marry again,_ he'd said. _Swear to me you'll marry...for love._

Hot tears spilled over her cheek. A choking agony cut off her breath. All at once, she felt John's loss like a heavy rock pressing upon her chest.

Ah, God, he'd known.

Deep sorrow squeezed her heart, and guilt crushed her. She collapsed to her knees on the wet grass and buried her face in her hands. Then she wept—for John, for herself, for her blindness and his benevolence. Grief denied for too long rained upon her soul like the first winter shower upon scorched summer earth, stunning her, consuming her, drowning her.

Weeks and months of sorrow poured out, and it was a long while before the well of healing tears ran dry. But eventually her sobs subsided, leaving only a telltale hitch now and then to remind her of the storm's passage...that and the daffodils, still cheerfully waving, merrily oblivious to her outburst.

How beautiful they were. There were enough to make a small bouquet. And, she thought as a tenuous smile trembled upon her lips, she knew just the place for them. She wiped her eyes, and then carefully cut the tender stems with her dagger.

What was past was past, she decided as she collected the blooms in the folds of her soiled apron. Whatever wrongs she'd committed, John _had_ gone to his grave a happy man. She had to believe that. Besides, he would never have stood for her blubbering days on end over him, not with the sun so warm, not with daffodils in bloom.

As for the promise... If she never found the strength to honor it, if she never found the will to diminish John's memory by replacing her affection for him with some faint imitation of devotion for another, well, at least John would be none the wiser. And if, at her life's end, she didn't fulfill that promise, it was between her and God what would happen with her immortal soul. Nay, she never intended to marry another.

Her apron full, Cynthia made her way toward Wendeville's chapel. She felt less like the lady of the castle and more like a pauper bringing a gift to the king as she walked across the sward in bare feet with the yellow blossoms cradled against her belly. And that feeling was only magnified by the impressive appearance of the chapel itself.

No matter how frequently she visited, the chapel never failed to fill her with awe. It was holy and quiet and serene—the oldest part of the castle. The afternoon sun streamed through the brilliant stained glass, leaving designs like bright fallen petals on the cool gray stone floor.

The new addition at the chancel of the chapel still startled her. The great stone tomb dominating the nave bore a carved effigy of Lord John Wendeville, the way he supposedly looked as a young man. But Cynthia saw only a stranger's face when she gazed upon the reclining figure. The man was attired as a knight with a lion crouching at his feet, his hands pressed together in prayer. Atop these hands, hands that bore little resemblance to her late husband's, she tenderly placed the daffodils.

"I've brought flowers, John," she whispered, and still her voice seemed a shout in the death-quiet chapel. "The garden will be lovely this year. The long winter didn't harm the roses at all."

She carefully separated the blossoms, arranging them in a spray atop the tomb, then relegated her soiled apron to the floor.

"And I heard the first cuckoo today. It made me think of that song. How did it go?"

She bent her head over her hands to think, close enough for a bee traveling upon one of the daffodils to flit onto the bright blossom of her hair.

Then she began to hum softly, a song about a rude cuckoo who stole a robin's supper, throwing in the words where she could remember them.

The bee meandered across her orange tresses in search of nectar. It staggered twice, fell to a lower curl, then lost its grasp completely and tumbled onto her shoulder.

Cynthia struggled through the last verse, then tossed her head back for the familiar refrain.

The dazed bee, annoyed and confused in the tangle of her hair, floundered onto its back. When it squirmed upright again, it stung her for all it was worth.

The song ended on a shriek. Cynthia clapped one hand to her shoulder, then one to her mouth, amazed not only by the sharp pain, but by the loudness of her own voice as it echoed against the stone walls. She jumped back, scattering the flowers over the edge of the effigy, and winced as her fingers brushed away the half-dead insect. It buzzed in an ineffectual circle on the floor, and she frowned down at it.

"A bee!" she said in wonder. It was scarcely spring. What was a bee doing...

A strange vibration tugged at the nape of her neck. Some long lost incident pushed upward at the crust of memory to be reborn. In all her years of gardening, she'd only been stung once before, long ago. But there was no forgetting that pain.

Suddenly, it was as clear to her as if it had happened yesterday—the de Ware garden, the roses, the honeybees...the boy.

All at once, the chapel door exploded inward.

She whipped round. Her heart tripped. The door struck and bounced off the plaster wall.

A tall, dark-haired stranger loomed in the doorway. His dark robe swirled about him, his shoulders squared with primed power, and he clenched his hands as if preparing for battle. His chest heaved with exertion, and he glared at her with fierce green eyes that seemed to condemn her.

Dust motes scattered riotously in the shock of sunlight, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The man's chest rose and fell once, twice, and still she stood riveted to the spot by his gaze.

Finally a familiar figure shattered the moment, gliding forward past the man, his black cassock rippling like inky shadows swallowing up the light. "Are you ill, child?"

"Oh!" she exhaled, placing one hand at her bosom to assuage her panic.

The Abbot peered down his nose at her. "I hope we didn't startle you."

Of course he'd startled her. Half to death. But if she knew the Abbot, frightening her was likely his intent. Indeed, she gleaned some satisfaction from the possibility that her sudden shriek had startled _him_.

"I hope _I_ didn't..." The words caught in her throat as her gaze flickered again over the man accompanying the Abbot. He wore the cassock of a holy man, but he didn't look like any friar she'd seen before. "Startle _you_."

She tore her eyes away long enough to see the Abbot smile with thin affection. "Nothing you do could ever startle me, child."

Ordinarily she'd snap back a clever retort, but today she wasn't interested in a verbal duel with the Abbot. She was far more intrigued by his companion—the towering, grim-faced, broad-shouldered man of the cloth who continued to challenge her with a piercing stare.

"I've brought a chaplain for Wendeville," the Abbot droned, glancing down at the bee still spiraling on the flagstones beside her bare feet. "Apparently not a moment too soon, if _vermin_ are already infesting the chapel." Cynthia spared the Abbot a glimpse, getting the distinct impression he wasn't just referring to the bee. "Lady Cynthia," he said, nodding with false deference, "may I present Father Garth."

Garth.

She looked closer.

It couldn't be, she thought. It was mere coincidence. The bee made her remember the boy in the garden, and here was a man with his name. Garth was a common enough name. Surely it wasn't the _same_ Garth. And yet...

"Garth?" Her pulse pounded erratically at her temples. It was childish, this sudden excitement. But the man before her had gray-green eyes and hair the color of chestnuts...and suddenly she wished with all her heart, childish or not, that it _was_ that boy. It was naïve, a memory from a girlhood filled with faeries and foolish dreams, and she was a woman grown. But she couldn't recall a time when she'd been happier, that halcyon time before her mother had died. Garth de Ware was a part of that life. _Please,_ she prayed with uncharacteristic whimsy, _let it be him._

Garth had never felt more awkward in his life. For God's sake—he'd thought he'd left his warrior ways behind him.

The lady's scream had started it all. His heart had plummeted at the sound, and for the first time in four years, his hand had whipped around to his left hip, seeking his sword, finding nothing but cassock.

As unnerved by his own instinctive response as he was by the shriek of a damsel in distress, he nonetheless burst into the chapel like a knight bent on rescuing her.

Then he froze. And almost broke his vow of silence. Before him, bathed in the ethereal light of the sun-washed chapel, stood the most fey and wondrous creature he'd ever beheld. A wave of paralyzing heat assaulted him. The breath caught in his chest, and his heart stumbled like a wounded warhorse.

The devil had taken a pleasing shape. There was no other explanation for such beauty. The woman was nearly as tall as he, but as statuesque and well proportioned as the pagan sculptures he'd seen long ago in Rome. Her skin was smooth and vibrant, like the flesh of an apricot, and a delicate sprinkle of freckles frolicked across her nose and cheeks. Her lips were sensual, as inviting as a cherry tart, and her eyes were an ethereal shade of blue matched only by a clear English sky. Most striking, however, was the shock of unbound orange hair that curled riotously about her face, framing it like a storm-tossed halo. It reminded him of marigolds and sunlight and long-abandoned summers of childhood innocence.

Her sideless surcoat, where it wasn't smudged with dirt, was the color of Highland pines. Beneath, a soft gray kirtle hugged her lovely form, and the sight of the delicious curves it revealed made Garth's nostrils quiver like a steed's sensing danger.

_Mother of God,_ he despaired silently, _what comes to test me now?_ Surely this was some jest. The Abbot couldn't be serious. He'd have to be mad to place a man burdened by the sin of temptation in the household of Eve herself.

The woman's gaze swept him from head to toe, settling at last on his face, searching his eyes for...something. "Is it possible," she said, her breathy voice drizzling over his nerves like honey, "that your surname is de Ware?"

He stiffened. She'd heard of him.

"Indeed," the Abbot said coolly. "You're acquainted with his family then?"

From beneath his brows, Garth could see her face light up with pleasure. It made him melt inside.

"It's been some time," she breathed. "But I'm so pleased to see you again, Garth." She warmly inclined her head and extended her hand. It was a capable hand, strong and genuine, a little soiled, but unfettered by jewelry or guile. "My father was Lord Harold le Wyte?" she prompted.

Panic seized him as he stared at her hand. He knew without touching her that that hand was as warm as fresh-baked bread. He suppressed the desire to take it, greeting her with safe, stony silence instead.

As far as Lord Harold le Wyte, he neither remembered her father nor wished to remember _her_. If he _had_ known her, it was from a time he'd put under lock and key long ago, and he didn't intend to pry open that box, ever.

Her pretty smile faltered. Her hand hung in empty space.

"Oh, I should mention," the Abbot said, "Father Garth is under a vow of silence."

The smile congealed on her face. She awkwardly withdrew her hand. Garth felt a twinge of remorse, but he'd never been more grateful for a penance in his life. He couldn't have forced words past his lips if his soul depended on it.

"I understand." She didn't look as if she understood at all. Indeed, she looked rather offended, as if he'd taken the vow just to spite her.

"It's a temporary penance," the Abbot added, "just a week more."

"Ah." Her glance flickered over him, inspecting him rather too thoroughly.

"I'm certain, Lady Cynthia, you'll be pleased with Father Garth. He's had four years in the monastery, and he's a fine scribe, as well as an expert on sin and the moral life."

Garth winced at the Abbot's subtle barb.

"I'm so glad you found him, Abbot," the lady said.

Garth knew he was doomed. That wistful longing flirting about her eyes would surely be his undoing. Her very presence rattled his composure and did unspeakable things to his loins. And—God have mercy—short of castration, there was no way out of the hell his life was about to become.

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Medieval Outlaws

Rogues, rapscallions, knaves, scoundrels, hellions, scallywags, blackguards, outcasts, and firebrands. They may be villains, but they're irresistible, and sometimes the right woman can steal their hearts and help them mend their ways.

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THE REIVER

Medieval Outlaws

Prequel

_DUMFRIES, SCOTLAND_

_SUMMER 1211_

"Where are ye goin', Da?" wee Colin asked as Brochan buckled on his sword over his white leine and black trews. The lad's brows were furrowed, and his five-year-old eyes looked fretful.

Brochan hunkered down and clasped the lad's wee shoulder.

"Nowhere. Just out to the fields. Now I'm countin' on ye lads to keep watch while I'm gone." He reached over to squeeze Cambel's shoulder as well. Then he glanced up and gave his man, Rauf, a wink.

Cambel didn't look convinced. He glanced at Brochan's sword. "How long will ye be gone, Da?"

"Och, not long at all."

Brochan exchanged a meaningful look with Rauf. He hoped he wouldn't be long. If they returned, he was determined to catch the damned reivers tonight.

He was convinced now the tavern wench was right. It was reivers who'd taken his cows. The nasty thieves had already stolen five of them in as many days. Tonight he would stand watch over the herd. If the villains tried to strike again, he'd be ready for them.

"Why can't I come, Da?" Colin asked, his green eyes serious. "I'll be careful around the coos."

"Me too," Cambel chimed in. "And I'm not afraid o' the dark."

Brochan smiled and ruffled the twins' unruly auburn hair that looked so like their mother's. "Ye're two brave lads, that's for sure. But I need ye here. After all, ye can't expect Rauf to watch o'er the keep all by himself."

"That's right," Rauf said, lowering his gray brows to give them a stern frown. "'Tis up to us to guard the house."

Rauf's wife, Mabel, called out from where she was tending the fire. "I'm countin' on ye braw lads to keep me safe."

Brochan grinned at that. Keep her safe indeed. Mabel was as big as a tree, as strong as an ox, and as unyielding as iron. If required, she could probably roust the entire English army from the tower house.

In fact, once she heard about Brochan's intentions to waylay the reivers, Mabel had offered to go after the good-for-naught knaves herself. But Brochan wasn't about to let her tangle with outlaws. She was too valuable as a cook and a nursemaid to his sons to be risking her life over such nonsense.

Brochan was grateful Rauf and Mabel had come with him to this new holding. The loyal servants had been with him since the lads were born. He didn't know what he'd do without them.

This battle with the reivers, however, was Brochan's. He was fairly sure that reiving his cattle was his unfriendly neighbors' attempt to chase him off.

It wouldn't work. He was determined to stay. He'd come too far and surrendered too much to go back now. He wouldn't let a few hostile neighbors frighten him away, especially since he had no intention of returning to the place where he'd met and married his beloved wife. There were too many painful reminders of her there.

It was best he make a fresh start. On this sizeable plot of land with its grassy, rolling braes and its thick forests, its lovely winding burn and its crumbling-but-reparable tower house, he could raise his sons in peace—far away from their mother's kin, who, though they never spoke of it aloud, silently blamed the twins for her death.

Brochan gave Cambel and Colin a kiss on the brow. How anyone could blame his two precious sons for anything so tragic, he didn't know.

"Ye do what Rauf tells ye now," he reminded them.

The lads nodded. Brochan straightened, adjusting his sword belt. He wore his sword out of habit. He doubted he'd need a weapon. The reivers were likely just a couple of lads up to mischief.

They would quickly learn that Brochan Macintosh was not a man to sit idly by while his cattle were picked off. A stern word from him about the foolishness of stealing from one's neighbor and the return of his cows should set the matter to rights.

The evening air was mild and pleasant. The sky was still not fully dark as he headed down the steep slope of the motte toward the glen where the cows usually spent the night. The dark green pines of the forest were etched in jagged silhouettes against the violet sky. Stars were just emerging, sprinkled like salt across the heavens. Thistles of starlit purple studded the grass like gems.

The crickets stopped chirping as he hiked across the spongy loam. In the well-grazed pasture, he could make out the rough, dark shapes of horned black cows slumbering on the sod.

Angling across the brae, he found a good vantage point where he could hide in a clump of tall heather and view the whole glen. He settled onto his seat on the damp ground, rested his arms on his raised knees, and narrowed his eyes at the herd below.

The crickets gradually resumed their singing. Now and then a cow would stir, raising its shaggy head and lowering it again. Brochan sat as still as stone while the moon slowly moved across the sky.

As always, when he was alone and unoccupied, memories of his wife seeped into his thoughts. Even after five years, he missed her. He hated to admit it was getting harder and harder to remember her face. But the features their sons had inherited from her—her reddish-brown hair, her freckled nose, her stubborn chin—haunted him. It was a blessing the lads had been born with green eyes like Brochan's, for he didn't think he could endure seeing his wife's merry sky-blue eyes every day.

He still wasn't past blaming himself for her death. Recalling her pale and shivering body as she delivered their second twin with her last breath, he felt crushing guilt, even though he'd done everything he could to save her life. Everything except stay away from her bed in the first place.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was too late for regrets now. She was gone, and he'd never find another like her. He had to do the best he could for their sons on his own.

As he surveyed the great glen that was now part of his holding, his eye caught on a curious star he hadn't seen before above the distant brae. It was lower than the others. And though it appeared motionless in the sky, a long stream of light trailed after it like a tail.

A comet, he realized in wonder. He hadn't seen a comet since he was a lad. He'd never seen one so vivid nor so close to the earth. Now he wished he had brought Colin and Cambel out to the field with him.

He narrowed his eyes. If it was like the comet he'd seen before, it would appear every night for several days as it slowly crossed the heavens. He'd be sure to show it to his sons tomorrow night then, just as his father had done for him all those years ago.

Most people believed that comets were a portent of things to come. Some thought they brought bad luck. Some thought they were harbingers of good fortune.

Brochan figured they were no more than an interesting feature in the night sky that men could only partly understand, like falling stars or eclipses. Still, if the comet wished to bring him good luck, he'd be grateful for the return of his cattle.

His eyes shifted suddenly as they caught movement coming from the edge of the woods. He stiffened. He could make out the shadowy shapes of six cloaked figures stealing out of the forest, not forty yards away.

Brochan moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. Maybe it was good he'd brought it after all. Never had he imagined he'd have to deal with an entire army of reivers.

At the edge of the trees, they all stopped, all but the smallest one. That one continued to slowly advance. The reiver had chosen his target carefully. The lone cow was at a little distance from the rest of the herd, at a good distance from the bull, and she had no calf with her.

In the same way the reiver meant to separate the cow from the herd to make it easier to capture, Brochan could separate the lad from the rest of his companions. If he could steal down the brae without being spotted, he could easily grab the thief and use him as leverage to quell the rest of his fellows.

The reiver clearly knew what he was doing. He took his time, letting the cows adjust to his presence, and headed in a straight line toward his target. Though Brochan couldn't make out the words, he could hear the lad's low, soothing murmurs as he calmed the cattle.

Slowly, Brochan eased up from the ground, creeping forward through the heather, keeping his eyes trained on his prey.

Then a curious thing happened. The reiver stopped abruptly, went silent, and straightened.

Brochan realized the lad was staring at the sky.

He'd seen the star.

Brochan glanced toward the other reivers. They were pointing at the comet and jostling each other, as though arguing over it.

Finally, one of them hissed at the lone reiver in the moonlight, beckoning him.

But the reiver stood frozen in the field, awestruck.

While they were thus distracted, Brochan made his swift way down the rise.

He was no more than twenty yards away when the tallest reiver spotted him. The lad cursed and shoved at his companions, and the lot of them retreated under the trees.

All of them but the reiver in the field, who paid no heed to their calls or Brochan's presence. The lad lingered in the moonlight, transfixed by the comet, as Brochan crept closer and closer.

Cristy stared, struck dumb by the vision in the heavens.

What was that? A star? Or something else?

It wasn't moving. Yet a long, feathery tail stretched out behind it as if it were flying across the night sky.

She'd never seen such a thing.

"Cristy, come on!" Archibald hissed from the trees. "Now, damn ye!"

She ignored him. She didn't care about the cows now. She could catch a cow another night. This was far more intriguing.

Suddenly she remembered what the tavern wench had told her.

Change is on the horizon. The star has chosen ye. Follow it, and ye may change your fate.

She shivered. Was this her star? Had Brighde truly foreseen her future?

In one moment, she was gazing at the star in wonder.

In the next, she was hurtling toward the ground.

When her shoulder hit the sod, her first thought was that the bull had charged and knocked her over.

But when she tried to scramble out of harm's way, a heavy arm held her down—a human arm.

"Archibald," she bit out, for she was sure it was her oldest cousin, "let me up."

"Hold still."

Cristy's eyes went wide. It wasn't her cousin. She didn't recognize the voice.

"Ye'll frighten the coos," he warned.

