Thistle and Roses Collection: A Bundle of Scottish, Irish and English Historical Romance

by Eliza Knight

  “A good thing it is, daughter, for I saw an English ship sailing along the coast just now.”

  Antónia felt all the blood drain from her face, pooling in her toes and making her dizzy. She reached out to grab on to something, only finding the shoulder of the woman carrying the whiskey.

  Was it possible? Was it Titus? Had he come for her? Or had he come to betray her?

  Her stomach flipped, eyes wide.

  A horn sounded from the battlements, a warning.

  The English, indeed, were upon them. She could hear the sounds of men shouting and then a cannon booming. The Lady Hook! They were attacking.

  Oh, heavens no! If he had come, even if he’d come to fight, she couldn’t allow him to die before she spoke to him.

  Antónia pushed past her father, rushing from the great hall, the sound of him shouting after her following, along with the sound of Granuaille’s laughter, her call of, “The Theodosia curse is upon us! True love in the form of an Englishman.”

  Ignoring them all, Antónia raced up the battlement stairs, taking the looking glass from the guard on top. A ship. Painted boldly in gold and shining in the sunlight was its name, Theodosia…

  “This cannot be…” she murmured.

  The Theodosia? It was a sign. He had come for her. Had named a ship for the legend behind The Lucius Ring.

  “Signal our ship to stop firing,” she ordered the guard on the battlements.

  When the guard hesitated, she shouted, “Now!”

  They signaled through blowing a horn to cease fire, and waving a flag in just the right pattern, and she was grateful to see that the cannons that had been discharged had missed their mark.

  An Englishman stood at the helm, but he was not dressed as a naval captain, but rather a lord.

  “What in bloody hell?” she muttered to herself. Perhaps it wasn’t Titus after all. She had to investigate.

  Her finger tingled as she descended the stairs and ran through the gate, down the path toward the docks.

  “Row me out!” she ordered.

  “Nay, my lady, ’tis too dangerous.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself.” She started to shove a row boat to the shore.

  “Nay, nay! Granuaille will have my head.”

  “I will have your head, for when Granuaille is gone, who do ye think will rule? And who do ye think will remember that ye weren’t very good at following orders?” Antónia hated to pull on that vicious hat, but it needed to be done to be heard, to be obeyed.

  “Aye, my lady. Aye. Allow me.”

  Several guards pushed the boat into the water, with her inside. They climbed in surrounding her like a human shield and rowed her out to the Lady Hook.

  When she arrived, she started to climb the rope ladder only to see Sweeney’s smiling face at the top.

  “I see I don’t need to make good on my promise to bring the English sot to ye, Annie, for he’s done a good job of finding ye himself.”

  “The Theodosia?”

  “Aye. A grand statement, if I ever saw one.”

  Sweeney pulled her over the side as the Theodosia sailed closer and then she could hear Titus’ voice carrying on the wind.

  “By order of the queen, I have come to collect Lady Antónia Burke—my bride. Come willingly, else I be compelled to board your ship and take what is mine, for this Sea Dog has letters of marque, and won’t hesitate to make good on them.”

  “Alas, we are at an impasse, Captain, for there is no lady aboard this ship,” Antónia shouted.

  Titus’ laughter could be heard across the water. “I will take her in whatever form she chooses, but it is my hope she’ll sail the seas with me, plundering ships and collecting doubloons.”

  “And what about Calais? What about a tavern romance?” she called.

  “We make the Theodosia our home, and every port our Calais.” A confession of love in their own language.

  Antónia’s heart lurched and she stared down at her finger. The ring had turned from black to a brilliant red.

  “I would sail the earth with ye, English.”

  “And I you, pirate wench.”

  Sweeney tossed the grappling hooks, tugging the ships close as Antónia climbed onto the rail. She barely waited for the distance to close before leaping through the air. Titus caught her in his arms, swinging her around in a circle, his eyes alight with pleasure, happiness and love.

  “I love you, pirate wench,” he whispered.

  “I love ye, too, English.”

