Bride of Fire
Page 1
BRIDE OF FIRE
The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch
Book 1
by
A hot-tempered warrior lass and an unwelcome Highlander fight over a castle, but when he takes her hostage, his tragic tale and his motherless infant kindle a new flame in her heart.
BRIDE OF FIRE
Copyright © 2019 by Glynnis Campbell
Glynnis Campbell – Publisher
P.O. Box 341144
Arleta, California 91331
Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net
ISBN: 978-1-63480-047-1
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.
Table of Contents
BRIDE OF FIRE
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Epilogue
Dear Reader
More Books by Glynnis Campbell
Dedication and Acknowledgments
About Glynnis Campbell
Contact Information
From the Jewels
Chapter 1
Rivenloch, The Borders, Scotland
Autumn, 1155
“This is war,” Jenefer du Lac declared, clutching the grip of the longbow in her fist, drawing back the sinew, and firing.
“Is it?” her cousin Hallidis argued, lifting a skeptical blonde brow. “Because I distinctly remember our parents saying something about going to the king bearing honey, not vinegar.”
“That was your mother,” Jenefer said drily, eyeing the straw target. She’d hit it dead center. Again. Nodding in satisfaction, she gestured for Hallie to take her shot. “My mother would never stand for—”
“Your mother,” Hallie bit out, nocking her arrow and raising herself to her full height, two infuriating inches taller than Jenefer, “isn’t the Laird of Rivenloch.”
Her bow twanged, and the shaft hit three full inches to the left of Jenefer’s.
Jenefer smiled in self-assurance and tossed her tawny braid over her shoulder. “Deirdre may be laird,” she scoffed, plucking another arrow from her quiver, “but when it comes to battle, she doesn’t have half the ballocks that my—”
“My mother saved Rivenloch from the English,” Hallie reminded her.
“Which would have been impossible,” Jenefer fired back, loading her bow, “without my mother Helena commanding the—”
“Oh, for the love of Freya! Will you two stop your bloody squabbling?”
The reprimand, coming from their heretofore quiet cousin, Feiyan, rang out across Rivenloch’s deserted archery range and startled them to silence.
Feiyan tucked her dark hair behind her ear and checked for witnesses before continuing in softly urgent tones. “We’ve no time to waste, cousins. We need to act before that scheming Highlander settles in and it becomes impossible to get rid of him. But Hallie’s right. This may call for stealth instead of warfare.”
“Stealth?” That got Jenefer’s attention. Forgetting their argument, she gasped and seized Hallie’s arm. “Oh, Hallie, please tell me you’ve dug a secret tunnel.” She drew scheming brows together. “One that leads straight from Rivenloch to that High-and-mighty-lander’s courtyard.”
“A tunnel, Jen?” Hallie rolled her ice-blue eyes. “When would I have had time to dig a tunnel?”
“’Twould have to be miles long,” Feiyan said.
“And we’ve known about the Highlander for less than a sennight,” Hallie said with a superior smirk.
Jenefer frowned. Her cousins didn’t have to look at her like she was daft.
Jenefer du Lac was a full-fledged warrior maid.
The granddaughter of a Viking, as they all were, and the firstborn of the renowned Helena of Rivenloch.
Seasoned in combat.
Fearless and feared.
Her cousin Hallidis might be the spawn of a Cameliard knight and Deirdre of Rivenloch. But Jenefer could match Hallie’s skill with a blade. And with a longbow, as proved by this morn’s match, Jenefer could best her.
As for Feiyan, all that whelp had to show for herself were a few dancing, prancing battle maneuvers that her mother Miriel’s servant from the Orient had taught her.
Aggravated, Jenefer drew and fired three arrows in quick succession. All of them landed within half an inch of the bull’s-eye. “I refuse to sit idle while my future stands upon the edge of a sword.”
“I know,” Hallie said, clapping a patronizing hand on Jenefer’s shoulder, “and I agree we need to act quickly, now that we know the Highlander’s on his way. But we dare not endanger our parents’ diplomatic efforts.”
“Easy for you to say,” Jenefer said, shaking off Hallie’s hand. She set down her bow and stalked off toward the target, calling back, “’Tisn’t your land in question.”