If it wasn't her cousins, it must be one of Macintosh's men.

Shite! She couldn't be caught. Reiving cattle was a serious crime.

Deciding she'd rather take her chances with the herd of frightened cows than with their vengeful owner, she spat out a curse, then struggled and bucked and kicked and scratched, trying to free herself from the clutches of her captor. But he was very persistent and very strong.

Through the strands of her hair, she glimpsed her cousins hiding under the trees.

Why weren't they helping her? She grimaced as the arm around her waist tightened.

And then she heard the cattle. All the noise was disturbing them.

Good, she thought. Maybe the restless cows would distract the beast attacking her long enough for her to escape.

She took in a deep breath, ready to yell for all she was worth.

Her cry was cut short by the clap of a huge hand over her mouth.

"Hush!" the man hissed against her ear. "Ye'll get us both killed if that bull charges."

Cristy glanced again toward the trees. Her cousins had vanished.

Her heart sank. If they'd abandoned her, she was as good as dead. So what did she care if the bull killed her?

She renewed her struggles.

In the end, it was no use. Her captor, whoever he was, had a grip like iron and a will to match. He hefted her up like a fleece of wool in one powerful arm, muffling her cries with his sweaty palm, and packed her off across the field toward the tower house.

Her last thought as she caught one final glimpse of the strange star in the sky was that Brighde had only promised her a change of fortune.

She hadn't said it might be a change for the worse.

Brochan realized about halfway through subduing the reiver that the scrappy firebrand he'd caught was a lass. But by then, it was too late to let her go. She was already riling up the cattle. He had to get her away from them.

The cows were by nature fairly calm. Brochan let his sons pet the shaggy beasts, as long as they were with him. Twice a day, the lads milked the two cows that had lost their young in the byre. But some of the cows in the field had young calves they were protecting. And the bull was unpredictable.

Even if Brochan had wanted to let her go, the wee reiver's companions had deserted her. And he wasn't about to let a lass roam the countryside by night all alone. He'd never be able to live with himself if she were attacked by wolves or miscreants.

So, regretting his rough handling of the lass, he proceeded to remove her from the field as efficiently as possible.

Any regret he had was cut short when, halfway up the brae, the minx bit into the soft part of his palm.

With an outcry that was more aggravation than pain, he yanked his hand away.

She took a breath.

No doubt she meant to curse him.

Or cry for help.

Or scream at the top of her lungs.

He couldn't have her doing any of those. So he stuffed a wad of her arisaid into her open mouth before she could make a peep.

But like plugging a wasp's nest, his actions only served to agitate her further. She thrashed and twisted in the prison of his arms. Her anger erupted in frustrated squeals behind the stifling wool.

She was still fighting him and screaming into her arisaid when he climbed the motte and reached the tower house door. But he didn't have a free hand. So, grimacing in anticipation of her curses, he uncovered her mouth long enough to reach for the handle.

She didn't disappoint. As he swung open the door, she spat the wool from her mouth and emitted a string of oaths vile enough to make the devil blush.

Even the stalwart Rauf, who rushed forward to close the door behind them, blinked at the foul curses.

Eager to be rid of his noisy burden, Brochan carried the lass into the hall and set her abruptly on her feet, so abruptly she nearly tripped on the hem of her kirtle.

She tossed her head, and her long black braid slapped him in the face. He had just enough time to see her snarling white teeth—the teeth now imprinted upon his palm—before she did the unthinkable.

While he was disentangling himself from the hissing she-cat, the lass laid her hands upon the hilt of his sword and pulled it from its sheath.

Brochan leaped back just in time to avoid the edge of the blade. It whistled past, missing him by inches.

Before he even had time to curse himself for his carelessness, she stabbed forward.

He fell back, grabbing a lit sconce from the wall to use as a weapon.

"Put the sword down," he warned.

She glared at him through damp strands of her dark hair, but still she held the blade aloft in both hands.

"Put it down," he repeated.

When she refused to comply, he lunged forward with the sconce, forcing her to skitter back.

With a determined growl, she slashed again and again at the space between them. Her swings were reckless and wildly unpredictable.

Defending himself with the sconce, he managed to keep her from doing too much damage.

"Nay, Rauf!" he barked at his man, who was trying to sneak up on the lass. "Stay back!"

He didn't want anyone injured by a stray blade. Besides, if Brochan couldn't handle this minikin of a lass on his own, he didn't deserve to be laird of the tower house.

"Whoreson!" the lass spat. "Satan's spawn!"

Brochan frowned. He wondered if she kissed the lads with that filthy mouth.

She took another swipe at him, and he fended it off with the sconce, extinguishing the candle.

He could have brought the heavy piece down on her head at that point and knocked her out. But he hated to resort to such violence when it wasn't necessary.

Besides, the way the lass was fighting—with all her pluck and every bit of her strength—she couldn't last much longer. He'd just wait for her to tire.

"Ye hedge-born bastard!"

Brochan shook his head and deflected another wayward swing.

As he did, he caught a glimpse of Cambel and Colin, who'd heard the noise and come downstairs. They peered out from the shadows of the stairwell with their wooden swords in hand, ready to do battle.

He grimaced. They'd probably witnessed the whole sordid incident and were hanging on every blasphemous word.

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DANGER'S KISS

Medieval Outlaws

Book 1

_FEBRUARY 1250_

He spotted Desirée at once, by the light of a moonbeam filtering through the shutters. She was asleep, luxuriously sprawled across the coverlet like a cat with a belly full of cream, commandeering his pallet as if her spindly frame required every inch of it.

"Oh, nay, you don't," he murmured. He might feel sorry for the orphaned lass, but he wasn't about to let her usurp his bed. "Desirée," he called.

She didn't move.

"Desirée."

Still no reply.

He drew closer, not close enough that she could swing out with a stray fist and clip him on the jaw, but close enough to be heard.

"Desirée."

She still didn't stir, but Azrael, tucked behind one of her knees, lifted his head.

Nicholas frowned. There was something tied around the cat's neck. Something distinctly feminine.

"God's eyes! What have you done to my cat?"

That woke her. She rose on her elbows, her eyes glazed, her mouth making sleepy smacks. "What?"

"What did you do to Azrael?"

She glanced down at the cat, as if trying to recall. Then her lips curved up in a smile that was pure mischief. "He thinks it's pretty," she said, crooning, "doesn't he, Snowflake?"

Nicholas seized Azrael, who yowled once in complaint, and immediately untied the silly bow, dropping it atop the coverlet.

Desirée shrugged off his actions and snuggled back down under the blankets. "Did you get my list?" she murmured.

He gave Azrael a consoling pat and set him down again on the pallet. "Your list? You mean that nonsense about lavender and beeswax candles? Do you know how much saffron costs?"

"Come, Nicky, you can't expect me to keep your house properly if I don't have the required supplies."

"I seem to have done fine before without them. And stop calling me Nicky."

"What would you prefer? Your Majesty?"

Nicholas exhaled on a growl, trying to recall why he'd felt sorry for the pesky imp. "I've bought another pallet. I've placed it beside the fire."

"Mm, good," she purred. "I'd hate to think of you getting cold in the night."

He blinked. The audacity of the naughty wench was amazing. Unable to think of a fitting verbal response, he decided to let his actions speak for him. He threw back the covers and, ignoring her indignant shrieks, scooped her up into his arms.

"Unhand me, sirrah!"

"You're not sleeping in my bed." He started toward the door.

"But I was there first!"

"'Tis _my_ bed."

"You weren't using it." She actually wedged her limbs in the doorway, trying to prevent his exit.

"Well, I'm going to use it now."

"'Tisn't fair!"

He didn't feel like arguing the absurdity of a tiny lass expropriating his huge bed while he lay cramped on a small pallet by the fire.

"The only way you're sleeping in that bed," he whispered wickedly, "is if you're sharing it with me."

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PASSION'S EXILE

Medieval Outlaws

Book 2

_FEBRUARY 1250_

Rose let her gaze drift over the white wimples and gray habits of the nuns and pondered for the first time what life in a convent might be like. Now that she'd fled her betrothed, one of the options left to her was joining a holy order. Most women her age shuddered at the thought. Internment in a convent was a common threat issued to wayward daughters. But Rose had heard favorable things about the church. In the service of the Lord, a woman might enjoy a great deal of freedom and, it was rumored, aspire to great power.

And what of the disadvantages? As far as she could see, there were only two—celibacy and boredom. After the abomination she'd witnessed in the stable, celibacy seemed almost desirable. As for boredom...

She was still reflecting upon her future, absently stroking Wink, when her eye caught a flicker of silver from the darkest shadow in the deepest corner of the room.

She hadn't noticed the man before. His black cloak and dark leather chausses made him seem part of the smoke-seasoned timbers of the inn. Even now she couldn't see him well. His eyes were hidden by the hood of his cloak, which revealed only the lower half of his face—a grim mouth and a square, black-stubbled jaw—and yet somehow she felt he watched her.

A forbidding thrill shivered along her spine. She turned aside, casually raising her hand to her face so she could peer at the stranger in secret from behind her fingers.

His boots extended beneath the table in a lazy, almost insolent manner, and except for occasionally running a single finger along the rim of his cup, he scarcely moved. But when he lifted his arm to drink, she saw it again—the glint of metal.

Her heart bolted into her throat. He wore shackles. He was a criminal then. She'd heard about men like him, dangerous men who chose to go on pilgrimage as punishment for their crimes. She gulped. What might his villainy be? Theft? Adultery? Murder?

Maybe going on a pilgrimage hadn't been such a wise decision after all.

But before she could change her mind, Father Peter clapped his hands together, calling for silence and summoning the pilgrims to draw near.

She rose from the table, and when she dared look again, she saw the man in shackles had come to his feet and thrown back his hood.

Her breath caught. He stood tall over most of the other pilgrims. The width of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest marked him as a man of uncommon strength. Candlelight illuminated the angled planes of his face, accentuating the hollow of his cheek and the depth of his brow. Dark hair slashed down in long, unruly locks over his forehead, shadowing his softly glimmering eyes.

Rose swallowed a rough knot of fear as she glanced at the irons shackling his wrists, wondering if the length of heavy chain slung between the thick cuffs would hold.

Father Peter spoke, issuing instructions for the pilgrimage, but she didn't hear a word. All her attention was focused on the dark figure that seemed to reign over the room.

He must have sensed her scrutiny, for in the next moment, he slowly turned his head until he stared at her as intently as she watched him. His brow furrowed, and his mouth hardened as he studied her in a bold, leisurely manner from head to toe. His gaze commanded her own, for try as she might, she couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

Yet it was more than fear that held her. Something in his glittering eyes excited her, challenged her, aroused her. He was absolutely beautiful, sinfully so, she realized, more striking than any man she'd ever seen. But there was something terrible in his beauty, some dark secret that lodged within the handsome confines of his form.

His eyes narrowed upon her for a long moment, as if they delved into her soul. Her heart raced. Her breath grew shallow. Her knees weakened. Overwhelmed by a mysterious, powerful shock she couldn't name, she gripped the table to steady herself. When he finally looked away, so intrusive and lasting was the impact of his gaze that Rose felt as if she'd been violated.

Blade scowled in the direction of the priest, his heart pounding far too forcefully. That woman, the one with the half-blind falcon, had unsettled him. And he was unaccustomed to being unsettled.

"Look penitent," Wilham hissed beside him.

Blade made the attempt, but soon the curious furrow crept back between his brows.

He'd spied the lass the instant she'd walked through the door, arriving on a stream of sunlight like an angel alighting from heaven. Her rare beauty had astonished him, and he wasn't a man easily astonished. She was as small and slim as a child, yet she possessed enough womanly curves to be the mistress of a king. Her snug white underdress, exposed in the slits of a sideless surcoat the color of ripe cherries, revealed a delectable form that sent his heart racing and his thoughts spiraling along all manner of sins.

Her features were as delicate as a fawn's, yet strong and pure in color. Her skin was pale and smooth, like cream, her lips the hue of summer wine. Fine black brows arched over impossibly enormous eyes of a curious color he couldn't distinguish. And tumbling down past the swell of her hip, unbound sleek black tresses as shiny as satin reflected the flickering firelight.

But it was more than her beauty that snared his eye.

She didn't belong here. That much was plain in the nervous darting of her glance. She was as out of place amidst the milling pilgrims as a lily in a field of thistles.

Where were her things? he wondered. Noblewomen always insisted on packing chests of clothing, necessities they claimed they couldn't live without, even if they ventured but a day's ride from their home. Despite the rich velvet of her surcoat and the quality of the fine silver chain and small polished carbuncle that dripped tantalizingly upon her bosom, this woman appeared to possess nothing but the garments she wore and the falcon. How could she have planned to journey to St. Andrews without provisions?

Wilham elbowed him. "At least _feign_ to listen," he muttered.

Blade lifted his head and attempted to focus on the fat priest jabbering on about rules and lodging and the sanctity of pilgrimage, but soon his mind wandered again. He lifted a hand, wincing at the clank of the chains, and scratched at his brow so he might peek at the woman between his fingers.

God's breath, she was dazzling. Her attention was upon the Holy Father now, but by the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, it was clear she was ill-at-ease. He slowly perused her again from top to bottom, lifting a brow at the state of her attire. Her gown might be made of costly velvet, but there was a small tear at the inside of one sleeve, the hem was muddy, and the lower quarter of her skirt was littered with bits of dry grass. What mischief had the lass been up to?

Everyone around him murmured, "Amen." He belatedly echoed the sentiment. Then the mob began gathering their possessions and shambling toward the door.

"Seven miles a day," Wilham said, shaking his head. "'Tis a snail's pace."

Blade slung his pack over his shoulder and tried to purge the entrancing angel from his thoughts, scrutinizing the pilgrims one by one as they filed past. There were two scheming culprits in their ranks, and he didn't have much time to find them.

"'Twould take us but two days on horseback," Wilham complained, shouldering his own burden.

Blade grunted, not really listening. Who could the perpetrators be? Who looked capable of such villainy? The lass in red glanced fleetingly over at him again. Could she be an assassin? It was unthinkable. She had the sweet countenance of a cherub. Still, he was wise enough to know a bonnie face oft hid a black heart.

"Well," Wilham sighed, "at least we'll be comfortable enough tonight—dinin' on spun sugar and sleepin' with hot-blooded nuns."

Blade absently nodded, then drew his brows together. Never mind the angel with the ebony hair, he chided himself. That brawny man with the week's growth of beard and the threadbare cloak had a ruthless edge to his stare. Was he a killer?

Wilham cuffed him. "I knew ye weren't listenin'."

"What?"

"Come along, Blade. I'll fill ye in."

They fell in behind the last pilgrim.

"By the way, I've brought your sword," Wilham said smugly.

Blade gave him a sharp glare. "I won't use it."

"'Twas a foolish vow," Wilham muttered. "Ye'll regret makin' it."

Blade disagreed. The surrender of his sword, like the shackles around his wrists, lent credence to his disguise. And in a strange way, unburdened of the blood-stained weapon that had weighed upon his soul for two years, he indeed felt the faint hope of redemption.

It was a glorious spring morn. If he'd been less intent on his mission and less distracted by the scarlet temptress moving along the path well ahead of him, Blade might have enjoyed the pleasant march. The sun was bright, the sky cloudless, the air filled with birdsong. But his ear was attuned only to the quiet conversation around him, listening for any clue as to the identity of the killers.

A few of the pilgrims seemed above suspicion. He highly doubted that Father Peter, the organizer of the pilgrimage, had so dire a plot in mind. The priest was the most verbose of the travelers, though the man's girth left him huffing breathlessly as he waddled along the path, stabbing at the ground with his staff. The priest took enormous pride—almost sinful pride—in the many pilgrimages he'd made in his life. There was no end to his bluster. It seemed he'd been to every shrine in Christendom, and for each he had a story—a very long story—to relate.

Halfway through a wheezing oration about the incredible flagellants the father had encountered abroad, Wilham nudged Blade, muttering, "For a parish priest, he spends little time in his parish."

Blade nodded. The fact that Father Peter was in essence a wayfarer cast a shadow of suspicion on his character. But it was difficult to believe the prattling priest could keep any secret—and more to the point, a secret involving murder—for more than an hour. They'd only started their journey, and already Blade knew more than he ever wished to know about the man.

Following closely at Father Peter's heels were the two young nuns. They complemented the priest well, for they talked hardly at all. They never questioned the Father's gushing proclamations, but gazed at him in wide-eyed wonder, as if he spoke the Gospel every time he opened his mouth.

Staring at the nuns' round, rosy-cheeked faces framed by linen wimples only a shade lighter than their skin—their blue eyes so alike, their small mouths made for murmured prayers—it was difficult to envision them as assassins. Indeed, the mere mention of violence would likely send the fragile creatures into an overwrought faint.

Directly behind the pious sisters walked the fascinating woman with the falcon. Her straight ebony hair caught the breeze, streaming out like a dark pennon against the bright green of the spring saplings all around them. Her gait was almost regal, and she bore the falcon proudly upon her gloved wrist. Blade wondered how soon she'd tire of carrying the thing. Peregrines were light, but as any knight bearing a shield knew, even a light thing grew heavy over time.

The bird was a pretty thing, despite its maimed eye, but he wondered why the woman would keep such a pet. It couldn't hunt for itself and must be more trouble than it was worth. He doubted she'd even given a thought as to how to feed it on the journey.

Something was definitely wrong. She hardly looked prepared for a trek of this magnitude. It seemed as if, in the impulsive way of females, the lady had awakened in the morning, snapped up her falcon, and decided to walk to St. Andrews, without a notion as to how she'd get there or what to pack.

Blade almost pitied her. He too had left the comforts of a manor for the wilds of the woods. It wasn't easy to adapt. She'd probably given no thought whatsoever to what she'd eat, where she'd sleep, or how she'd get dressed without the aid of a maidservant.

Then again, he thought, maybe that was her aim. Maybe she was a true pilgrim who intended to humble herself by journeying without her usual luxuries, to seek understanding and salvation.

The path ahead looped sharply so that the line of pilgrims folded back almost upon itself, and Blade, walking at the end, watched the lady pass in profile. She _was_ captivating. She carried her head level, letting her eyes dip gracefully to guide her as she stepped forward. Her hands were delicate and fair, as if she did little more with them than wave or pray. Her beguiling chin came almost to a point, and her dark curtain of hair framed her face and brushed her waist like a cloak made of satin. Her skin looked as soft as a dove's breast, and the enticing swell of her bosom stole the very breath from his mouth.

Then she caught him staring, and her grace disappeared. She tripped. The falcon's wings flapped wildly for an instant, and the lass stumbled forward into the nuns ahead of her.

"Bloody he-..." he heard her mutter, and then, "Sorry."

When her glance fell upon him again, he sobered. The lass was as skittish as a kitten in a stable full of warhorses. Why? What did she have to hide?

Rose cursed inwardly at her clumsiness. She had to stop dwelling on that brooding outlaw in the shackles. Surely she only imagined he was watching her.

She'd intentionally placed herself near the fore of the line, where persons of more piety and less menace seemed to congregate. Yet she could feel the felon's merciless, penetrating gaze even at this distance.

God's eyes, what did he want?

Perhaps he was a thief. Perhaps he'd seen her jeweled pendant and her valuable falcon and, guessing she carried silver, meant to steal it from her.