  Antónia wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up, just as he lowered his mouth to hers. Their lips collided in heated passion, longing. How could she ever have imagined a life without him?

  “How can this be?” she asked.

  “’Tis fate.”

  “I don’t believe in such things.”

  “Then believe in us, my love.”

  “I do. I do.”

  Titus lifted her into his arms and shouted, “Pardon us, we’ve business to discuss. An addendum to write.”

  “Best keep the sails low,” Antónia teased, repeating his words from their first transaction. “And prepare to settle in. Storms brewing and we’ll likely not be done for a few hours.”

  “Days.”

  And then Titus was kissing her again and the whole world erupted into cheers.

  Excerpt from The Highlander’s Gift

  An injured Warrior...

  Betrothed to a princess until she declares his battle wound has incapacitated him as a man, Sir Niall Oliphant is glad to step aside and let the spoiled royal marry his brother. He’s more than content to fade into the background with his injuries and remain a bachelor forever, until he meets the Earl of Sutherland’s daughter, a lass more beautiful than any other, a lass who makes him want to stand up and fight again.

  A lady who won't let him fail...

  As daughter of one of the most powerful earls and Highland chieftains in Scotland, Bella Sutherland can marry anyone she wants—but she doesn’t want a husband. When she spies an injured warrior at the Yule festival who has been shunned by the Bruce’s own daughter, she decides a husband in name only might be her best solution.

  They both think they’re agreeing to a marriage of convenience, but love and fate has other plans…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dupplin Castle

  Scottish Highlands

  Winter, 1318

  Sir Niall Oliphant had lost something.

  Not a trinket, or a boot. Not a pair of hose, or even his favorite mug. Nothing as trivial as that. In fact, he wished it was so minuscule that he could simply replace it. What’d he’d lost was devastating, and yet it felt entirely selfish given some of those closest to him had lost their lives.

  He was still here, living and breathing. He was still walking around on his own two feet. Still handsome in the face. Still able to speak coherently, even if he didn’t want to.

  But he couldn’t replace what he’d lost.

  What he’d lost would irrevocably change his life, his entire future. It made him want to back into the darkest corner and let his life slip away, to forget about even having a future at all. To give everything he owned to his brother and say goodbye. He was useless now. Unworthy.

  Niall cleared the cobwebs that had settled in his throat by slinging back another dram of whisky. The shutters in his darkened bedchamber were closed tight, the fire long ago grown cold. He didn’t allow candles in the room, nor visitors. So when a knock sounded at his door, he ignored it, preferring to chug his spirits from the bottle rather than pouring it into a cup.

  The knocking grew louder, more insistent.

  “Go away,” he bellowed, slamming the whisky down on the side table beside where he sat, and hearing the clay jug shatter. A shard slid into his finger, stinging as the liquor splashed over it. But he didn’t care.

  This pain, pain in his only index finger, he wanted to have. Wanted a reminder there was still some part of him left. Part of him that could still feel and bleed. H
e tried to ignore that part of him that wanted to be alive, however small it was.

  The handle on the door rattled, but Niall had barred it the day before. Refusing anything but whisky. Maybe he could drink himself into an oblivion he’d never wake from. Then all of his worries would be gone forever.

  “Niall, open the bloody door.”

  The sound of his brother’s voice through the cracks had Niall’s gaze widening slightly. Walter was a year younger than he was. And still whole. Walter had tried to understand Niall’s struggle, but what man could who’d not been through it himself?

  “I said go away, ye bloody whoreson.” His words slurred, and he went to tipple more of the liquor only to recall he’d just shattered it everywhere.

  Hell and damnation. The only way to get another bottle would be to open the door.

  “I’ll pretend I didna hear ye just call our dear mother a whore. Open the damned door, or I’ll take an axe to it.”

  Like hell he would. Walter was the least aggressive one in their family. Sweet as a lad, he’d grown into a strong warrior, but he was also known as the heart of the Oliphant clan. The idea of him chopping down a door was actually funny. Outside, the corridor grew silent, and Niall leaned his head back against the chair, wondering how long he had until his brother returned, and if it was enough time to sneak down to the cellar and get another jug of whisky.