“’Tisn’t yours either,” Hallie retorted. “Not exactly.”
“But ’tis meant to be.” She plucked the shafts from the target and returned to her cousins. “By Thor, ’twill be.”
Jenefer said that mostly to convince herself. In her heart of hearts, she doubted their parents could persuade the king to reverse his decision.
No matter how sensible it had always seemed to bestow the land adjoining Rivenloch to a Rivenloch heir.
No matter how convenient it would be for Jenefer to become laird of the keep next to her cousin Hallidis.
Unfortunately, the newly crowned King Malcolm had already offered th
e title to some heathen from the Highlands. And Malcolm was unlikely to change his mind, considering how much trouble the fourteen-year-old king was having, holding on to his own land.
As for the Highlander, word was he hadn’t even waited for official documents to be drawn up. The greedy sot was on his way to claim the castle even now. Due to arrive any day, he might well be settled in before the cousins’ parents returned from their futile mission.
But Jenefer was determined to keep a barbarian from laying claim to her land.
“Creagor will be mine,” she swore, “even if I have to seize it myself.”
Feiyan turned to Hallie. “See? I told you.”
Hallie nodded.
Jenefer scowled at them. “Told her what?” she snapped. Were her cousins conspiring against her?
“Jen,” Hallie said, “you’re not doing this alone.”
Jenefer narrowed her gaze. Sometimes Hallidis Cameliard could be so domineering. Aye, her oldest cousin had been left in charge of Rivenloch in her parents’ absence. But that didn’t mean she was the laird proper. Not yet.
“If you think I’m going to sit on my hands,” Jenefer said, “while you try to woo a thickheaded Highlander out of his property—”
“Who said anything about wooing him?” Feiyan arched a dark brow and plucked a sinister-looking steel star from beneath her cloak.
Hallie glowered in disapproval, confiscating the star.
Feiyan gasped as Hallie hurled it at the wattle fence, lodging two of its sharp points in the wood.
“Violence is a last resort,” Hallie said. “We’re far more clever than that. But whatever course of action we take, I want your oath. We do it together.”
She offered her hands to her reluctant cousins to confirm the pact they’d made when they were young lasses.
Jenefer didn’t appreciate Hallie’s overly cautious attitude. But she had to admit it would be good to have allies in this fight. So with a resigned sigh, she clasped first Hallie’s hand, then Feiyan’s.
“Amor vincit omnia,” Hallie intoned.
Feiyan and Jenefer echoed the Latin words, which were inscribed on the Laird of Rivenloch’s sword.
Love conquers all.
Jenefer wasn’t sure about that.
She’d heard about Highlanders. They were filthy, half-wild creatures with mad eyes and tangled beards, who supped on raw lambs and carried shields decorated with the ribs of their enemies.
Shuddering in disgust, she shouldered her quiver.
She wouldn’t break her oath to her cousins. But when Hallie’s reasonable negotiations ultimately failed, Jenefer intended to have her weapons close at hand.
Chapter 2
Morgan Mor mac Giric could not endure another day in his Highland home.
It had been three months. But the pain was still fresh. His grief was raw. His guilt was crippling.
It struck him most when he lifted gritty eyes to the gray-green pines, the stark rock mountains, and the silvery waterfalls trickling down the face of the cliff like tears.
Everything here reminded him of Alicia, his innocent wife.
The wife he’d given a bairn.
A bairn who’d killed her.
Godit the midwife had said it wasn’t Morgan’s fault. But he knew better. If only he hadn’t taken Alicia to his bed, if only he hadn’t planted his seed in her, she’d be alive now.
It was wrong to blame the bairn. He knew that. But he couldn’t bear to hold his son. He hadn’t yet named him. He could hardly look at the child without being filled with bitter resentment.
So when, only three months after his wife’s death, Morgan received word he’d inherited his uncle’s faraway holding—the place where his father, Giric mac Leod, had spent his childhood—he didn’t hesitate for a moment.
He’d packed to flee the Highlands…forever.
He would have left his son behind as well. But his mother Hilaire tearfully insisted he take the bairn, along with two nurses to care for it. And his father gave him a score of servants for his household and a dozen warriors for his protection.