Yet he'd apparently chosen to travel on the pilgrimage, shackled and shamed, of his own will. Didn't that mean he'd repented of his crime?

Rose glanced up again, surreptitiously. Faith, the man was audacious. He was _still_ watching her. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

She wondered again what his crime could be. Theft? Murder? Rape? Her mind suddenly filled with a terrifying image of the dark criminal in shackles looming over her, ravishing her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the shocking vision.

But they opened again of their own volition, and her gaze flickered inexorably back to him. Still the knave stared—his brow furrowed deeply, his mouth grim, the soft clank of his chains sinister among the cheery chirps of sparrows on the wing.

She snapped her head about sharply to focus instead on the plump priest at the head of the line. She wouldn't look at the outlaw again. She refused.

Beneath her pendant, she felt her heart flutter, and though it was absurd, she knew it was more than fear quickening her pulse. Something about the dangerous black-cloaked figure made her feel the same exhilaration she did when she rode faster than was safe on her palfrey or strayed too far from home. It was that sort of forbidden excitement that she found in his gaze, a clandestine thrill that hastened her heartbeat and snatched her breath away.

But she had to resist the lure of deeper peril. She was in enough trouble already. Though she'd ridden fast and far, pursuit was not long behind. Gawter's men would know they'd been gulled. By now they would have reported back to her betrothed. They'd tell Gawter she'd ridden east, and he'd guess she was on her way to Fernie House.

Perhaps Gawter would abandon the chase, perhaps not. With Rose out of the way, he might simply wait for the Laird of Averlaigh to die and take the mother to wife instead of the daughter. Surely he knew that Rose bore him no affection and wouldn't contest the wedding. On the other hand, if he wished to hold on to Averlaigh permanently, he needed an heir, and Lady Agatha was too old to give him one. For that, he needed Rose.

Averlaigh had been the incentive for the betrothal all along. She knew that now. Sir Gawter possessed wealth, but no property. Lady Agatha possessed property, but no wealth. While the Laird of Averlaigh still hung onto life, Rose's mother wasn't free to remarry. But with Rose as a sacrifice, the barren Agatha and rich Gawter could both gain what fortune they lacked and enjoy a surreptitious liaison into the bargain right under Rose's nose. As for Rose, she'd supply the heir required to keep hold of Averlaigh.

Rose shivered at their treachery, thankful for every step she advanced away from the devious pair.

The pilgrims had traveled for a few hours when Father Peter stopped the company for a rest beneath a grove of elms bordering a flower-studded glen.

The old apple-cheeked woman plopped down beside a rotting stump and in moments was snoring away like a well-fed hound. Most of the others dug in their satchels for bits of bread and cheese they'd brought along or hefted skins of quenching beer.

Rose licked her dry lips and swallowed thirstily. She'd been forced to abandon all her provisions when she'd leaped from her horse. It hadn't occurred to her to purchase spare food at the inn. She supposed she'd been so preoccupied with evading death at the hands of Gawter's men that she hadn't considered she might well die of starvation on the road.

At least they'd stay at a manor this eve, where they were likely to be fed generously. There she'd eat a small supper and cache a bit of food for the next day's travel. Meanwhile, rather than stand about with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, she decided to stroll across the daisy-strewn meadow to let Wink stretch her wings.

Behind her, the soothing murmur of voices diminished as she crossed the grass. In the midst of the glen, Rose untied Wink's leash from her jesses. The instant she was released, she took to the sky. Rose lowered her hand, massaging the muscles of her arm, which ached with the burden of carrying the bird for so long. She smiled as Wink circled overhead. How free the falcon flew, unbound by worry and the weight of the world.

For a long while Wink turned lazily in the sky, skimming past the emerald tops of the trees, her tawny wings fluttering in the gentle breeze.

Rose envied the falcon's freedom. Ever since learning of her betrothal, Rose had felt trapped, like a leaf caught in a swift current, tossed at a whim, steered by destiny. The thought that she had no control over her own future filled her with dread.

Wink dove suddenly and soared past, rising high again in the sky, and Rose shielded her eyes with her arm to watch the bird's antics. The falcon might not see well enough to hunt, but she'd never lost her love of speed.

After a while, in the distance, Rose heard Father Peter summoning the pilgrims to continue their journey. With a light sigh, she held her gloved hand aloft, beckoning Wink. The trusty falcon obediently glided down, alighting on her wrist. While Rose secured her jesses, Wink plumped her feathers as if boasting of her flight.

How the man stole upon her unawares, Rose didn't know. But the instant she wheeled around, the dark, chained felon filled her vision like some giant raven swooping down to carry her off. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and a rough gasp was ripped from her throat.

A dozen fears coursed through her brain: she was alone; she was cornered; he meant her harm; no one would help her. And yet she stood frozen to the spot, as if by some perverse enchantment. Though every instinct told her to run—run now, run fast—her feet wouldn't budge.

Instead, as if she moved through honey, she slowly lifted her gaze past the ominous shackles and the heavy chain linking them, up between his powerful arms to his massive chest, past the dark scrub of his strong chin, settling on his wide mouth. He didn't speak, and the continuing silence frayed her nerves until she could bear it no longer.

"What is it?" she whispered, her nostrils flaring. "What do ye want?"

Surer than a falcon on the hunt, he grabbed her free wrist. She yanked back, but his grip was firm. She glanced down. His great scarred knuckles seemed to devour her trembling hand. The iron of his shackles was cold upon her wrist, and she swallowed hard as the links of the chain softly clanked against her sleeve.

Against her will, her gaze was wrenched back up to his face. He frowned, and she noted the color of his eyes. Gray. Unrelenting gray. Cold, hard, sinister gray. The color of consuming fog and impending death. A scream gathered in her throat, and she drank in a lung full of air to give it voice.

"Hush," he quietly warned her.

She should have ignored his threat. After all, a host of pilgrims stood nearby. A dozen defenders would have come to her rescue had she cried out. But something flickered in his gaze, some suggestion of controlled composure that calmed her enough to prevent the gathering scream.

He dropped his gaze to her bare hand, then turned it palm up. She watched, breathless. It occurred to her that he might snap her wrist with a single clench of his fist, strangle her with the length of chain, or draw a dagger to slay her, and no one would be able to reach her in time to prevent him.

"Open your hand," he bade her.

As if he'd uttered a spell, she slowly unfurled her fingers. With his other hand, he dropped something carefully into her palm, something small and round and warm. Furrowing her brow, she peered down. It was a single blue robin's egg.

She blinked up at him, confused. Was it a trick of the light, or did she detect slivers of azure amidst the gray of his eyes, a warm spark in the cool ash? It was extinguished almost as quickly as it was born, and he released her hand with equal haste.

"For the bird," he explained.

She glanced in wonder at the gift. Of course. Food for her falcon.

Before she could gather her wits to thank him, he nodded in silent farewell. In a sweep of dark wool, worn leather, and rough iron, he turned to rejoin the group.

Once Rose set the egg on the grass, Wink made quick work of it. But it was a long while down the road before Rose's heart ceased its erratic beating.

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DESIRE'S RANSOM

Medieval Outlaws

Book 3

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_SUMMER 1199_

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"If ye want to keep your bloody hand," Temair warned, taking careful aim with her bow, "ye'd best drop your purse."

The red-faced nobleman grimaced in frustration. He probably assumed she'd miss at this distance. But he was wise enough not to wager the precious appendage at the end of his arm on that. He dropped the bag of coins onto the forest floor.

She could have easily made the shot.

Lefthanded.

With her eyes closed.

For six years she'd been practicing with the longbow, trained by Cambeal, the finest archer among the woodkerns. Now the weapon felt like an extension of her arm. And she rarely missed.

In fact, she probably could have pinned his hand to the tree with one arrow and—while he hopped about, screaming in pain—fired a second into his heart.

But she wouldn't.

Temair didn't like spilling blood. Fortunately, she rarely had to.

Her uncommon height, combined with her speed and the gray hood and scarf she wore to mask her feminine features, were usually enough to make all but the most foolish of men back down.

"You won't get away with this," the man bit out.

Aye, she would. She always did.

She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. "Off with ye now."

He suddenly narrowed his eyes at her. "Wait," he growled in consternation. "Are you a wench? You're a damned wench, aren't you?"

She barked out a laugh. "Does it matter?"

He hesitated a moment. Finally, he must have realized that when an arrow was aimed at his heart, it made no difference who stood at the shooting end of the bow.

"You're the mistress of the devil," he snarled as he turned to go.

"Ye're not the first to say so," she called after him, arching an unimpressed brow.

The men she robbed were ridiculously predictable. She'd heard that insult so often, it rolled off of her like rain off her waxed leather armor.

After he'd scurried away, she opened the brown velvet bag and peered in at the coins. It was a decent cache of silver. There was enough here to see the mac Aida family through the winter. She closed the bag again in satisfaction.

Six years ago, if anyone had told her the daughter of the clan chieftain would grow up to be the leader of a band of outlaws, she would have called them mad.

Now she took pride in her profession.

It wasn't only because she was good with a bow and the bata. Fast on her feet. Clever at entangling greedy men in their own vices.

It was also because, as Orlaith had foretold from the beginning, it was the chieftain's daughter herself who would take her place as leader of the woodkerns and balance the accounts her father had set awry.

Temair never took so much as a farthing for herself. None of the outlaws did. They hunted their own food and bartered for whatever else they required. The silver they stole came from those who had much more than they needed. And the woodkerns gave it to those who had much less than they deserved.

For Temair, it was revenge of sorts. Gratifying revenge.

Without daughters to use for political gain, her father had resorted to trying to impress the English nobles with coin seized from his crofters.

In return, Temair had resorted to meeting those impressed English nobles in the woods, confiscating their ill-gotten wealth, and giving the coin back to the poor folk from whom it had been stolen.

Of course, only the woodkerns knew it was the clan chieftain's own flesh and blood wreaking havoc with the O'Keeffe accounts.

Rumor at the castle was that it had been young Temair who had pushed her sister off the top of the tower six years ago. And her father, unable to admit that Temair had slipped through his fingers, claimed he had her still under lock and key at the tower.

Having to take the blame for Aillenn's death tormented Temair, even if she still felt partly responsible. And part of her longed to prove her father a liar by turning up, free as a bird, at the castle gates.

But as silver-haired Orlaith used to remind her, Temair could exact sweeter vengeance upon her father, keeping her distance and taking away his precious coin, than if she lived under his nose again, subject to his control.

She tied the velvet bag onto her belt and shouldered her bow.

Petty thievery would do for now. But her father owed much more than what his lightened purse would yield.

Now that she was older, she'd worked out what had happened to her sister. Their father may not have beat Aillenn the way he did Temair. But the damage he'd done to the innocent young lass had been far worse. Aillenn's wounds went far deeper than Temair's bruises. Her sister had been abused and violated. She'd borne scars that would never heal.

Temair furrowed her brows as she trudged along the narrow deer trail that intersected the main road, heading back toward the hidden cave the woodkerns called home.

It made her sick to think of what her sister must have endured. Of the pain that had driven Aillenn to take her life rather than face the ugly truth of what had been done to her by her own father.

The fact that her sister lay in a grave while Cormac O'Keeffe was still breathing gnawed at Temair's soul like a rat chewing at a sack of oats.

She often dreamed of storming out of the forest, marching brazenly up to the tower house, bursting in upon her father, and shooting him straight through his black heart for what he'd done to her sister.

But any time her temper rose—when she'd had more than her fair share of ale or when she was waxing melancholy over Aillenn—wise old Orlaith had spoken to her with the stern affection of a mother, telling her that revenge wasn't worth throwing away her life.

She said Temair's time would come. Her father's deeds would not go unpunished. For the moment, however, there was more power in anonymity.

Orlaith had been right. And even though the old woman was two years gone now, Temair tried to keep her wisdom close at hand.

Still, it didn't keep Temair from being impatient for vengeance. And it didn't stop the guilt that haunted her on cold and starless nights.

She should have done more.

She _could_ have done more.

If only she hadn't agreed to leave the stable that night...

If only she hadn't thought her sister was exaggerating...

If only she'd convinced Aillenn to run away with her...

Temair might have prevented her from taking her own life.

She steeled her jaw against the unrelenting guilt. That guilt would be with her for the rest of her life, she knew. "If only" would follow her forever. Even destroying her father couldn't make it disappear.

She was still deep in thought when Bran and Flann came bounding out of the trees toward her, half knocking her down with their enthusiastic greetings.

"Any luck, Gray?" Tall Conall grinned as she approached the encampment.

To protect her identity, the woodkerns had given her the nickname, Gray, referring to the color of her eyes, which was usually all she revealed to her victims.

She tossed back her hood and pulled down her scarf, squirming away from the hounds' excited licks to her face. Then she untied the bag of coin and tossed it to him. "A safe winter for the mac Aidas."

Fair-haired Niall came up behind Conall. "They'll be glad to know."

Temair tussled with her hounds. "How are ye, lads?" she cooed at the dogs. "Did ye miss me?"

She'd learned not to take her hounds with her when she was waylaying strangers. Though they were excellent protectors and expert hunting animals, the enormous dogs had a tendency to frighten her victims away before she had the chance to harvest their riches.

Lady Mor and Friar Brian came into the clearing.

"What's for supper?" Temair asked.

Mor nodded toward the oak grove as she tied up her lush red hair. "Maelan and Domnall should return soon with somethin'."

The hunting was good this time of year. With any luck, they'd bring back a brace of rabbits or a deer.

Matronly Sorcha, who had been brewing ale, emerged from the cave, which was almost invisible because of the thick vines hanging over the entrance. An ideal spot for brewing, it also served as a good hideaway. As well as being nearly impossible to find, the interior cavern was large enough to house all twelve members of the woodkern family in comfort.

Of course, at this time of year, half of them slept in the trees, taking advantage of the balmy weather and sweet evening air.

Temair liked to curl up with the hounds at the mouth of the cave, which was the best vantage point for protecting the band of woodkerns.

"Has Aife returned yet?" she asked.

Mor and Brian shook their heads.

Aife served as an important connection to the outside world. Armed with a basket of eggs or a bundle of rags, the plain, quiet, unassuming lass could steal in and out of villages and castles without attracting notice.

It had been Aife all those years ago who'd gently informed Temair about the rumors at the castle and the story her father had made up to cover her disappearance.

Today, Temair had sent Aife to the O'Keeffe tower to follow up on a rumor about some change afoot in the castle. Temair guessed it might have something to do with the fact that Lord John of Ireland had only a few months ago become King John of England. Perhaps her father's bribing of the English nobles was finally going to pay off in the form of extra land for O'Keeffe.

It didn't matter to Temair. She'd left the castle six years ago. Though she still had a soft spot for her clan and the land, for the servants who had shown her empathy and the crofters whom her father had impoverished, the only true friends she'd ever had in her old life were Bran, Flann, and Aillenn. She'd brought the two hounds with her, and her sister she'd left in death's arms.

Now that the sun was on its way down, the woodkerns began to return to the encampment from their various enterprises.

Young Fergus and merry Cambeal turned up first. Fergus's eyes lit up as he boasted about how they'd tricked a pair of cocky lads out of their jeweled daggers. Mor snapped up one of the stolen blades to examine it, confirming that she could pry loose the jewels and sell them at the next fair for a tidy profit.

Next, sour-faced Maelan arrived, mumbling that he'd snared a half dozen fat rabbits for supper. Bald-pated Domnall followed, shouldering a young wild goat he'd speared. The band of outlaws would eat well for a few days.

Just before sunset, black-bearded Ronan marched into the clearing and tossed a small wooden trunk onto the ground. It tipped, spilling out its contents of silver coins.

Fergus whooped with glee. "'Tis enough for all the Sinna orphans, isn't it? What happened, Ronan? Tell us!"

Maelan let out an annoyed grumble, then stirred the fire to life. Friar Brian rolled up his cassock sleeves and started to prepare supper, chopping up wild leeks and garlic. Ronan settled his long frame on a log, rubbed his hands together, and began telling his tale with relish.

Everyone gathered around the fire to hear the story. Temair settled down on a mossy spot between her hounds.

"The particular villain I met today claimed he was a priest," Ronan said. "He said he'd been wanderin' the woods and lost his way, and would I be so good as to show him the way out?" He shrugged. "Naturally, god-fearin', helpful man that I am..."

Fergus snickered at that.

Ronan scowled at him. "God-fearin' and helpful man that I am," he asserted, "I started describin' the windin' curves o' the woodland path." He made a grand gesture to demonstrate. "But a curious thing happened when, in the midst o' my instructions, my wayward arm happened to catch his hood and dislodge it." He raised his brows dramatically. "'Ah, good father,' said I, 'ye must have been wanderin' a very long time.' 'Why?' said he. Said I, 'Because it seems your tonsure's all grown in.'"

"Ha!' Fergus exclaimed.

Temair grinned.

The friar clucked his tongue.

"He turned as red as your hair, Mor," Ronan continued, giving her a wink. "But he still insisted the trunk o' silver I found in his satchel was alms for the poor."

"What did ye do then?" young Fergus asked eagerly.

Ronan smiled smugly. "I told him I'd be sure the silver got where 'twas headed then."

Fergus burst out in giggles, which made the rest of the company join in. Even grouchy Maelan managed a chuckle.

As the others recounted their adventures for the day and the fire began to merrily crackle and burn, Temair's gaze circled the ring of woodkerns with fondness. They were her friends now, the best companions a lass could hope for. She trusted them with her life. And now that they'd taught her how to defend herself with bow, dagger, bata, and fists, they could trust her with theirs.

Lawless and free, the woodkerns recognized no laird, though, by old Orlaith's decree, they looked to Temair for leadership.

Their needs were few.

Their talents were many.

And they lived by an unwritten code of honor.

Mor, Niall, and Cambeal had all come from noble houses. Long ago, Conall, Ronan, and Aife had been merchants. Friar Brian had been deposed by an English priest. In another life, Maelan and Domnall had fought in battle. Sorcha had lost her entire family to sickness. And Fergus had been a beggar.

But none of that mattered. Now they were brothers and sisters of the woodkern clan. What bonded them was their simple mission—to make the world as fair and just as possible by whatever means they had at their disposal.

Temair scratched the hounds beneath their collars. She thought she'd never been luckier than the day she'd stumbled onto the woodkerns' encampment, the day they'd taken her in as their own. She smiled, remembering that it was actually Bran and Flann who had led her here in the first place, likely drawn by the smell of whatever the woodkerns had been cooking over their evening fire.

In the midst of her warm recollections and the woodkerns' merriment, Sorcha abruptly rose, sobering as she looked toward the road. Temair followed her gaze.

Aife had returned. Her face was grave and pale. For one terrible moment, Temair was reminded of her sister. Her heart knifed at the wild possibility that Cormac O'Keeffe had ravaged Aife the way he had Aillenn.

But she knew she was being ridiculous. Aife would have cut his fingers off before she let him touch her.

"What is it, Aife?" she asked.

The woodkerns silenced.

Aife sent one brief, revealing glance toward Temair before she spoke to the group. "I fear 'tis unwelcome tidin's."

Temair blurted out her first sinful wish. "Is he dead?"

Aife creased her brow. "Who?"

"My father," Temair said.

The friar flashed Temair a chiding glare. He knew very well she wished it so.

Aife shook her head.