  Needless to say, when a steady thwacking sounded at the door—reminding Niall quite a bit like the heavy side of an axe—he sat up straighter and watched in drunken fascination as the door started to splinter. Shards of wood came flying through the air as the hole grew larger and the sound of the axe beating against the surface intensified.

  Walter had grown some bloody ballocks.

  Incredible.

  Didn’t matter. What would Walter accomplish by breaking down the door? What could he hope would happen?

  Niall wasn’t going to leave the room or accept food.

  Niall wasn’t going to move on with his life.

  So he sat back and waited, curious more than anything as to what Walter’s plan would be once he’d gained entry.

  Just as tall and broad of shoulder as Niall, Walter kicked through the remainder of the door and ducked through the ragged hole.

  “That’s enough.” Walter looked down at Niall, his face fierce, reminding him very much of their father when they were lads.

  “That’s enough?” Niall asked, trying to keep his eyes wide but having a hard time. The light from the corridor gave his brother a darkened, shadowy look.

  “Ye’ve sat in this bloody hell hole for the past three days.” Walter gestured around the room. “Ye stink of shite. Like a bloody pig has laid waste to your chamber.”

  “Are ye calling me a shite pig?” Niall thought about standing up, calling his brother out, but that seemed like too much effort.

  “Mayhap I am. Will it make ye stand up any faster?”

  Niall pursed his lips, giving the impression of actually considering it. “Nay.”

  “That’s what I thought. But I dinna care. Get up.”

  Niall shook his head slowly. “I’d rather not.”

  “I’m not asking.”

  My, my. Walter’s ballocks were easily ten times than Niall had expected. The man was bloody testing him to be sure.

  “Last time I checked, I was the eldest,” Niall said.

  “Ye might have been born first, but ye lost your mind some time ago, which makes me the better fit for making decisions.”

  Niall hiccupped. “And what decisions would ye be making, wee brother?”

  “Getting your arse up. Getting ye cleaned up. Airing out the gongheap.”

  “Doesna smell so bad in here.” Niall gave an exaggerated sniff, refusing to admit that Walter was indeed correct. It smelled horrendous.

  “I’m gagging, brother. I might die if I have to stay much longer.”

  “Then by all means, pull up a chair.”

  “Ye’re an arse.”

  “No more so than ye.”

  “Not true.”

  Niall sighed heavily. “What do ye want? Why would ye make me leave? I’ve nothing to live for anymore.”

  “Ye’ve eight-thousand reasons to live, ye blind goat.”

  “Eight thousand?”

  “A random number.” Walter waved his hand and kicked at something on the floor. “Ye’ve the people of your clan, the warriors ye lead, your family. The woman ye’re betrothed to marry. Everyone is counting on ye, and ye must come out of here and attend to your duties. Ye’ve mourned long enough.”

  “How can ye presume to tell me that I’ve mourned long enough? Ye know nothing.” A slow boiling rage started in Niall’s chest. All these men telling him how to feel. All these men thinking they knew better. A bunch of bloody ballocks!

  “Aye, I’ve not lost what ye have, brother. Ye’re right. I dinna know what ‘tis like to be ye, either. But I know what ’tis like to be the one down in the hall waiting for ye to come and take care of your business. I know what ’tis like to look upon the faces of the clan as they worry about whether they’ll be raided or ravaged while their leader sulks in a vat of whisky and does nothing to care for them.”

  Niall gritted his teeth. No one understood. And he didn’t need the reminder of his constant failings.

  “Then take care of it,” Niall growled, jerking forward fast enough that his vision doubled. “Ye’ve always wanted to be first. Ye’ve always wanted what was mine. Go and have it. Have it all.”

  Walter took a step back as though Niall had hit him. “How can ye say that?” Even in the dim light, Niall could see the pain etched on his brother’s features. Aye, what he’d said was a lie, but it had made him feel better all the same.