Morgan didn’t have the strength to argue. He hardly had the strength to place one foot in front of the other for the long journey to the Borders.
He only hoped, with every mile forward, his memory of Alicia would fade. Dwelling on the past was futile. He had to look to the future.
There would be time later to acquire the documents declaring him rightful Laird of Creagor.
For now, it was enough to know there was a future for Morgan Mor mac Giric. Standing over his beloved Alicia’s coffin, he’d thought his life was over. His chest had felt as cold and empty as the grave. He’d wanted nothing more than to climb into that deep hole beside his wife.
Even now, his eyes welled up at the agonizing, indelible memories preceding her death.
The horrid screams.
The bloody bedlinens.
The squalling infant.
The midwife’s sorry face.
The sharp stab in his heart when Godit told him the bad tidings, wisely refusing to let him see the torn wreckage of his wife’s body.
Then later…the deep, dark, silent grave carved into the peat.
The soft sniffles of his clan.
The rough wooden box lowered into the earth.
The soil pressed carefully down over his young wife, reminding him of a crofter planting a tree.
Except this tree would never sprout.
It was dead.
Alicia was dead.
Morgan clenched his jaw to stem the tide of his tears.
He should have known. The poor lass from sunny Catalonia had never been hale enough for the Highlands. Homesick and always cold, she’d spoken with longing about returning home. But he hadn’t listened. He’d been so sure she could grow to love his home and his clan.
He was wrong.
God, his throat ached.
His heart ached.
The worst part was the feeling that he’d failed her. A man was supposed to protect his wife. Now proof of his failure lay buried in the earth forever.
The long trek over the misty, muddy heath was silent but for the creak of wooden cart wheels and leather tack, the hushed murmurs of his men, and the occasional lowing of the livestock they’d brought.
Now and then the bairn would whimper, jarring Morgan. The wet nurse was quick to silence the infant, jostling him, cooing to him, giving him suckle.
Then Morgan would resume the numbing trudge forward.
He had no idea how many hours he passed in that mindless journey. Only when his loyal companion, Colban, seized his arm to halt him, did he notice how late the day had grown.
“We’ll camp here.” Colban grunted, making the decision Morgan could not. With a nod, he indicated a streamside clearing bordered by a copse of trees.
The soldiers and servants quickly and quietly set up camp.
The barley pottage the cook served an hour later held no allure for Morgan. He had no appetite. But Colban insisted he eat, telling him he needed to keep up his strength if they wished to reach Creagor within a fortnight.
So he forced it past his lips, tasting nothing. He washed it down with a full cup of ale. Still it sat like a lump in his belly.
Later, bedded down under the dark, featureless sky, where no one could witness his weakness, he let his eyes fill. The thick wool of his plaid swallowed his tears, just as the cold earth had swallowed his wife.
Chapter 3
“Ghosts,” Feiyan breathed. Her pale face lit up. She set her ale cup on the floor, where she sat cross-legged in a surcoat of soft gray.
Jenefer, perched on one of the oak chests, choked on a piece of oatcake. “What?”
This morn, the three cousins had assembled in a storage room beneath Rivenloch’s great hall to break their fast. It was the infamous spot where Jenefer’s mother had once taken her father hostage, the perfect place to plot in secrecy.
Hallie stopped pacing the small chamber and turned. Her ski
rts, which were the same woad blue color as her eyes, swirled around her.
“Ghosts,” she echoed, taking a thoughtful bite of cheese and nodding. “Maybe.”
“Wait,” Jenefer said. “Ghosts? What ghosts?”
Feiyan gave her a sly smile. “The ghosts that haunt Creagor.”
Hallie grinned, clapping the crumbs from her hands.
Jenefer scowled in disgust. “Don’t tell me you two believe in ghosts.”
“We don’t…” Feiyan began.
“But Highlanders are a superstitious lot,” Hallie said, her eyes twinkling like ice crystals.
“Aye,” Feiyan said, hopping to her feet. “And once the Highlander learns that Creagor is haunted…”
“He’ll hie himself back to the Highlands,” Hallie finished.
Jenefer rolled her eyes. “Look, I don’t wish to darken your sunny skies, but that’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. How will you make him believe Creagor is haunted?” She shook her head and took a swig of ale.