Temair was ashamed to admit she felt a pang of disappointment.

Sorcha asked, "What are the bad tidin's then?"

Aife cast Temair another brief glance. "The O'Keeffe has agreed to ally with the English."

The woodkerns looked to Temair for a response.

"'Tis no surprise," Temair told them with a shrug. "Where do ye think he's been spendin' all the taxes he collects from the clan? He's been courtin' Lackland's favor for years."

"There's more," Aife ventured, setting down her basket of rags. "A...a man has been sent to form the alliance."

"A man," Temair said. "What man?"

Aife's brows creased. "His name is Ryland de Ware. He's King John's man. He's on his way from England even now, and he's come for a bride. He's been sent to wed...the O'Keeffe heiress."

Temair snorted at that. "The stupid fool. Did no one tell him Aillenn's been dead for six years?"

She smirked. The Englishman was going to be very disappointed, having traveled all that way, showing up at the castle to discover his bride was lying cold in her grave. She shook her head.

But when Temair looked up, no one else was smiling.

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Scottish Lasses

Meet the lasses in the world of Mary Queen of Scots... Like the Scottish thistle, they're lovely yet tough, beautiful yet prickly, and only the stongest and wisest heroes are able to elude their thorns to discover the tender blossom within.

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THE OUTCAST

The Prequel Novella to

The Scottish Lasses

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_KEIRFIELD, SCOTLAND_

_NOVEMBER 1542_

Alisoune Hay's heart pounded painfully. They were coming after her. She wheezed through her burning lungs, cursing her tight stomacher, and squinted in the bright morning sunlight as she floundered through the thick fallen snow. Her satchel flopped against her thigh as she hoisted her sodden skirts up with one hand and held her spectacles onto her nose with the other.

She could hear the irate shouts of the townsfolk as they pursued her. Some of them were calling her witch. Some were calling her blasphemer. And some of them were calling her things she pretended not to hear.

'Twasn't the first time she'd earned the disapproval of an entire town. As her parents had oft remarked, Alisoune's mouth was even bigger than her brain. And that was saying something.

Usually the people in the towns she passed through dismissed her opinions as the brash ravings of an impertinent young lass. But this time they'd taken her more seriously. This time, according to the awful red-haired priest who'd instigated the hasty proceedings against her, she'd spoken against common wisdom, God's will, and the very nature of the known world.

But that had been precisely her point. The world was not known. In fact, science had barely scratched the surface of the vast realm of knowledge. How could man possibly pretend to know everything about the universe?

She suddenly stumbled over her dark green skirts and fell face-down in the snow. She heard a shout behind her and felt an instant of panic as the ground blurred in her vision. Patting feverishly about with her hand, she finally located her fallen spectacles and perched them again on her nose. They were wet and covered with snowflakes, but at least she could see.

Scrambling to her feet, she surged forward. She hadn't expected the crowd to follow her so far. And by their growing rage, it seemed they intended to do something more dire than merely run her out of town.

Now that her parents had gone to France and left the business to Alisoune, she had no one to placate the townsfolk and assuage their anger. She'd already tried to explain herself in a reasonable fashion and even resorted to offering the priest money to withdraw his claim. But that had only gotten her into more trouble.

"Burn the witch!" she heard in the distance.

Her breath caught, and she tried to slog faster through the snow, despite the cold, throbbing ache in her chest. They couldn't be serious. Burn her?

What could she do? Where could she go? She quickly cataloged her options.

She had no horse, no cart. There was no church nearby for sanctuary. There wasn't even a troupe of players or a group of pilgrims to vanish into, which was her usual mode of safe transportation from town to town.

If only she owned a pair of those wooden planks the Danish soldiers attached to their feet, she thought, she might be able to glide across the snow and lose her pursuers.

Or even better...one of those man-carrying kites invented by the ancient Chinese that could allow a person to fly over the treetops.

But she had neither. And no matter how diligently she tried to employ that big brain of hers, she could think of no plausible escape.

She certainly didn't want to be burned at the stake as a witch. 'Twas an unpleasant way to die, especially if the wood didn't create enough smoke to asphyxiate her first and she was forced to endure the flesh-scorching heat of the flames.

She let out an involuntary squeak of remorse. Why did she always have to think in such exquisite detail? Sometimes she wished her brain wasn't quite so big and that she could wool-gather her way through life like more simpleminded lasses, without a care.

The shouting grew louder, and she increased her pace, wincing at the stitch in her side. But she'd already done the calculations. Despite her long legs, the weight of her skirts gave the men following her at least a fifty percent advantage when it came to speed. They'd catch up to her in a matter of moments.

Then she saw something she hadn't figured into the equation—a seemingly abandoned cottage nestled at the edge of the forest.

Maybe she could hide there.

Her instincts for survival renewed, she bolted toward the place.

Before she'd gone two yards, the door of the cottage opened wide, and out charged a great gray beast. As if propelled by rockets, it began running straight toward her.

She gasped. When it leaped at her, all she saw was a scruffy face full of gray fur and a huge gaping maw full of sharp teeth. The animal knocked her down with its paws. Once she'd fallen softly onto the snow, it began to mercilessly lick her face.

It never hurt her. In fact, when the hound—which was the biggest dog she'd ever seen—heard the men yelling in the distance, it growled deep in its throat and nudged her as if telling her to get up and move before they arrived.

She grabbed her spectacles and satchel and staggered forward. The hound enthusiastically bounded around her, guiding her toward the cottage.

At the threshold, she glanced back once to see that the mob of a dozen or so men had spotted her. They bolted forward, their snapping cloaks and foul mood a dark contrast to the bright snow.

Then she swept into the cottage with the dog, slamming the door behind her.

Lachlan, still half-asleep, winced and groaned as the cottage shook from the impact of the door slamming. He opened one eye. The other felt like it was sealed shut. His mouth was as dry as plaster. And his head throbbed from the aftereffects of too much whisky.

"Campbell," he moaned. Over the past few weeks, the hound had somehow learned how to open the latch on the cottage door and tended to come and go as he pleased.

But the scuffling didn't quite sound like his hound. And when Lachlan managed to pry open his other eye, both eyes went suddenly wide at the sight before him.

Instinctively, he rose up on his elbows. "Who are ye?"

The tall young woman in the green gown blinked in surprise, as if she didn't expect to see anyone actually inhabiting the cottage. At least he thought she blinked. 'Twas hard to tell, because her eyes were shielded by two round pieces of glass perched atop her nose.

Before she could answer him, there was a loud pounding at the door. She dove for the bed, sailing over him to wriggle beneath the bed linens and pull the sheepskin coverlet over her head.

He was still reeling in shock at her boldness when the pounding came again, accompanied by irate shouts.

She started at the sound, and he felt her cold, naked leg brush against his as her small icy fist burrowed beneath his hip.

He glanced down at the shivering mound of sheepskin beside him. The woman was clearly hiding from whoever was outside. And whoever was outside clearly knew she was here. The last thing Lachlan needed was to get caught in the crossfire.

The pounding resumed, louder this time, and the woman peeked out long enough to plead with him in an urgent whisper. "I beg ye, sir, hide me. I fear they mean to burn me at the stake." She was pale from the cold, but her cheeks were rosy from exertion, and she was quivering like a cornered mouse. Indeed, with her longish nose and those big spectacles, she looked a bit like a mouse. "Please, sir, please. Keep me safe."

Then he frowned. Keep her safe. He was the last person to be trusted to keep someone safe. His brothers had depended on him to keep them safe. Four gravestones were proof of how that had ended.

But Campbell was staring expectantly at the door. And Lachlan knew he had to answer it. If whoever was outside intended to burn the woman at the stake, they might be carrying torches even now. And they might decide to make quick work of it by setting his whole cottage on fire.

With as little fuss as possible, Lachlan eased his right leg over the edge of the bed, tucked his crutch under his left arm, and pushed up. As usual, he staggered, and his head started throbbing, but he managed to regain his balance and limp over to the doorway.

He snatched open the door. "What do ye want?" he demanded harshly.

At least a dozen townsmen crowded together, trying to peer past him into the one-room cottage. He knew the men, though in the last three months since he'd moved back to Keirfield, he'd kept mostly to himself. Now—whether 'twas due to his rough and ragged appearance, his stern scowl, or his growling hound—nobody answered his question.

"Ye hauled me out o' bed with your infernal racket," he bit out. "So what do ye want?"

Finally, Father Ninian, the red-haired parish priest, gathered up enough courage to raise his quivering double-chin, demanding, "Hand over the lass, and we'll leave ye to your affairs."

Lachlan wondered what on earth a wee lass could have done to incur the wrath of this mob. Two of the villagers had their daggers drawn, four more wielded spades, and all of them had feverish fire in their eyes. He didn't care if the woman had butchered their livestock and set their fields on fire. 'Twas an unfair fight, and he didn't like unfair fights.

"Lass?" he dared them. "What lass?"

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MacFARLAND'S LASS

The Scottish Lasses

Book 1

_SELKIRK, SCOTLAND_

_SPRING 1545_

The pain was shocking, intense. Florie's first thought was that a wolf had sprung at her from the brush, sinking its fangs into her thigh. She screamed, but the sound was cut off as she twisted and fell, colliding hard with the earth.

Knocked breathless, for an instant she lay stunned. Then, fearing to be devoured, she kicked desperate heels into the decaying leaf-fall, scrambling, clambering, scraping dirt beneath her nails as she struggled to escape the unrelenting burn of the teeth embedded in her flesh.

No beast snarled or sprang to finish her, but neither did the stabbing pain in her leg subside. She wrenched about to see what demon had her in its jaws.

The sight left her faint with horror.

An arrow pinned her through a trailing link of her gold girdle and her skirts, its steel head buried in her flesh, its thick shaft bobbing as she writhed in pain.

The edges of perception blurred then. She felt herself tilting, fading, falling into a cavern of seductive oblivion.

Rane's bowstring was still vibrating when the blood drained from his face and his arms dropped limp at his sides.

"Bloody hell," he breathed.

Casting off the bow, he charged forward into the open meadow, his heart hammering. He bolted for the trail, toward his fallen prey, hurtling along the pond's edge, around its perimeter, whipping past reeds and fern, snapping off bracken as he ran. When he reached his victim, he dropped his quiver to the ground and fell to his knees with a bitter cry.

Guilt threatened to unman him, and he ground his teeth against a wave of self-loathing.

Curse his hands, he'd shot a child.

Then he peered closer by the fading twilight. Nae, not a child. A slight, slender lass.

Though she lay as still as death, she wasn't dead. Thank Odin, he'd been able to redirect the arrow at the last moment, thus sparing her life.

He turned her carefully toward him, and she revived with a wheezing gasp, reflexively scrabbling at the outside of her thigh, where his arrow obscenely protruded.

"Nae!" he cautioned. "Leave it be!"

Her eyes widened, and he instantly withdrew his hands, trying not to panic her, raising his palms in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

The last thing he expected was the sting of a sharp needle through his open hand.

He grunted in pain, drawing back his wounded palm. Blood welled from the puncture. He sucked a sharp hiss through his teeth.

The needle had pierced him deeply. But he supposed he should have known better. After all, only a fool approached a wounded animal.

Her left arm arced toward him again with whatever vicious weapon she wielded.

He lunged aside. "Nae, lass! I mean ye no—"

His words were cut short as her right fist clipped his jaw.

"Ach!"

The needle returned to graze his bare neck, leaving a stinging trail.

"Son of a... Lass, cease! 'Twas an acci—"

She ignored his command, attacking him again and again, as if she intended to fight him to the death. Damn! If she didn't stop thrashing about, she'd drive the arrow deeper into her thigh.

"Woman!" he finally bellowed, startling her into momentary submission. "Put away your weapon. I'm friend, not foe."

Florie didn't believe him for an instant. Whether he was Gilbert's man she couldn't tell. 'Twas too dark to make out his face or the color of his cloak. But the villain had shot her. _Shot_ her!

She'd managed to wound him with her brooch pin. She'd heard his grunt, felt the point sink into his flesh. But she hadn't inflicted enough damage to stop him. And if she didn't... If he turned her over to the law...

Fighting for her life, she stabbed forward with the brooch again. This time he was prepared for her attack. He caught her wrist in a steely grip.

Thrashing against his punishing hold, she tried to pry his fingers away with her free hand. But he gave her wrist a sharp flick, and the brooch flew loose, skittering out of reach.

"Lie still," he commanded. "Ye'll only make it worse."

_Worse?_ What could be worse? Florie wasn't about to surrender, regardless of the wave of dizziness that assailed her...regardless of the dire stain widening on her best brocade skirts...regardless of the drops of blood, her blood, dripping onto the leaves of the forest floor.

Summoning up one last, desperate burst of power, she reared back her closed fist and swung forward as hard as she could, aiming for his jaw. But he ducked easily out of the way, seizing that hand as well.

"For the love o' Frigga, lass, lie _still!_ "

The edges of her vision dimmed, darkening as her bones dissolved into submission, and she vaguely wondered who the devil Frigga was.

God have mercy. Maybe the archer had dealt her a mortal wound and she was dying, for she felt as weak as a bairn, with neither the strength nor the will to move.

"Nae, nae, nae, nae, NAE!" he shouted, giving her wrists a reviving shake. "Not _that_ still!" His voice, for all its vehemence, sounded distant, dreamlike. "Stay awake, do ye hear me?"

"Ye go to hell," she mumbled.

He cursed under his breath, returning her arms to her sides, where they lay as limp and useless as empty sleeves.

"Ach, lass," he murmured, as if to himself, "what were ye doin', stealin' through the thicket like that?"

"Leave me alone."

"If I leave ye alone, ye'll bleed to d—" He shook his head. "I'm not leavin'."

From beneath eyelids growing heavier by the moment, Florie could faintly discern the man's silhouette as he crouched nearby. He was unbuckling his belt.

Ballocks! Did the monster mean to swive her while she lay helpless?

"Get the hell away from me," she managed to croak.

He ignored her.

She heard the sound of fabric being shredded. The brute must be tearing her clothes from her. Tears of rage and frustration and anguish welled in her eyes. "Bastard," she whispered.

"Aye, I know. But 'twill be over in a moment. Lie still."

"Nae!" she groaned. She wasn't about to let the lout have his way with her. She tried to curl her weak fingers into lethal fists. "Don't touch me."

A dark fog crept in at the sides of her vision like a closing curtain. She fought to keep her eyes open.

"I'll be swift as I can," he promised, "but ye have to hold still." He positioned himself beside her injured leg. "I'll carry ye to shelter afterward. There's a priest up the rise from here, not far—"

A priest! That brought her instantly alert. "The church!" she blurted.

Sanctuary! By strength of sheer will, she seized his wrist in one hand with such ferocity that she almost knocked him off his haunches.

"Aye!" she cried, though her command came out on a weak wheeze. "The church... Go... Now..." If she could make it to the church... Pain gripped her again, and she winced, digging her fingers into the leather bracer around his forearm.

"Soon." He clasped a restraining hand over hers, his fingers sticky with blood.

"Now," she groaned. Leveraging against his wrist, she began to creep forward, determined to drag herself bodily up the hill if need be.

"Lass, be still! Ye'll drive the arrow—"

"Sanctuary!" she beseeched him.

"What?"

"Take me...to sanctuary." Lord Gilbert couldn't be far away. "They're comin'," she mumbled.

"Who?"

She gasped as searing lightning shot up her leg.

He squeezed her hand. "All right. I'll hurry, lass," he promised, "but the shaft's got to come out first." The cloth he'd torn he now rapidly wadded into his hand. Then he offered her his leather belt. "Hold this in your teeth."

She turned her head aside. She didn't want his belt. All she wanted was sanctuary.

But he pulled her jaw down with his thumb anyway, wedging the thick belt between her teeth. "Bite down."

She scowled. No one told Florie what to do. Then a strong wave of pain washed over her as he pressed the wad of linen against her wound, and she reflexively clamped down.

Blowing out a forceful breath and kneeling above her, the man curved his right hand around the shaft so 'twas braced under his arm. "Ready?"

Nae, she wasn't ready. But Lord Gilbert was coming. And this knave wouldn't let her go until the arrow was out. Praying the brute wouldn't betray her, that he'd keep his word, she ground her teeth into his belt and nodded.

"One...two..."

She fainted before he reached three.

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MacADAM'S LASS

The Scottish Lasses

Book 2

_QUEEN MARY'S CORONATION PROCESSION_

_EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND_

Drew grumbled under his breath. He didn't know why he'd come. He usually avoided crowds like the pox. Already he'd been jostled by drunks, elbowed by peddlers, pushed aside by filthy urchins trying to get a better view, and aye, even patted on the arse by a wench looking for a bit of business.

But he was currently staying in Edinburgh, and the whole city seemed to be in a feverish fervor over their new monarch, Queen Mary. He hadn't been able to persuade any golfers to play today, even with the offer of weighting the game in their favor. So he'd decided, since the links were deserted, and since he'd missed the coronation of his own Queen Elizabeth three years ago, perhaps he'd venture down to the Royal Mile to see what the clamor was about.

So far, Queen Mary had been nothing but an inconvenience to him. Her early arrival at Leith Harbor had interrupted one perfectly good golf game, and her homecoming festivities today prevented another. True, he'd been paid handsomely for the forfeit of his match with Ian Horn. But lately, he was driven as much by his love of the sport as by coin.

He frowned, beginning to regret his decision to come. The hubbub was inescapable. The crowd was packed in at Lawnmarket as tightly as herring in a barrel. People were cheering and singing and shouting and laughing in a deafening commotion. And the queen hadn't even arrived yet.

He scanned the crowd with an uneasy scowl, wondering how quickly the Scots would string him up if they found out he was English. Fortunately, he'd played the part long enough to be fairly certain he could convince even the most dubious Lowlander that he'd been born and bred in the Highlands. And the rare Highlander who ventured this far south had never heard of his hometown of Tintclachan—which was no surprise, since Drew had invented the village and placed it in a vague, remote part of the country.

'Twas a necessary deception. Traveling as a Highlander along the eastern coast of Scotland, he could steal from the purses of those who'd stolen his father from him, exacting a fitting but bloodless revenge.

His uncles, of course, would have preferred he join the English army and kill every Scot in sight. Drew had considerable skill with a blade, thanks to his uncles' training. But like his father, he'd never had the heart for violence. Besides, with King Henry dead and Queen Elizabeth on the throne, battles along the Borders were rare. Still, to keep his uncles content, Drew let them believe the coin he earned was won on the English tournament circuit with a sword rather than on the Scots links with a golf club.

He thought his disguise was reasonably convincing. He'd let his hair grow a bit shaggier than was fashionable, and he usually went a day or two without a shave. He owned a pair of sturdy knee-high boots and a long, belted saffron shirt with a short leather doublet'H, beneath which he wore dark tartan trews, even in summer, for he'd never quite accustomed himself to the Highland habit of going bare-arsed. When the weather grew cold, he tossed a Scots plaid over one shoulder.

He'd spoken so long with a brogue that he could hardly remember how to speak proper English. After three years of living the lie, he almost believed it himself.

"And ye have the ballocks to call yourself a Scotsman!" cried the lad beside him unexpectedly.

Drew stiffened.

But the lad was yelling at someone else, a half-drunk redbearded fellow who was carrying on about the new queen in a loud bellow. "I'm more Scots than some Catholic tart who's been livin' in France all her life!"