  “Ye heard me. Get the fuck out.” Niall moved to push himself from the chair, remembered too late how difficult that would be, and fell back into it. Instead, he let out a string of curses that had Walter shaking his head.

  “Ye need to get yourself together, decide whether or not ye are going to turn your back on this clan. Do it for yourself. Dinna go down like this. Ye are still Sir Niall fucking Oliphant. Warrior. Heir to the chiefdom of Oliphant. Hero. Leader. Brother. Soon to be husband and father.”

  Walter held his gaze unwaveringly. A torrent of emotion jabbed from that dark look into Niall’s chest, crushing his heart.

  “Get out,” he said again through gritted teeth, feeling the pain of rejecting his brother acutely.

  They’d always been so close. And even though he was pushing him away, he also desperately wanted to pull him closer.

  He wanted to hug him tightly, to tell him not to worry, that soon enough he’d come out of the dark and be the man Walter once knew. But those were all lies, for he would never be the same again, and he couldn’t see how he would ever be able to exit this room and attempt a normal life.

  “Ye’re not the only one who’s lost a part of himself,” Walter muttered as he ducked beneath the door. “I want my brother back.”

  “Your brother is dead.”

  At that, Walter paused. He turned back around, a snarl poised on his lips, and Niall waited longingly for whatever insult would come out. Any chance to engage in a fight, but then Walter’s face softened. “Maybe he is.”

  With those soft words uttered, he disappeared, leaving behind the gaping hole and the shattered wood on the floor, a haunting mirror image to the wide-open wound Niall felt in his soul.

  Niall glanced down to his left, at the sleeve that hung empty at his side, a taunting reminder of his failure in battle. Warrior. Ballocks! Not even close.

  When he considered lying down on the ground and licking the whisky from the floor, he knew it was probably time to leave his chamber. But he was no good to anyone outside of his room. Perhaps he could prove that fact once and for all, then Walter would leave him be. And he knew his brother spoke the truth about smelling like a pig. He’d not bathed in days. If he was going to prove he was worthless as a leader now, he w
ould do so smelling decent, so people took him seriously rather than believing him to be mad.

  Slipping through the hole in the door, he walked noiselessly down the corridor to the stairs at the rear used by the servants, tripping only once along the way. He attempted to steal down the winding steps, a feat that nearly had him breaking his neck. In fact, he took the last dozen steps on his arse. Once he reached the entrance to the side of the bailey, he lifted the bar and shoved the door open, the cool wind a welcome blast against his heated skin. With the sun set, no one saw him creep outside and slink along the stone as he made his way to the stables and the massive water trough kept for the horses. He might as well bathe there, like the animal he was.

  Trough in sight, he staggered forward and tumbled headfirst into the icy water.

  Niall woke sometime later, still in the water, but turned over at least. He didn’t know whether to be grateful he’d not drowned. His clothes were soaked, and his legs hung out on either side of the wooden trough. It was still dark, so at least he’d not slept through the night in the chilled water.

  He leaned his head back, body covered in wrinkled gooseflesh and teeth chattering, and stared up at the sky. Stars dotted the inky-black landscape and swaths of clouds streaked across the moon, as if one of the gods had swiped his hand through it, trying to wipe it away. But the moon was steadfast. Silver and bright and ever present. Returning as it should each night, though hiding its beauty day after day until it was just a sliver that made one wonder if it would return.

  What was he doing out here? Not just in the tub freezing his idiot arse off, but here in this world? Why hadn’t he been taken? Why had only part of him been stolen? Cut away…

  Niall shuddered, more from the memory of that moment when his enemy’s sword had cut through his armor, skin, muscle and bone. The crunching sound. The incredible pain.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memories away.

  This is how he’d been for the better part of four months. Stumbling drunk and angry about the castle when he wasn’t holed up in his chamber. Yelling at his brother, glowering at his father and mother, snapping at anyone who happened to cross his path. He’d become everything he hated.