The lad gasped, then spat, "Ye take that back!"

"I won't!" snorted the redbeard.

The lad gave him a hard push.

The man stumbled back a step, spilling a few drops of his ale, but continued his tirade. "What gives the wench the right to sail into my harbor and tell me how to say my prayers?"

The youth raised a puny fist and spoke through his teeth. "Ye'd _better_ say your prayers."

The redbeard was too drunk to recognize the threat. "I won't be takin' orders from ye, nor from that French trull."

The lad growled a warning.

Drew groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was to get caught in a brawl. This wasn't his fight. He wasn't Scots. And he didn't care a whit about the queen. He was already having a miserable day. He didn't need to make it worse.

But the lad was half the redbeard's size. A strong wind would blow him over. Drew couldn't just stand by and watch the young pup get his arse kicked. He laid a restraining palm on the lad's shoulder. "Easy, half-pint."

"He's right!" a third man chimed in from Drew's other side, suddenly placing Drew squarely in the middle of the battle. "No Scot should have to kiss the derriere of a French wench."

The lad shrugged off Drew's hand. "Mary was born here, ye lobcocks!" he insisted, his voice breaking with his vehemence. "She knows our history. She speaks our tongue."

"Ye're a daft grig!" the redbeard crowed, raising his cup of ale. "No sensible Scotsman would let a hen rule the roost, eh, lads? Even John Knox says so!"

Drew grimaced as the surrounding men cheered in accord.

He could practically feel the heat rising off of the angry youth beside him as the lad ground out, "John Knox is a bloody blockhead."

Drew had heard the preachings of John Knox, who was an infamous misogynist, and he had to agree with the lad. But he couldn't afford to be trapped in the midst of a rabid pack of battling Scots. He leaned down to murmur a few words of friendly advice to the reckless youth. "Careful, lad. Ye're outnumbered."

The lad whipped his head around, facing Drew directly, and answered him with all the fearless passion of youth. "I'll gladly fight them all in Mary's defense."

Drew recoiled, not from the youth's bold boast, but from a startling revelation, a revelation that the men surrounding him had not yet had.

All at once, the crowd began cheering wildly, and the debate was forgotten as everyone turned toward the road. The procession had arrived at last. People clapped and shouted and waved their arms. Some chanted—whether in welcome or mockery, Drew couldn't tell.

Nor did he much care. He was far more interested in his new discovery. HeeHe stepped back a pace and let his gaze course down the back of the youth beside him. 'Twas hard to tell with the ill-fitting shirt and the oversized hat, but Drew would have wagered his putting cleek that the brazen half-pint standing beside him, making bold threats and swearing like a sailor, was a lass.

Josselin was so caught up in the excitement of Mary's arrival that she forgot all about her quarrel with the drunken redbeard. She stood on her toes to try to get a better view as a loud fanfare sounded to announce the procession through Lawnmarket.

This was what she'd come for—to see the Queen, to lay eyes on the ambitious lass who, though not much older than Josselin, had already forged for herself a powerful legacy.

As Alasdair had explained to her, Mary, the descendant of both King Henry VII of England and King James II of Scotland, had not only been wife to the Dauphin of France, but would also now be Queen of Scotland, and might well inherit the English crown from Elizabeth.

Josselin admired Mary's spirit and ambition, for she knew what 'twas like to be a woman, fighting for a significant place in the world of men. This new queen was going to change things. She was sure of it. And Josselin wanted to be a part of that change.

As she peered over the shoulders of the people in front of her, she spied the first wave of the procession. Dozens of yellow-robed Scotsmen disguised as Moors—their limbs blackened and their heads covered with black hats and masks—cleared the way through the flowers the townsfolk had strewn in the wide street. Behind them came the Edinburgh officials, who carried aloft a purple canopy embroidered in gold with French lilies and Scottish unicorns.

French soldiers and Scottish lairds made up the bulk of the impressive entourage. Behind them, four lasses of Josselin's age rode shoulder to shoulder, and she knew they must be the Four Maries. Seeing their lavish velvet gowns and rich jewels made Josselin curse her guardian all over again for forcing her to disguise herself in his drooping trews and baggy shirt.

Then, beneath the canopy, riding upon a white palfrey, came Queen Mary herself, more magnificent and beautiful than Josselin had imagined. Though Mary had recently lost both her mother and her husband, today she'd discarded her white mourning shroud in favor of a more festive gown of purple velvet with gold embroidery. Jewels twinkled from her neck, waist, and wrists, but they couldn't outshine the charming sparkle in Mary's eyes. As Josselin looked on in awe, the queen nodded regally to the crowd, her face lit up by a serene smile.

A huge, brightly painted triumphal arch had been erected across the road at Lawnmarket, and from the gallery above, a choir of children began to sing. Riding forward, Mary waved to them in greeting.

As she passed beneath the arch, a mechanical globe painted like a cloud slowly opened to reveal a child dressed as an angel. Josselin watched in amazement as the angel was lowered on a rope to hand the queen the keys of the gates.

Then the child began to recite an eloquent welcome to Mary in verse. But as the words became clear, the Catholic queen's smile faltered. Buried in the prose was a thinly veiled reference to the Reformation.

Some in the crowd gasped, and some, including the men Josselin had been arguing with, sent up bellows of approval.

Josselin's blood simmered. Who dared insult the new queen with such obvious blasphemy? She rounded on the redbearded oaf who'd earlier called Mary a tart and shoved him.

Someone gripped her elbow. "Not now, lass," a man murmured into her ear.

It didn't occur to her that he'd called her "lass" at that moment. Her hackles were up, and she was itching for a fight. She wrenched her arm free and shot him a scathing glare over her shoulder.

Then she cast her gaze back to the spectacle before her. The child angel was handing the queen two purple velvet tomes now, a Bible and a Psalter, and Josselin knew without a doubt that they were Reformer books.

"A fittin' gift," the redbeard muttered to his friend, "for the Whore o' Babylon."

"Aye," another added. "'Twill show her she'd best leave the Pope in France."

"Shut your mouths, ye jackanapes!" Josselin fired back, her blood now seething.

Once more, the man behind her seized her arm, this time more forcefully, hissing in a strong Highland accent, "'Tisn't worth it, lass."

Again, she twisted away.

John Knox must be behind this travesty, she decided. 'Twas rumored the Reformer meant to meet with the queen personally very soon in order to challenge her faith. That might be, but by God, Josselin didn't intend to let anyone humiliate Mary today.

"Refuse the books, Your Majesty!" she shouted in encouragement over the crowd. "Go on! Toss them away!"

The Highlander made a choking sound. "Cease, lass. Are ye daft? Don't draw attention—"

The redbeard yelled up at the child suspended from the arch. "'Tis no use tryin' to court Mary, wee angel! She's already wed to Rome!"

The men nearby howled with laughter.

Josselin had had enough. 'Twas bad enough that the new queen had to hold her own against the bloody English without having to deal with detractors among her own countrymen. With a roar, she unsheathed her dagger and faced the redbearded dastard. "Defend your slander with a blade!"

Behind her, the Highlander swore in exasperation.

But the redbeard took one look at her dagger, threw down his cup of ale, and went for his weapon.

"Aye, that's it," Josselin goaded, beckoning him with the fingers of her free hand. "Come on!"

The Highlander stepped suddenly between them to address the drunk. "Ach, man, ye don't want to be doin' that."

"Out o' my way!" the redbeard bellowed.

"Aye," Josselin agreed. "Out o' the way, Highlander, unless ye want to get skewered."

The Highlander turned to her then, filling her vision and sternly commanding her gaze, and for one stunned instant, she couldn't breathe. She hadn't paid much heed to him before, but now she saw he had the face of a dark angel—strong yet sweet. His eyes were the clearest blue she'd ever seen, like the sky on a warm spring day.

His heavy brows lowered as he said pointedly, "Ye can settle this...later."

The redbeard shoved him aside. "Stay out of it, man. 'Tis between the lad and me."

Rattled, Josselin nonetheless managed to raise her knife and face her opponent, eager to resume the duel. "No one insults my queen, ye traitor. Ye'll answer to me for your offense."

"Oh, I'll answer ye," the redbeard assured her. "I'll carve a cross into your flesh to remind ye o' your misbegotten faith."

"Ye won't get the chance," she promised.

"Put your blades away, both o' ye," she heard the Highlander mutter. Nobody paid him heed.

They faced off, and the crowd gave them room.

"Sheathe. _Now_ ," the Highlander insisted.

She ignored him, waving her dagger at the redbeard like a taunt. But before she could get off a good swipe, the Highlander stepped toward her.

"Fine," he said.

She half-wheeled in his direction, thinking he meant to attack her as well. Instead, he snatched the hat from her head. She gasped as her curls spilled over her shoulders like honey from a crushed comb.

The redbeard's eyes widened, and he retreated, dropping his knife.

Josselin tossed her head, angry that her secret was out. But she wasn't about to call off the fight. Her heart was pounding now, and she was primed for battle.

"What, ye sheep-swiver?" she sneered at the redbeard. "Are ye afraid to fight a woman?" She twirled the dagger once in her fingers. "Pick it up, coward! Pick up your knife."

The crowd had suddenly grown quiet.

"What's wrong with ye?" she challenged. "Is there not a single champion among ye poltroons?" No one moved. "And ye call yourselves men!" she scoffed. "Who stole your tongues and cut off your cods?"

No one answered. There was nothing but tense misgiving and wide eyes in the faces around her.

She frowned in sudden confusion. Then she realized the entire street had grown silent. 'Twas more than a silence of surprise. 'Twas a silence of warning.

The back of her neck began to tingle with apprehension. Slowly, cautiously, she lowered her dagger and turned toward the procession.

Staring at Josselin from atop her noble white steed, a curious, inscrutable half-smile playing upon her royal lips, was Queen Mary herself.

Josselin gulped. As she stood there, breathless, the queen gave her a thorough inspection, perusing her from her tangled blond hair to her dusty leather boots. After what seemed an eternity, Mary finally passed the Bible and Psalter to her captain, then waved her fingers in a beckoning motion.

Josselin instinctively started to step forward, but the Highlander dug his fingers hard into her shoulders, holding her back.

Mary's gesture hadn't been meant for her, but for one of the royal officials. The distinguished-looking man approached the queen, who bent to whisper something in his ear, nodding toward Josselin.

While Josselin watched with bated breath, Mary gave her a slight dismissive nod, then urged her mount onward down the road, and the procession resumed.

Meanwhile, the official straightened his belt and strode directly toward Josselin. The crowd parted to make way for him.

He was French, tall and thin, perhaps a dozen years older than Josselin, and he looked mildly displeased. He had perceptive brown eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a long nose that he probably found useful for looking down on people.

With a curt nod, he introduced himself. "I am the queen's secretary, Philipe de la Fontaine. The queen has commanded that you make yourself known to me. You and I are to have a rendezvous today at The White Hart. You know the place?"

Josselin tried to speak, but her voice refused to come out. Faith, she'd received a command from the queen herself!

The Highlander answered. "I know the inn."

"Very well," the secretary said. He gave Josselin a belittling frown. "I expect to see you there this afternoon, Madame...?"

"Josselin," she managed to croak.

"Zhos-a-lahn," he repeated, using the French pronunciation. Then he gave her a brief, contemptuous inspection. "See if you can stay alive long enough to make the appointment."

The secretary hastened off to catch the royal entourage, and gradually the crowd resumed their chattering. But Josselin's pulse was still racing when the Highlander gently pried the dagger from her white knuckles.

"Ye aren't from around here, are ye, lass?" he murmured.

"Nae," she answered in a daze. "I'm from Selkirk. Holy saints, did ye see that? Did ye see how she—"

"Who brought ye to Edinburgh?"

She stared in wonder after the procession. "I came alone."

"Alone?"

"My da said I could," she said dreamily. The queen was well down the road now, but Josselin kept watching. "As long as I don't talk to strangers. Or go to taverns. Or lose my temper." She smiled. "Ach! Wait till I tell Da that the queen herself—"

"A piece of advice, lass," he confided. "Hie home to Selkirk straight away." He scooped up her hat, dusted it off, and pressed it into her hands. "Ye could be halfway there by afternoon."

She snapped out of her stupor and frowned up at the man with the dark hair and the clear blue eyes, who really was quite handsome...for a Highlander. "Home? Why would I want to go home?"

He looked at her as if she were barmy. "Ye aren't thinkin' o' keepin' the appointment?"

"O' course I am. The queen herself commanded it." The sound of that sent a shiver of excitement through her. "The _queen_." She couldn't wait to tell her guardians.

He arched a stern brow. "Look, lass, before ye get your trews in a twist, I don't expect ye're bein' invited to supper."

Supper! That idea hadn't even occurred to her. Was it possible? She tucked the corner of her lip under her teeth, imagining it. Then she recalled, "She smiled at me."

"Royals always smile whilst they're sharpenin' their swords."

She lowered her brows. The damned Highlander was ruining her good mood. "Ach! What would _ye_ know?"

"I know ye brought the procession to a halt." He shook his head. "I don't imagine the queen's too pleased about that."

She bit the inside of her cheek. He had a point. Josselin had made an impression on the queen. But what if 'twas the wrong impression?

"I did draw a blade," she admitted.

"Aye."

"And I _was_ brawlin' in the street."

She looked at him uncertainly.

"I've heard in the French courts," he said, eyeing her garments, "they even have strict laws about dress."

She looked down at the overlong hem of her linen shirt, clutching a fistful of it. "Do ye think I offended her?"

He gave her a maddening shrug.

Her shoulders sank. "I didn't mean to offend her."

Then she narrowed her gaze at the Highlander.

"This is all _your_ fault!" she decided, swatting his chest with her hat. "If ye hadn't stolen my hat, none o' this would have happened."

His lips curled into a smirk that was half-smile, half-frown. "Oh aye, lass. Instead ye'd be wheezin' at me through a knife-hole in your chest."

She scowled at him, jamming the hat back over her head. "Ye've obviously never seen me fight with a blade."

"I've seen enough to know ye've got a hot temper that likely ruins your aim." He handed her dagger back to her, hilt first.

She snatched it from him in irritation and slid it back into its sheath. Her Da Angus had told her the same thing a hundred times. She didn't need to hear it from a bloody Highlander, no matter how handsome he was.

The crowd began to disperse. Mary's procession was moving toward the Tollbooth. Drew could easily make his escape now, retreat to the comfort of his lodgings, settle in front of the fire with a frothy pint of ale, and forget about the whole upsetting debacle.

But something prevented him. Something with flashing green eyes, wild honey hair, and a filthy mouth. Something that was quickening his pulse and rousing the beast in his trews.

As a rule, Drew kept his distance when it came to exchanges with the natives. The less they knew about him, the better. His dark scowl kept most people away. For those to whom he had to be civil, he'd learned to affect Highland charm to steer the conversation away from personal matters. As for intimate encounters, he employed discreet wenches who charged for their services and their silence.

Why he felt drawn to engage a wee, fiery-tempered, trews-wearing lass who was a danger to herself and others, he didn't know. Surely it had nothing to do with her rosy pink lips, the rough whiskey timber of her voice, or the thought of what bewitching charms might lie beneath that baggy shirt.

Lord, he thought, shaking his head, he'd spent too many days of late on the links and not enough feeding his carnal appetites.

The lass might be beautiful, but she was trouble. 'Twas a mistake to intervene in the affairs of quarrelsome Scots. And the last thing Drew needed was to draw the notice of their queen.

But he supposed he was obliged to help the maid. She was partly right—it _had_ been his idea to expose her. The queen might never have noticed her had it not been for the waving pennant of her dazzling curls.

Besides, be they Scottish or English, he'd never been the sort who could walk away from tiny, helpless creatures. Especially those with sparkling eyes and tempting lips. He'd at least get the lass out of immediate danger and on the road home. He owed her that much.

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MacKENZIE'S LASS

The Scottish Lasses

Book 3

_STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND_

_DECEMBER 16, 1566_

Mery decided she had to finish the matter once and for all. She had to confront the cook. What she'd do, she didn't know. She'd have to follow her instincts. But if she hoped to make this performance a success, she had to purge the fascinating, infuriating man from her thoughts.

Her next opportunity came hours later, at dinner.

A smaller meal was served to the minstrels and two dozen various household servants shortly after the main dinner for the nobles. Though Mery kept eyeing the entrance of the hall, the cook never came through it. Kitchen lads brought in the first course—roast capons with a sweet wine sauce, wee mutton pies, and a lovely custard with raisins.

There was a brief respite between the first and second courses. It was then Mery made her move.

She told Harry she needed to be excused for a moment. Then she slipped out. She crossed the small bridge that connected the great hall and the kitchens and crept onward, guided by the alluring scent of roasting meats.

The passageway grew warmer and the plaster walls more smoke-blackened as she descended the stairs. She heard shouting farther down, accompanied by the banging of pots and the clatter of cutlery.

All at once, a kitchen boy collided with her. His eyes went wide, and he nearly dropped his basket of bread. He mumbled an apology and quickly juggled the loaves back into the basket, then continued down the passageway, giving her a curious backward glance as he headed toward the great hall.

She rounded the corner where the smoke was thicker. It looked like a beehive. Workers were crowded into the tight quarters. Lads with steaming platters and sizzling spits hurried to and fro, yelling out orders and elbowing their way past each other.

The lad closest to her gave a yelp and backed against the wall as if she were some demon who'd suddenly materialized before him. She frowned and picked up her skirts to sidle past him.

For a moment, she forgot her purpose, fascinated by the activity going on around her. She'd never seen proper kitchens before.

Burly cooks sweated over enormous cauldrons. Wee boys with ash-covered faces turned spits as long as lances. Red-faced men with beefy arms whipped up frothy sauces in bowls. Scrawny lads balancing eggs and bundles of herbs squeezed between them.

Their movements seemed as carefully composed as a madrigal. Each worker followed his own path, which wove through the others, brilliantly intersecting without clashing and creating disharmony.

And the smells—savory roasts, spicy sauces, fresh-baked bread, honey, pepper, mustard—made her mouth water.

A lad carrying a jug spied her, froze, and turned around to go back the way he'd come. He whispered something to one of the older cooks, who frowned until the lad pointed at her. Then the older cook straightened, and his frown deepened.

Mery, sensing she should hurry along, slipped out of sight behind a man who was furiously chopping onions. She proceeded along the long wooden table in the middle of the room, brushing past men peeling leeks, slicing parsnips, and tearing greens.

When she bumped into a man quartering turnips, he swung around with a scowl and a giant knife. His brows shot up when he saw her.

Eyeing his blade with mistrust, she mumbled an apology and continued on. But by now, everyone in the kitchens had noted her presence.

One by one, the workers ground to a halt. The spoons ceased stirring. The knives went quiet. The spits stopped turning. All eyes swiveled to her in alarm.

In the midst of the silence, the very man Mery was seeking backed into the room with a yell. "Easson, give the hare's leg a jiggle! See if 'tis—" He stopped when he realized he was shouting. He halted, studying the room in consternation.

Mery gulped.

Here, in his element, the cook looked magnificent. He had the voice of authority and the confidence of a king.

Her gaze roved shamelessly over his body. He'd removed his doublet. His pale shirt was rolled up to the elbows, exposing his muscled forearms, and open at the top, which revealed the vee of his chest. A stained white apron was tied around his waist. The sheen of sweat glazed his brow and darkened strands of his hair. His eyes were deep and mysterious...and narrowed at her in disapproval.

The men looked at him, waiting to see what he would do.

"What the devil?" he said. "What are _ye_ doin' here?"

Their gaze returned to Mery, awaiting her reply.

She lifted her chin. She might feel out of place here. But she wasn't about to let a room full of kitchen boys intimidate her. "Lookin' for _ye,_ if ye must know."

"Me? Well, ye can't just..." He glanced around the room and set his fists on his hips. "What are ye lads gawkin' at? Don't ye have work to do?"

The men resumed their tasks at once. He made his way toward her, whipping off his apron to wipe his hands on it before he grabbed her by the elbow.

He started to tug her away—rather roughly, she thought. It was only natural that she resist.

He tugged her again.

She tugged back.

"What are ye doin?" he muttered. "Ye need to get out o' here."

"Stop yankin' on me."

"I'm not..." He let out a sound of exasperation. "Fine," he said, letting go of her. "Will ye come this way, my lady?" he asked, sketching a mockery of a bow before he slapped the apron over his shoulder.

She closed down her eyes in a simmering glare, but followed him up a narrow set of steps. They led to a small chamber that was considerably cooler than the roasting room.

When she spied the assortment of sweets lining the wooden shelf along one wall, Mery's eyes went round. Her irritation was instantly forgotten. The air smelled divine, like honey, cream, almonds, and cinnamon.

"What _is_ this place?" she asked in wonder.

"The confectionary." He wadded his apron into a pile on the counter. "Now, look, lass, ye can't be strollin' into the kitchens—"

"The confectionary?" She stepped closer to the shelf, pointing to a row of jewel-like sweets. "What are those?"

"Those? Marchpane. Now, lass—"

"They look like stained glass," she gushed.

"I suppose so. Listen to me. This is no place for a—"

"And these?" she asked, her attention caught by the perfect golden squares topped with bright yellow syrup and red currants.

"Tablet with quince preserves. Nay! Don't touch them. They're for the nobles."

She withdrew her hand. She'd only wanted a closer look. He didn't have to shout at her. "Is this...?"

"Blancmange."

She loved blancmange. The almond cream didn't appear to be quite set yet, which was just the way she liked it—soft and as smooth as silk.

"What about these?" she asked, dropping down to eye level to examine the fluffy white dollops that looked like drifts of snow.

He sighed. "Meringues."

"Oh, my. How did ye make them?"

"If I tell ye, will ye leave me alone and go back to the hall?"

She straightened, frowning in disappointment. "Ye _are_ a mean old troll."

"Listen, I can't have a lass sniffin' around my kitchens."

She would have gasped at his rude behavior, but her attention was drawn to an amazing sculpture at the end of the shelf. It was a beautiful replica of Stirling Castle all in white, decked with colored flags and painted with the carved crest of Queen Mary.

"Ooooh, what's this?"

He testily crossed his arms. "I'm sure ye've seen a subtlety before."

Of course she had. They put subtleties on the table to introduce every important banquet. "None this fabulous. It looks...delicious." She tapped her fingers on the edge of the shelf, tempted to break off a piece of the sugar parapet.

"Don't even think of it, lass," he warned, as if he'd read her mind.

"Fie!" She gave him a disgruntled pout. "Mean _and_ stingy."

"I don't think the queen would appreciate ye layin' siege to her castle."

He was probably right. But there were lots and lots of other sweets. Nobody would notice if one or two of them went missing. She tucked her lower lip under her teeth, wishing she could taste just one.

Half amused and half exasperated, the cook finally let out a rueful chuckle of surrender. "If I give ye a sweet, will ye go on your merry way then?"

She couldn't help the gleam that came into her eyes. "Only one?"

He shook his head in self-mockery. "Fine. Two. But then ye have to go. The kitchens are no place for a woman."

She raised a brow at that, and then perused the selection. It would be hard to choose just two. Finally, she pointed to a piece of the quince tablet.

He picked it up and placed it in her palm.

She popped it into her mouth, and closed her eyes in joy. "Mmmm."

The texture of the rich, sugary square was like fine sand, yet it melted to a velvety finish in her mouth. The sweet syrup of the quince preserves balanced perfectly with the tart bite of the red currants. She licked her lips and smiled.

When she opened her eyes to slits again, he was staring at her mouth. What she glimpsed in his smoky gaze was enough to make her want to forego the second sweet and sample the cook instead.

Tristan felt a current of desire go through him as he watched the lass taste the quince tablet. It had been a long while since he'd seen anyone take such blatant sensuous pleasure in food.

But in the more sensible part of his brain, he knew he couldn't afford to linger here, watching her lick quince juice off of her fingers, no matter how it made his pulse throb. Women didn't belong in the kitchens. If Thomas saw her...

"Ye need to go," he choked out. That wasn't what his body was telling him. But he forced the words from his lips.

She glanced at him with a creased brow and an endearing pout. "But ye promised I could have two."

There was no disguising the calculating glimmer in her eyes. But even knowing he was being manipulated, he couldn't refuse her. "Aye, fine, but make haste."

Her second selection was a meringue. She bit into it, and her eyes widened as it dissolved on her tongue.

Tristan couldn't help but smile. Meringues of egg whites—whipped up to a weightless froth, sweetened, then stiffened over a low fire to hold their shape—resulted in a confection as light and insubstantial as air.

"'Tis like takin' a bite of a cloud," she cooed as her tongue slipped out to lick a sticky crumb from her lip.

The mischievous lass was as tempting as the sweets. He'd like to have licked that crumb from her lip himself.

Then he gave his head a shake. This was the eve of the most important event of his life. He truly had no time for distractions like Mery Graham.

"Go on with ye now," he said.

"Why?" she replied, sucking the sweetness from her fingertip.

The gesture made a twinge go through his groin. "Why what?"

"Why do I have to go?"

Marry, he wished she didn't. "I told ye. Women don't belong in the kitchens."

"But why?"

Leave it to the outspoken lass to ask him such a thing. She frowned at him as if _he'd_ made the decree. But the kitchens had _always_ been the domain of men. They were hot and smoky places, full of heavy iron cauldrons and massive joints of beef. What woman would _want_ to venture there?

This one, apparently.

"Because they ask too many questions," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest again and eyeing her roving fingers. "And get your thievin' paws away from the sweetmeats."

She gasped, recoiling as if he'd swatted her hand.

He shook his head. "I swear, if I let ye stay here any longer, there'll be nothin' left for the queen."

She cocked her chin and gave him a pretty pout. "Well, if they weren't quite so temptin', I wouldn't..."

He heard footsteps on the stairs. His first ridiculous instinct was to protect the lass. He set her behind him, then whirled about with closed fists and a menacing scowl to face whoever was coming.

"MacKenzie!"

Bloody hell. It was the master cook.

"Aye?" he replied as Thomas entered the confectionary.

Thomas's eyes didn't miss a thing. "What the...what are ye doin' in the confectionary?" he demanded. Then his scowl darkened. "And why is there a lass stickin' her fingers in the blancmange?"

Tristan turned to glare at the lass, who looked as guilty as the devil.

She answered before he had a chance, raising her haughty chin. "I'm verifyin' the quality o' the sweets," she declared. "After all, we're not just _any_ troupe o' minstrels. I'll have ye know we've performed all o'er Scotland, from Inverness to—"

"Lass!" Tristan interjected before her unwitting insults could turn the master cook's face any redder. "We may as well tell him the truth."

"The truth?" she asked.

"Aye." He scrambled for an excuse that Thomas would accept. "The lass... Mery... She's..." he said, flushing at the lie. "We're lovers."

"What?" Thomas said with an incredulous frown.

"What?" Mery said with an incredulous laugh. "That's the most—"

Before she could call him a liar, further slight the master cook, get the entire troupe of minstrels banned from Stirling, and possibly lose Tristan his position in the kitchens, he did the only reasonable thing to salvage the awkward situation.

He hauled Mery Graham into his arms and kissed her.

Kissing wasn't new for Mery. She'd been stealing kisses since she was twelve. So her first instinct wasn't necessarily to fight him.

It wasn't her second instinct either.

And the longer the kiss went on, the less she thought about fighting him at all.

Indeed, the sensation was quite pleasant. She could taste subtle, spicy ginger on his lips. She felt the masculine stubble that peppered his chin and heard his rasping breath against her cheek. Even the smoky smell of him was enticing.

She let her hands drift up along the line of his jaw. Slowly, she weaved her fingers into his thick hair. It was as soft and luxurious as she'd imagined. Tilting her head, she parted her lips, encouraging him to trespass there.

He seemed more than willing to oblige. He clasped the side of her neck with one powerful hand, pulling her firmly against him with the other. He surged forward with his demanding mouth. She felt, rather than heard, the soft, hungry growl deep in his throat.

She forgot all about their witness as she was swept up in the moment. Passion swirled around her like an ethereal harmony, carrying her along in its lofty embrace and conveying her heavenward.

Swiftly, before she could stem the tide, the kiss took on an intensity all its own. He dragged her even closer to him until her breasts were mashed against his chest. Like a starving beast, he devoured her.

Her knees grew weak, and a current of hot need shot through her body. Suddenly she wanted to do more than just kiss him.

"MacKenzie!"

MacKenzie abruptly broke off the kiss.

Mery staggered backward. She might have fallen had he not caught her shoulders. To her amazement, he looked as shocked as she was.

The intruder spoke. "Look, lad, I don't begrudge ye a wee _entremet_ between courses." He raised his thick brows above his sweaty, round face as he gave her a quick perusal. "I'd even commend ye on your taste." Then he shook his head. "But ye're my right hand. Next time wait until supper is o'er."

MacKenzie—she still didn't know his first name—released her and lowered his hands. "'Twon't happen again," he grimly vowed.

Mery just as grimly vowed, if she had anything to say about it, it _would_ happen again. The sharp-tongued rogue of a cook might ruffle her feathers a bit. But he also heated her blood in the loveliest way.

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California Legends

These are the chronicles of the Old West—of the native people who lived on the land for generations and the pioneers who came from all over the world in search of riches...the struggle to survive in a land without laws...the strange bedfellows that resulted from the clash of cultures...and the common language of the heart that spoke of a love more precious than gold.

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THE STOWAWAY

California Legends

_EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND_

_OCTOBER 1810_

Travis regretted having to strong-arm Miss de Ware to the weather deck. But he knew if he'd waited one more instant, the poor lass would have cast up her accounts all across the captain's dining table.

Sometimes, when attempting an unpleasant but necessary task, like setting a bone or removing a splinter, expeditiousness was best.

He was just as relieved for the breath of fresh air anyway. Seeing one of his former patients on the arm of her husband in the intimate quarters of the saloon had unsettled him. He wondered if he'd leaped from the frying pan into the fire. On board a ship, there was no escaping a jealous spouse.

Her anxious manner certainly didn't help things. She looked like she might blurt out a damning confession at any moment.

Fortunately, he was able to catch her eye and give her a nod to assure her of his discretion. He meant to feign ignorance. No secret would be spilled from his lips. As far as anyone knew, they had never met.

Lady Adams seemed to trust him after that. He felt he could be certain of her silence on the matter.

As far as his current patient, Miss de Ware would be easier to cure than Lady Adams had been. She was suffering from shock and seasickness. Lingering on deck a while would cure her seasickness. As for her shock...

"Why?" she asked, gazing up at him with eyes as wide and blue as the evening sea. "Why would George send me alone to America?"

Why indeed? He couldn't say. In his view, a man would have to be mad to abandon his sister among the sort of riff raff that inhabited a packet ship.

He might not be able to solve her predicament. But he could bloody well offer her his protection.

"That I don't know, Miss. But ye've no cause for worry. I'll watch o'er ye. 'Tis the least I can do to repay ye for your kindness." He placed reassuring palms lightly on her shoulders. "Ye have my word. I vow I'll defend ye and see ye safely to port."

"Ye will?" Despite her dire situation, she lifted a brow, and an involuntary giggle erupted from her, startling him. "And who will defend me from ye?"

Her remark set him back on his heels. He released her like a hot coal. "What do ye mean?"

She seemed to regret her accusation almost at once. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jameson. 'Tis a kind offer. But I fear your reputation as a villain precedes ye."

He frowned. She'd known him less than a day. How could she already have formed an opinion about him?

Then he remembered the crew. Perhaps one of the loose-lipped sailors had warned Miss de Ware about trafficking with a scoundrel like him.

"I must protest, Miss de Ware. I assure ye my reputation is largely unfounded."

"Is it?"

Her eyes dipped to his mouth, as if judging whether lies fell from his lips. Then, though he was sure she wasn't aware of it, she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.

If she'd known how inviting a gesture that was, she never would have made it. Especially not toward a man she considered a villain.

But something about the way she was staring at his mouth and the languid drift of her gaze back up to his eyes made him see her—not as a patient and not as an innocent he'd just vowed to protect—but as a woman.

A beautiful woman.

A desirable woman.

For the first time in his life, he almost wished he were a rake. In that moment, with the sea breeze gently blowing her dark curls, her dreamy eyes fixed on his, her delicate shoulders dwarfed beneath the oversized sailor's coat, he wanted naught more than to plant a long, lingering kiss on her alluring mouth.

"A Christmas gift," she murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" For one mad moment, Travis thought she might have read his mind.

"George said 'twas like a Christmas gift, goin' to New York."

Travis frowned. It appeared they would arrive just before Christmas. "Aye?"

"Maybe he couldn't afford the passage for two," she said hopefully. "Maybe he was too ashamed to tell me." She tucked the corner of her tempting lip under her teeth. "He knew how much I wanted to see Elgin."

"Elgin?" he said, surprised at the way his heart fell. He suddenly wondered if she would let Elgin kiss that bonnie mouth.

"George promised me we'd go."

"And will this Elgin watch o'er ye once ye're in New York?" Travis might never avail himself of her charms. But he was still concerned for her welfare.

"What?" She was gaping at him in confusion.

"Is he an honorable gentleman?"

"Who?"

"Elgin."

For the first time since they'd left the captain's table, Charlotte's face dissolved into a grin of genuine amusement. "Not who. What. Elgin Botanic Garden."

His brows came together. He knew that name.

"David Hosack's garden?" he asked.

She gasped in wonder. "Ye know it?"

"I've heard of it." Every medical student he knew aspired to be like David Hosack. A physician, a professor of natural history, and an expert botanist, Hosack had famously treated the American statesman Alexander Hamilton after his fatal duel. With Elgin Botanic Garden, Hosack was helping to determine the usefulness of native plants, contributing to the field of medicine.

"George promised to take me there," she said, her eyes alight. Then, as if a cloud passed across her face, they dimmed. She realized her brother's promises were empty now.

"I'll take ye to Elgin," he blurted out.

"What?"

He shrugged. "Why not? 'Twould be of interest to me as well."

"'Twould?"

He nodded.

If he'd stopped to think for one instant, he would never have made such a rash promise. The lass was not his responsibility. She probably didn't even want to be seen with a man of his questionable virtue. Besides, Travis had much bigger problems of his own to solve. He also didn't have a pence to his name.

But he couldn't bear to see the disappointment in her face.

Surgeons were supposed to fix people, damn it.

And Miss de Ware desperately needed his help.

"I'd consider it an honor," he told her.

She rewarded him with a bright smile and a soft cry of glee. And when she impulsively reached for his hand, clasping it gratefully between her own, he hardly noticed the pain as she squeezed the rubbed-raw flesh of his palm.

It was a failing of Charlotte's—in addition to her reckless sense of curiosity—that she was prone to acting on impulse.

She should never have accepted Mr. Jameson's offer of accompanying her to the garden. But once her dreams of going to Elgin seemed crushed, all she'd seen was a dashing hero offering to come to her rescue. So relieved and delighted was she by his gesture that she completely forgot about his past.

His scandalous reputation.

His sinfully wanton behavior.

His adulterous dalliances.

And now she'd put herself in the position of holding his hand.

Not that it was unpleasant. His flesh was warm, and there was a nimble strength in his fingers. But now that she'd clasped his hand, she wasn't sure how to gracefully unclasp it.

One side of his mouth curved up in a smile. His eyes sparkled like dark crystals. A tendril of his chestnut hair had come loose and hung with rakish charm over his brow. Merciful heavens. The man was as handsome as Lucifer himself.

'Twas little wonder his affections were in demand.

But of course, she wouldn't hold him to his promise. Once they reached New York, she'd release him from his obligation, which he'd obviously made in haste. She was sure her mother's cousin Eugenia would be glad to accompany her to the garden.

Meanwhile, she shouldn't remain in the company of such a man. She should stop staring into those glittering, dangerous eyes. And she absolutely must release his hand.

She told herself she would.

In another moment.

When a convenient opportunity arose.

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NATIVE GOLD

California Legends

Book 1

_AUTUMN 1850_

_NEW YORK_

Sakote had planned to snare a few squirrels today for the evening stew, but he'd left his hunting pouch at the waterfall. He frowned. He'd hoped to avoid places that would remind him of the white woman. But he had to retrieve it. The deerskin pouch was a gift from his father, and the tools in it—the snares, the knives, the mountain hemp line—would take days to replace.

So with a parcel of dried deer meat and a promise to his mother that he'd bring back some woodpecker feathers for her husband's _wahiete_ —his ceremonial crown, Sakote set off for the waterfall.

The pouch was where he'd left it, beside the great boulder. But he couldn't help searching the wet banks of the pool, looking for some sign of the woman who'd come here with him. There was nothing. She'd left behind no scrap of cloth, no scent, not even a footprint.

Of course, that didn't mean her spirit was gone. She lingered here still—in the gurgle of water over the stones, so much like her laughter, in the verdant depths of the pool, like her eyes, and in the heat of the sun upon his shoulder, reminding him of the warmth of her arms around him.

"Damn!" There were no words of anger or frustration in Sakote's language, so he borrowed the curse from the white man.

It didn't matter what the elders said, what the dream tried to tell him, how tempting Mati was. He must follow the old ways, the ways of the Konkow, or they would be lost. The white woman showed him another path, a dangerous path, a path he must not take.

The sun continued to blaze upon his back, and he knew a quick swim in the pond would cool his blood. He took off his moccasins, freed his hair, and loosened the thong around his breechcloth, letting it fall to the ground. Climbing to the crest of the boulder, he took a full breath and dove into the shimmering midst of the pool.

The bracing water sizzled over his skin as he plunged deep through the waves. The chill current swept past his body, swirling his hair like the long underwater moss, washing away his thoughts.

He broke the surface and shook his hair back, then swam for the waterfall. It pounded the rock like a _kilemi_ , a log drum, and made a mist that hid the small cave behind the fall. He climbed out onto the slippery ledge and stood up, easing forward into the path of the fall, where it pummeled him with punishing force, driving white spears into his bent back and shoulders. The pounding awakened his body and challenged him. He slowly raised his head, braced his feet, reached toward the sky with outstretched arms, and withstood the heavy fall of water with a triumphant smile.

Unfortunately, the loud thunder of the fall prevented him from hearing that he was no longer alone at the pool.

Mattie's jaw dropped. Her breath caught.

After sketching miners all morning, she'd decided to make a few drawings of the waterfall. She remembered the way there, and though she might have hoped the Indian would return, she didn't really expect him. The fact that he had indeed come back, and in such bold display, couldn't have amazed her more.

What in God's name was he doing? He stood at the foot of the waterfall, as bare as the day he was born, letting the water beat him within an inch of his life and grinning all the while.

She thought to yell out to him, to reprimand him for such indecent behavior, such outrageous liberties, such flagrant...but then the artist came out in her. She realized that what she beheld was beautiful, that _he_ was beautiful. Watching him in all his naked glory was like witnessing the birth of a god.

She perched on a rock wedged between two trees, hoping the lush foliage and her drab plaid dress would conceal her. She found an empty page and set to work sketching.

He couldn't remain there long, she knew, or else he'd be pounded into the rock. She had to work quickly, penciling in the bare bones and trusting the rest to memory.

Sure enough, just as she finished the roughest of renderings, he brought his arms down through the fall like great white wings and dove into the middle of the pool.

His naked body slicing through the water sent a rush of delicious fire through her. Her pencil hovered over the page. It was wrong, what she did, spying on him and sketching him in his altogether without his knowledge. And yet, she thought, patting a cheek grown hot with impropriety, it felt so right.

He bobbed up and flung his hair back, spraying droplets of water across the rippling surface.

Mattie pressed her pencil against her lower lip.

He swam forward, gliding through the waves as smoothly as a trout. Then he wheeled over onto his back and floated on the surface, boldly facing the midday sun like some pagan sacrifice.

Mattie's teeth sank into the pencil.

She could see everything—the naked sprawl of his limbs, the corona of his long ebony hair, the dark patch at the juncture of his thighs, and its manly treasure, set like a jewel on black velvet.

He was Adam. Or Adonis. He was Icarus fallen from the sky. Hera cast into the sea. As innocent as an angel. As darkly beautiful as Lucifer.

Mattie blushed to the tips of her toes. She most definitely should not be witness to this...this...she had no word for his wanton display, but she was sure it was completely indecent. Still she couldn't tear her eyes away. He was utterly, irrefutably perfect. And looking at him left her faint with a mixture of emotions as dizzying as whiskey and as unstable as gunpowder.

She slid the pencil from between her lips, flipped to a new page, and began to draw. Despite her rattled nerves, her hand was steady, for she captured every nuance of shade, every subtle contour, each flash of translucence, as if the water lived and moved upon the paper. And the man... He was so true to life that she half expected the figure to lazily pitch over and swim off the page.

A fern tickled her nose, and she brushed it back, and then leaned forward to put the finishing touches on the portrait—a few more branches dabbling in the waves, a leaf floating by his head. She decided on the title, scribbling it at the bottom beside her signature.

Just in time. The Indian knifed under, a flash of sculpted buttocks and long legs, disappearing beneath the surface and into the emerald depths.

Sakote saw the movement of branches from the corner of his eye, but gave no indication. If it was a deer, he didn't want to frighten it from its drinking place. If it was a bear, his splashing would scare it soon enough. If it was a _willa_ , he'd have to be clever. He floated a moment more, letting the waves carry him gently toward the deepest part of the pool, watching for sudden movements through the dark lashes of his eyes. Then he gulped in a great breath and dove to the bottom, where the water was cold and shadowy.

He came up silently on the concealed side of the big granite boulder and eased his way out of the water and around the rock until he could see what hid in the brush.

Mati.

She wore another ugly brown dress with lines of other colors running through it like mistakes, and her hair was captured into a tight knot at the back of her head. She bit at her lower lip and leaned out dangerously far between two dogwood saplings, shielding her eyes with one hand, searching the pool for him.

Sakote didn't know what he felt. Joy. Or anger. Relief. Dread. Or desire.

Worry wrinkled her brow, and she leaned forward even farther, bending the saplings almost to the breaking point.

"Oh, no," she murmured.

Her words were only a breath of a whisper on the breeze, but they carried to his ears like sad music. Mati edged between the two trees and took three slippery steps down the slope. Meanwhile, Sakote moved in the opposite direction, up the rise. While she scanned the water, he crept behind her, stopping when he found the sketchbook on the ground, frowning when he saw the figure floating on the page.

Now he knew what he felt. Fury. He glanced down at his naked body, at his man's pride, shrunken with cold to the size of an acorn, then at its perfect duplicate drawn on the paper. And he felt as if he would explode with rage.

He must have made a sound, some strangled snarl of anger, for Mati turned. And screamed.

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NATIVE WOLF

California Legends

Book 2

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_SPRING 1875_

_PARADISE, CALIFORNIA_

Chase Wolf lifted his eyes to the grand mansion shining in the moonlight, and the corners of his mouth turned down.

Natives had built this princely manor for a white man who'd probably never soiled his hands on the Great Spirit's earth. While revered Konkow headmen and gifted shamans like his grandmother blistered their palms and bent their backs to serve the rancher, Parker and his family lived like spoiled children, untouched by harsh winds or scorching sun or the indignity of hard labor. He wondered how Parker would fare as a slave, sweating and toiling for the profit of another.

Then a dark inspiration took hold. His lips slowly curved into a grim smile.

The march to Nome Cult.

He would force Parker to endure the march, as his people had. He'd prod the rancher across a hundred miles of rugged land, without water, without food, without shelter, until there was nothing left of him. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as his white mother's Bible preached. That was how his grandmother would be avenged. That was how her spirit would find peace.

Resolve—and liquor—made him bold. He silently climbed the steps and circled the porch until he found a window left open to capture the night breeze. He brushed aside the sheer curtain. Moonlight spilled over the sill and into the darkened house like pale acorn soup.

A sudden swell of vertigo tipped him off-balance as he climbed through the window. He made a grab for the curtain, tearing the frail fabric. Luckily, he had enough presence of mind to silence an angry curse, and his feet finally found purchase on the polished wood floor.

He swayed, then straightened, swallowing hard as he perused the sumptuous furnishings of the parlor in the moonlight, feeling as out of place as a trout in a tree.

A pair of sofas so plump they looked pregnant squatted on stubby legs carved with figures of leaves. Four rush-seat chairs stenciled with twining flowers sat against one wall. Delicate tables perched here and there on legs no thicker than a fawn's. A massive marble fireplace with an iron grate dominated the room, and an ornate clock ticked softly on the mantel. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling like a giant crystal spider, and a dense, patterned carpet stretched in an oval pool over the floor. Sweeping down one side of the room was a mahogany staircase, and the walls were adorned with paper printed in pale vertical stripes.

His gaze settled on the enormous gilt-framed oil portrait hung above the mantel.

Letting the torn curtain fall closed, Chase ventured into the room to take a closer look. The title at the bottom read, SAMUEL AND CLAIRE PARKER. Hatred began to boil his blood as he let his eyes slide up to study the face of his enemy, the evil rancher who'd enslaved his grandmother.

Samuel Parker was a portly old man with a stern, wrinkled face, a balding head, dark eyes, and a trailing gray mustache that made him look even sterner. He was easy to hate. Chase's lip curled as he savored the thought of dragging the villain from his bed.

Then his gaze lit on Claire Parker. A wave of lightheadedness washed over him. It was only the whiskey, he told himself, yet he couldn't take his eyes off of the face in the painting. The woman was half her husband's age, as innocent and fair as Parker was darkly corrupt. She had long fair hair, partially swept up into a knot. Her features were delicate, and her eyes were serene and sweet. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful.

After a good minute of gawking, he finally squeezed his eyes shut against the image. The woman's looks didn't matter. Her heart was doubtless as evil as her husband's.

A flicker suddenly danced across the landing above, and Chase faded back into the wallpaper. The glow of a candle lit the top steps, making shadows flutter about the walls. And then, at the top of the stairs, the portrait of the woman appeared to come to life.

Claire Parker.

The flame illuminated her face, giving her creamy skin an ethereal glow. Her long hair had been cut since the painting. Short, blunt strands now caressed her chin. But the blonde locks shone in the candlelight like the halos of the angels in his mother's Bible. She wore a white lace-trimmed camisole, an ankle-length petticoat...and nothing else. Timidly she descended the steps in bare feet.

He stood frozen while the woman, unaware he lurked in the shadows, crept slowly closer. He didn't dare breathe as she brushed past him.

She hesitated, close enough for him to tell the portrait didn't do her justice. Claire Parker was breathtaking. Yet there were dark hollows beneath her eyes that painted her face in shades of unspeakable sorrow. His heart softened briefly, and he wondered what horrible tragedy haunted her.

Then, just as quickly, he remembered who she was, what she was, and the reason he'd come. He couldn't let a pretty face distract him from his vengeance.

But how was he going to steal past the lady to get to her husband? He couldn't afford to wait for her to go back to bed. The longer he remained in the house, the greater his chances were of getting caught.

Hell. He had to do something. And soon.

Instinct took over. It must have been instinct. Or the whiskey. Because if he'd thought about what he was doing for one minute, he never would have taken that first step.

Sliding his knife silently from its sheath, he slipped out of the shadows and came up behind her. Before she could wheel around in surprise, he clamped a hand over Claire Parker's mouth and set the sharp blade against her slim throat.

It happened in a heartbeat.

For one brief moment, Claire, hearing the soft sound from downstairs and sensing a shadowy presence in the room below, had foolishly believed it might be the spirit of her beloved Yoema. Hope filling her heart, she'd crept down the stairs.

But in an instant, those hopes were dashed. A huge hand closed over her mouth, choking off her gasp of shock. And a sharp edge of cold steel pressed against her neck.

She dropped the candle, extinguishing its light. Her heart jammed up against her ribs, fluttering like a singed moth. Air whistled through her flared nostrils. Her fingers splayed ineffectually as the blade threatened her with a menacing chill. Her throat clogged with panic, and she stared ahead with blind terror, sure the knife would end her gulping any moment.

She felt utterly helpless, not at all like the heroes of the dime novels she kept under her bed. She had no revolver. She had no Bowie knife. And she had no idea what her attacker intended.

For a long, drawn-out moment, the man did nothing, which was almost worse than killing her outright, for it gave her time to think, to dread.

Who was he? What did he want? Was he going to hurt her? Kidnap her? Murder her? The panicked whimper born in her throat was cut short by his tightening grip. Who _was_ he?

The pungent smell of strong whiskey and wood smoke rose off of him, stinging her nose. The palm crushing her mouth tasted faintly of blood. His fingers, pressed into her cheek, were rough and callused. One thick-muscled arm, slung heavily across her bosom, trapped her. Where he secured her against his broad chest, he was as hard as a tree trunk.

She didn't dare resist, scarcely dared to breathe while the knife rested so close to her madly pulsing vein. If only she hadn't left her scissors in her bedroom...

The man moved his arm to struggle awkwardly with something behind her. She squeezed her eyes tight, praying he wasn't unfastening his trousers.

Then, for one moment, the cool blade disappeared from her throat. She stiffened like a clock spring, poised to bolt free. His hand fell away, and she sucked in a great gulp of air to scream.

But he was too quick for her. He jammed a wad of dusty cloth into her open mouth. She fought to keep from gagging, wincing as he knotted it tightly at the back of her head. Then he brandished the shiny silver blade in front of her eyes, flashing a silent threat in the moonlight.

This time, instead of cowering in fright, she let his gesture fuel her courage. Mustering her strength and calling to mind all the Buckskin Bill adventures she'd read, she swung her clasped hands across his forearm and brought her heel down hard on the top of his foot.

His forearm didn't budge, and she felt the bone-jarring impact of her bare heel upon his stiff boot all the way up her leg. She winced in pain. If only she'd had her Sunday church heels on, she despaired, she might have heard much more out of him than just an annoyed grunt.

Instead of thwarting him, her struggles seemed to increase his determination. He hugged her closer against him, so close she could feel his hot whiskey breath riffling her hair. He raised the knife in his huge fist till it glinted with menace before her. Then he began dragging her backward across the room.

In desperation, she tried to wrench out of his iron grasp, twisting enough to catch a glimpse of his shadowed face before he jerked her back against him.

What she'd seen surprised her. Even in the dim light, she could tell he was a native. His eyes, narrowed with intent, were as dark as the night, and his short, unkempt hair shone like ebony silk. His features were strongly sculpted and handsome, from the bold arch of his nose and his square jaw to the lean cords of his neck and his strong brow. And though she couldn't imagine why, he looked somehow familiar.

Why would an Indian attack her? The Indians who worked her father's ranch were as docile as sheep. Still, there had been tales of scalpings years ago, perpetrated by savages who'd learned such violence from vicious white settlers. Dear God, did he mean to take her scalp?

Suddenly she could draw no air into her lungs, and a hysterical thought kept circling her brain—she'd surely cheated the man of his prize if he meant to scalp her, for only moments ago, she'd cut her hair short in mourning.

Stunned and breathless, she hardly resisted as he continued to lug her toward the open window. But when he climbed out and began to haul her over the sill, pushing her head down with one massive hand so she wouldn't bang it on the sashes, she awoke from her stupor.

Dear Lord, the man was abducting her!

They were halfway out of the house when panic made her fight in earnest. She grabbed hold of the window, refusing to let go. Kicking at the wall for all she was worth, she twisted and flailed against him until he hissed a guttural word at her, probably an epithet in his native tongue.

In a matter of seconds, of course, his strength won out. He unlatched her hands with a sweep of his arm and pulled her out onto the porch into the stark night.

Maybe she could still make noise, she thought in desperation. Her screams might not be heard through the gag, but if she stomped on the planks and made a huge fuss, surely her father or one of the ranch hands would come to investigate.

The man must have read her thoughts. Before she could make a single sound, he picked her up, tucked her between his arm and his hip like a sack of feed, and stole off the porch with the silent step that was a hallmark of the local Indians.

Suspended as she was, with her arms trapped against her sides, she couldn't do much more than squirm against him, which didn't hamper him in the least.

She peered between the blunt strands of her newly cropped hair. Though he weaved a bit, he seemed to be heading for the stables.

A slender slice of moonlight spilled in when he eased the door open, but the horses were unperturbed by the presence of an intruder. Hoping to startle them into a frenzy of neighing, Claire thrashed wildly in her captor's grip. He grunted and squeezed her tightly about the waist, cutting off her struggles and her air. Then he took a coil of rope from a nail in the wall and started forward.

He quickly found what he wanted—Thunder, her father's five-year-old prize stallion. He unlatched the gate and, stroking the horse's chest, nudged Thunder out of the stall. With one hand and his teeth, he managed to fashion a loop to slip over the horse's head.

She expected he'd make a break for it. He'd swing up bareback and throw her across his lap, slap Thunder's flank, let out a war whoop, and race into the night. As soon as he did, of course, a posse of her father's men would mount up and ride after him like the devil. They'd put a bullet in the villain before the moon rose even halfway across the sky.

But he did no such thing. He led Thunder out of the stable as stealthily as he'd come in. To her amazement, the normally headstrong stallion followed willingly, as if the two of them were partners in crime.

Still clamped firmly under the brute's huge arm and against his lean hip, Claire tried to calm her racing heart and make sense of things. Surely this couldn't be happening. Surely a stranger couldn't march up to the front door of the formidable Parker house in the middle of the night, snatch her from her own parlor, and make off with her by the light of the full moon.

Yet no one had heard him come. No one had roused when he left. It would be morning before anyone missed Claire. And, heaven help her, she'd left a note saying she was running away. Her father probably wouldn't come after her at all.

What were the man's intentions?

Obviously, he didn't mean to kill her. She'd be dead already if that were the case. Maybe he meant to hold her for ransom. Samuel Parker's prosperity was well known. This savage wouldn't be the first scoundrel to go after her father's wealth.

But he was by far the boldest.

They'd left the drive now, gone out the gate, onto the main road. The land on the other side was wild, uncultivated and overgrown, and the Indian led Thunder straight into the weeds. Tall grasses brushed the horse's flanks and whipped at Claire's petticoat as she sagged in the man's grip.

Once they'd descended the rolling hill, out of sight of the Parker house, he stopped to remove the noose from Thunder's neck. Seizing the opportunity, Claire thrust out with her feet, kicking one of the beast's hocks, hoping to spook the horse into galloping back to the ranch.

But the Indian calmed the animal with a few murmurs and a pat to Thunder's flank, turning on Claire with a withering glare, as if she'd kicked the horse just for spite.

He righted her then, planting her atop the weed-choked ground. Before she could catch her balance, he dropped the noose about her, cinching it tightly around her waist.

When he casually swept up the hem of her petticoat, exposing her knees, Claire's eyes widened, and her heart skittered along her ribs. Perhaps she'd been mistaken about the man's intent after all.

But, drawing his knife, he slashed a long strip from the hem and let the garment fall. Then he put away the blade and seized one of her hands.

Instinctively she pulled away, but was caught fast in his great fist. He looped the cloth around her wrist, pulled it behind her, and crossed it over the other hand, knotting the cotton strips together.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped back, his thumbs hooked insolently into the waistband of his trousers. She stared at him, wondering how intoxicated he must be to take pride in subduing a woman her size.

He must have read her mind. A scowl darkened his features, and for a moment, Claire thought she detected a hint of shame marring his drunken arrogance. Then he growled and turned his back on her, destroying all notions of civility.

In a movement surprisingly fluid for such a large man, he swung up atop Thunder. Coiling the loose end of the rope around his fist, he nudged the horse forward. The rope pulled taut, and Claire was forced to follow.

Caught off guard, she staggered and almost fell. What kind of abduction was this? Surely the man would want to flee as swiftly as possible to avoid capture. Why wasn't he sweeping her up and tearing off across the countryside?

He rode slowly, but keeping up was difficult. Claire was no longer accustomed to walking barefoot. Her father had cured her of that uncivilized habit years ago. The ground was rocky and uneven. Every few steps, she winced as star thistles bristled against her ankles and sharp pebbles poked her heels. Burrs caught in what was left of her lace hem, and her petticoat grew sodden with its harvest of dew.

She twisted her ankle on a stone and nearly went down again. The pain as she hobbled forward made her eyes water, but she didn't dare stop. She feared if she hesitated, he'd ride on anyway, dragging her through the thistles.

But despite her best efforts to be stoic, her eyes filled, and the stars and the moon and the ground blurred before her. A trickle wound its way down her cheek and was swallowed up by the cotton binding her mouth.

It wasn't the pain that triggered her crying. And it wasn't fear, not really. It was grief.

From the day that Yoema fell ill, Samuel Parker had insisted that Claire hide her sorrow. After all, no one knew the truth about Yoema's relationship to Claire. They assumed the native woman was a servant, no more. So for the sake of propriety and obedience to her father, Claire had kept a stiff upper lip and denied herself the catharsis of tears. When Yoema died, there had been no funeral, and Claire was expected to carry on as if nothing had happened.

But now she was removed from the eyes of society, stripped of everything that had kept her sailing on a shaky but even keel. Her emotions felt as raw as the soles of her feet. And her father wasn't around to witness her weeping, to be disappointed in her. So all the pain she'd bottled up inside, all the bittersweet memories she'd repressed, all the tears she'd been unable to shed, gushed forth in a torrent so powerful that before long, her chest heaved with wrenching sobs and the gag grew wet with her weeping.

She no longer cared about the stones cutting her feet, no longer wondered about her captor. All she could think about was the woman who'd cared for her since she was a little motherless girl, who'd taught her the names of the animals, who'd held her when she was sad and lonely, who'd told her stories and sang her songs, and whose voice was now silent. Forever.

This time, when Claire tripped on the edge of a rock, she landed hard on her knees. She expected to be dragged through the weeds, and frankly she didn't care if he hauled her that way for ten miles. Now that the egg of her sorrow had been cracked, she realized that nothing could hurt her as much as the loss of the woman she'd called Mother.

The moment she struck the dirt, however, her captor halted, turning to see what delayed her.

Overcome with woe, she sank forward over her knees and buried her head. She didn't care if he watched her. He was nobody. She didn't have to keep a brave face for him like she did for her father. Her breath came in loud, wheezing gasps, filtered by the smothering cloth. Her throat ached with an agony of grief, and the sobs that racked her body felt as if they tore her soul asunder. Overwhelmed by heartache, she didn't notice that the Indian had dismounted and now loomed over her.

His fingers suddenly grazed the top of her head, startling her, and she almost choked on her tears as she glanced up at him. Though his face swam in her watery vision, he seemed shaken.

Of course he was shaken. Men never understood women's weeping. But she didn't care. She stared up at the frowning savage, openly defiant, tears streaming down her cheeks, silently daring him to ridicule her.

His scowl deepened, and he jutted out his chin. His mouth worked as if he were trying to decide whether to swallow or spit. Then, with a whispered expletive, he released her. Winding one arm around her waist, he hauled her to her feet and nodded sharply as if to tell her there would be no more falling down.

She wiped her wet cheek on her shoulder, staring coldly at him, but he refused to meet her eyes. He wrapped his end of the rope one more time around his hand, turned away, and remounted. His back expanded and released once with a deep breath before he clucked to the horse, urging it forward one step.

Claire stood her ground, refusing to move. Her grief was turning rapidly to anger. What kind of a brute abducted a woman by night, force her barefoot across rock-riddled hills, and ignored her tears of distress? In her novels, even the hero's worst nemesis possessed some shred of common decency. Damn his coal-black eyes! If he wanted her to move from this spot, he'd just have to drag her.

When he turned to peer at her, the corners of his mouth were drawn down. He tugged once more on the rope.

Raising her chin, she took a step backward.

His eyes widened. He tugged again, pulling her forward a step.

Incensed, she marshaled her strength and hauled back on the rope as hard as she could.

To her satisfaction, she managed to alter his look of annoyance to one of surprise, though for all her efforts, he didn't budge more than a few inches.

His amazement was short-lived. He simply let up on the rope, and she sank with a plop onto her bottom. Before she could scramble upright, he slipped from Thunder, stalking toward her, muttering under his breath all the way.

Leaning forward, he upended her, slinging her over one ox-like shoulder. The air whooshed out of her, and she closed her eyes against the dizzying sensation of her precarious perch. Then he tossed her sidesaddle across the horse and swiftly mounted up behind her.

Flinging a possessive arm around her waist, he nudged Thunder forward, mumbling what sounded suspiciously like "damn fool Indian," and rode stonily into the deepening night.

At first she sat upright, stiff, unwilling to even think about letting her body come into contact with his. But as they rode on, mile after mile, her strength flagged. The sleep that had evaded her for days finally caught up with her, lulling her muscles into complacency and urging her eyes closed.

She stirred once along the gently rocking ride, fluttering her eyes open long enough to note that the sky had taken on the purple cast of the far side of midnight. Then she settled back in surrender against the stranger's chest. Her grief spent, she found curious comfort in dozing against the warm cotton shirt, safe from sorrow, safe from memories, safe from judgment.

Hours later, the sound of soft snoring woke her. Claire opened her eyes to a morning filled with apricot-colored light. Before her, the rolling hills lay silvered with dew and dotted with dark oaks, and the rising sun stretched fingers of gold across the emerald knolls. For one brief moment, she forgot where she was and simply enjoyed the glorious view.

Then the man—who was pressed far too intimately against her—snorted awake, and she remembered everything. Her captor had apparently slept for some time, for the horse had stopped to graze upon a patch of clover, and it looked like they were miles from anywhere.

"Shit!"

Claire flinched. So the savage did speak English...or at least knew one useful word. He shifted on Thunder's back, and she realized, much to her chagrin, that unless the man wore a Colt down his trousers, her hands, bound behind her, had just brushed the most private part of his anatomy. She curled her fingers in horror, relieved when he finally dismounted.

The stallion neighed, and then returned to chomping at the sweet grass. Her captor circled into her view, hitching up his trousers and scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then he lowered his hands from his face, and Claire saw him by the light of day for the first time.

He was truly massive, larger than any man she'd ever seen, broad of shoulder and chest. The muscles of his arms strained the blue flannel of his shirt, and his hands looked big enough to hide a whole poker deck.

But it wasn't his size that made her throat go suddenly dry.

The man was devilishly handsome. She could see now that he wasn't a full-blooded native. His short black hair had a slight curl to it, and his chin was dark with stubble. His skin was as golden as wild honey, and his teeth were snowy white where his lips parted. Deep, brooding eyes, shadowed by fatigue, shone like marbles of obsidian as he scrutinized her. And again, something about him looked curiously familiar.

"Ah, hell."

She blinked, impressed by his command of English, if not his vocabulary.

But the third word she pretended she didn't hear. He turned his back to her and kicked hard at the dirt, raking his hair back with both hands.

She wondered why he was upset. He had no reason to blacken the air with his cussing. _He_ wasn't the one trussed up like a steer for branding. _He_ wasn't the one stolen from a snug home and dragged across the hills half the night in his unmentionables. _His_ throat wasn't as dry as gunpowder, and his legs weren't bloody with thistle scratches.

He spun back around, glaring at her as if she were somehow to blame. She tried to glare back at him. But Thunder chose that inopportune moment to amble forward, stretching his neck down for a choice bunch of clover. Claire's eyes widened as she began to slide inexorably, helplessly from her perch toward the hard-packed earth.

The instant Chase saw the panic in those big, beautiful green eyes, he instinctively lunged forward and caught the woman before she could slide off. Unfortunately, his efforts trapped her awkwardly between the horse's shoulder and his own chest. Her eyes widened even more, and he cursed, realizing that with her hands tied behind her, she could lend him no assistance whatsoever.

She slipped down his body, inch by delicious inch. Her soft breasts were crushed against his hard ribs, and her flimsy petticoat rode halfway up her legs before he could disentangle himself from her. At last he managed to get her feet on the ground.

Now if he could only regain his _own_ balance.

What the hell had he been thinking last night, stealing a white woman? Whatever was in that whiskey, it must have robbed him of his last bit of sense, making him believe he had a hunger for vengeance and the stomach for violence.

Chase wasn't a killer. Or a kidnapper. Hell, he wouldn't go out of his way to step on a spider. Cruelty didn't come naturally to him.

Neither did embracing a beautiful woman. Women didn't come close to Chase much. His size usually scared them off. And if that didn't do it, his scowl would.

Not this one. The lady might be a tiny thing, as pale as a flower, as delicate as a fawn. But there was strength in her spirit, fire in her heart. Damn, even in his sleep, his body had gotten riled up over her.

A moment passed before Chase realized his arms were still wrapped around the woman. Outrage sparked in her eyes, and he released her like a white-hot poker.

She probably figured he meant to ravage her. He was sure white men did such things. But Chase would no sooner take a woman against her will than he'd brand an animal.

He stepped away, shaken, but managed to keep enough wits about him to gather the end of the rope in his fist so she wouldn't run off and get herself into worse trouble. Then he sank down onto the trunk of a fallen tree to consider his predicament.

Shit! Why hadn't he listened to Drew? Chase had had more whiskey than sense last night. And today, unlike the sweet flavor of revenge he'd imagined, the reality of holding a helpless woman captive left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing sideways at his hostage, who looked like some beautiful snow-white angel dropped out of heaven into the dirt. What the hell had he done?

A half-breed couldn't kidnap a white woman, particularly the wife of a rich rancher, and not expect half the population to come after him with guns blazing.

Worse, the horse he'd borrowed was a fine-looking animal, probably breeding stock. Hell, Parker might mourn the loss of his stallion more than his wife. Chase didn't know what they did to a man who took another man's woman, but they hanged you for horse thieving.

He scratched uneasily at his throat.

Vengeance had seemed like such a good idea last night. Now it felt like the biggest mistake of his life.

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NATIVE HAWK

California Legends

Book 3

_PARADISE, CALIFORNIA_

_SPRING 1875_

Drew Hawk knew he wasn't playing with a full deck when he agreed to that offer. Nobody north of San Francisco paid a whore twenty dollars. And nobody but a shriveled old man paid a whore just to look at her.

Hell, he couldn't even believe he was frequenting a brothel when all he really needed was a place to stay for the night. But what had made him raise the stakes so high? He was behaving like a greenhorn gambler, wagering big money on a blind hand.

No, not quite blind. Even the quick glimpse he'd caught of the lady from downstairs told him she was something special. Her black hair shone like satin. Her close-fitting dress revealed sleek curves that would fit as perfectly in his hand as those of his Colt forty-five. And her bare feet were more seductive than the collective cleavage of all the saloon girls at the Winsome Saloon.

Once he heard the exotic sound of her voice from behind the door—deliciously throaty and foreign—he was sold.

Besides, he knew women. She was toying with him. He'd agreed to her terms—no "making the sex," no removing all her "clothings." But he was sure that was all part of some cat-and-mouse game of seduction. Everyone knew a man wanted most what he couldn't have. Playing hard to get was a surefire way to goose up the price. Hell, the madam was probably in on it.

Besides, it was a safe bet that Drew Hawk could get any woman out of her knickers with a single come-hither look. One provocative whisper, and he'd have her eating out of the palm of his hand.

"It's all settled then," the madam agreed. She turned to him with a pretty convincing poker face, considering he'd just offered her ten times the going rate for a shady lady in Paradise. "Give me the twenty dollars, and she's all yours till mornin'. I'll throw in the whiskey for free."

"Much obliged." He had a stash of money in his knapsack, so he rummaged in it and dug out the right silver. For a split-second, he wondered if he'd been too hasty. After all, he'd only caught a fleeting glimpse of the shady lady. What if she had the face of a mule?

But then he supposed he was a gambling man. He dropped the coins into the madam's palm.

The instant the madam opened the door wide, he felt like he'd been dealt a royal flush. The breath deserted his lungs. All he could do was gape. The lady could have demanded _fifty_ dollars. It would still be a bargain.

She was as pretty as a bisque doll. Enticing ebony ringlets caressed her cheeks and cascaded over her shoulders. Her skin had a lovely glow, warm and vibrant. Her lips were rosy, her chin had an adorable cleft, and a tiny, kissable mole resided beside her mouth. Her eyes were wide and wild, like dark honey.

She gave a tiny gasp. She was fully clad in her underclothes. But she still clutched one defensive arm across her bosom and splayed her other hand in front of her nether parts as if shielding them from his view. For a sporting lady, she was pretty good at playing innocent.

When he finally found his voice, he gave her a slight nod. "Howdy, ma'am."

She gulped in response.

"May I come in?" he asked.

Why he was being so hesitant, he didn't know. Maybe he was just dumbstruck by her beauty. But he'd paid his twenty dollars. The room and the lady in it were his for the night.

"Catalina!" the madam scolded. "Let the gentleman in."

She blinked, as if suddenly waking up, and backed away from the door. She fidgeted with her garments as he entered the room. He dropped his knapsack against the wall.

"I'll be right back with the whiskey," the madam said.

Then there was a drawn-out, awkward silence while they waited for the madam to return.

After a moment, the lady attempted to strike a casual pose, resting one hip against the dresser. But she knocked over a few small bottles on the marble top. She turned away to right them, glancing up at him in the mirror.

It wasn't his fault that his gaze dropped to her lovely backside. But in her reflection, her brows drew together in disapproval.

He looked away with a sniff, whacking his hat against his thigh a few times. Then he tossed it toward the coat rack beside the door...and missed.

Shit. He never missed. What was wrong with him? He retrieved his hat and hung it on the peg.

Finally, he broke the silence. "My name is Drew, Drew Hawk."

"Mr. Hawk." She gave her head a quick nod.

A smile tugged at his mouth. Mr. Hawk? That was awfully formal for someone who planned to share a bed with him. "Call me Drew."

"Drew."

He liked the way she said it, with a little flick of her tongue over the "r."

She turned to face him then, but another long quiet ensued. Her eyes flitted over the furniture in the room, anywhere but on him.

Damn, she was beautiful. She had a figure like an hourglass, curved in all the right places. It made his loins ache just to look at her.

He cleared his throat. "Your name is...Catalina?"

She nodded, then volunteered, "Catalina Alfredo Romanesca di Lasso Ferragamo—"

The madam swept in with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, interrupting her mid-name. "Here you go."

To his surprise, Catalina...Etcetera...rushed forward to seize the whiskey. Apparently, she was eager to start her night of drunken revelry...minus the revelry.

She poured herself a finger of whiskey and slugged back half of it at once. Then she gasped and began coughing.

"Whoa, little lady," he said.

The madam slipped out then, closing the door behind her, probably so the coughing wouldn't wake up the whole place.

He wasn't sure if Catalina's wheezing gasp that followed was from the burn of the whiskey or the fact that there was now a closed door between her and the madam. But she looked genuinely worried.

He started toward her, intending to clap her on the back a few times to make sure she wasn't choking. Her eyes wide, she backed up against the dresser.

He furrowed his brow. He'd thought the woman was playing coy. But now he wasn't so sure. Was she actually scared of him?

He'd seen his brother Chase get this reaction out of women before. His growling bear of a twin could frighten women just by walking into the room.

But Drew was nothing like Chase. Drew was a friendly fellow. With a wink and a smile, he could charm the stockings off a schoolmarm.

Of course, he wasn't exactly smiling at the moment. And she wasn't exactly a schoolmarm. Maybe he wasn't smiling because he was still in shock that he'd paid twenty dollars to spend the night with a lady who said she didn't want to have relations with him, even more shocked that he still felt like he'd gotten a pretty good deal.

But he'd paid for a body to warm his bed. He couldn't get a good night's rest while the woman lying next to him was shivering with fear...or choking on whiskey. He'd have to convince her he didn't mean her any harm. He might be ruthless when it came to gambling, but when it came to matters of the heart, he was as gentle as a kitten.

"There's no cause to be scared o' me."

"Scared?" She straightened. "I am not scared." Then she angled her head to look at him uncertainly, arching a fine brow. "Should I be?"

Drew could think of several reasons a woman should be afraid to be in a room alone with a stranger. But he didn't need to tell her the risks of her own profession.

"Not o' me," he told her. "I've never raised a hand to a woman in my life." Then an ugly thought crossed his mind. "You ain't nervous 'cause I'm a half-breed, are you?"

"A what?"

"A half-breed."

"What is this—half-breed?"

If she didn't already know, he wasn't much inclined to tell her. But something about that tiny furrow between her brows told him he should tell her the truth.

"I'm half white and half Indian," he admitted. "My father's a Konkow."

"Konkow," she echoed.

He liked the way she said it. He liked the way she said everything, even "half-breed." Her voice had an intoxicating rough edge to it, as well as a fascinating accent.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked.

She shrugged, puzzled. "You did not decide how you were born."

"Right." He liked that answer. "So where are you from, Miss Catalina?"

_"Italia._ Italy."

He reached behind her for the whiskey and his glass, and she stiffened. He decided she was the most skittish hooker he'd ever seen.

The soiled doves he'd met were experts at seduction and usually in a hurry to ply their wares. In fact, he suspected most times they didn't get as much pleasure out of it as the men did and just wanted to get it over with.

But this one didn't seem in a hurry to do anything.

Not that he'd let that put him off. It just made seducing her more of a challenge.

He poured himself a shot, swirled it around the glass, and then tossed it back.

She followed suit, but wound up gasping and choking again.

"You all right, ma'am?"

She nodded, but her face was red and her eyes were watering.

"You ever drink whiskey before?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

He grinned. What on earth had made her order a whole bottle, he didn't know...unless...

His grin faded. "Wait a minute. You ever done... _this_ before?"

"This?"

"Slept with a man?"

"Of course," she choked out, almost too insistently. "Yes, yes. Many times. Many, many times."

The lady couldn't bluff worth a damn.

It was obvious now she wasn't playing an innocent. She _was_ an innocent. In fact, if he had to bet, judging by how jumpy she was, he'd say she had no experience whatsoever.

"Many, _many_ times?" He narrowed one eye at her. "So you know what to expect?"

"What to expect?" She poured herself another shot of whiskey. Her hands were shaky, but she managed a smile. "Not too much—what you call it—snoring, I hope."

"Snorin'?"

"Back home, my brothers snored," she said with forced humor, holding the whiskey glass in both hands and staring down into the golden liquid. "Sometimes they kept me awake all night."

Drew frowned. Her brothers? He reached out to take the glass from her. "Have you ever slept with a man _here_ , in The Parlor?"

She bit her lip and looked up at him with soulful brown eyes. "To be honest, Mr. Hawk, you are my first."

Damn. He was afraid of that.

"Before now, I am the housekeeper," she told him, pouring whiskey into the second glass. Then she raised it in a toast. "But do not worry. Tonight, I am The Lady of the Evening."

She said it as if it were a noble title.

He gave her a rueful smile. Something had definitely gotten lost in translation. Clinking his glass to hers, he shook his head and tossed back the whiskey.

She contemplated her glass, considering whether she should try another gulp.

If the lady weren't so adorable and it weren't so late, Drew would have marched straight down to the madam, given her a sound scolding for trying to pass off a virgin as a whore, and gotten his money back.

Catalina was obviously new to this country. He wondered if she even knew she was working in a house of ill repute.

She was lucky it was Drew and not some two-bit drunk who'd paid for her tonight. At least Drew had some respect. Though the raging bear in his trousers would be very disappointed, he'd do the gallant thing and leave her alone.

But it was late. He didn't have anywhere else to stay. His brother was off on some wild goose chase, and god only knew where he intended to sleep. Drew had already paid handsomely for the room. It would have been a waste of a good feather bed if he left now.

Maybe if he drank half the bottle of whiskey, he could forget about the pretty little untouchable lady who'd be sharing that feather bed with him tonight.

**Want more?** **Keep reading!**
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**About Glynnis Campbell**

I'm a _USA Today_ bestselling author of swashbuckling action-adventure historical romances, mostly set in Scotland, with more than 20 award-winning books published in six languages.

But before my role as a medieval matchmaker, I sang in _The Pinups,_ an all-girl band on CBS Records, and provided voices for the MTV animated series _The Maxx,_ Blizzard's _Diablo_ and _Starcraft_ video games, and _Star Wars_ audiobooks.

I'm the wife of a rock star (if you want to know which one, contact me) and the mother of two young adults. I do my best writing on cruise ships, in Scottish castles, on my husband's tour bus, and at home in my sunny southern California garden.

I love transporting readers to a place where the bold heroes have endearing flaws, the women are stronger than they look, the land is lush and untamed, and chivalry is alive and well!

I'm always delighted to hear from my readers, so please feel free to email me at glynnis@glynnis.net. And if you're a super-fan who would like to join my inner circle, sign up to be part of Glynnis Campbell's Readers Clan on Facebook, where you'll get glimpses behind the scenes, sneak peeks of works-in-progress, and extra special surprises!

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