by Amanda Scott
NEW YORK BOSTON
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Table of Contents
A Preview of Highland Lover
Copyright Page
To Caitlyn, born 25 August 2010,
endowed with true grit and an indomitable spirit
Author’s Note
For the reader’s convenience, the author offers the following guide:
Ivor (hero’s name) = EE-ver
Aberuthven = Aber-RIV-en
Behouchie = backside
Clachan = Highland village
Fain = eager
Forbye = besides, furthermore, however
Pawkie = roguish, coquettish
Plaid (great kilt) = all-purpose garment formed from length of wool kilted up with a belt, the excess length then flung over the wearer’s shoulder.
Rothesay = ROSS-y
Ruthven = RIV-en
Strath = valley, usually a river valley
Prologue
Perthshire, Scotland, December 1401
The dying Queen’s chamber at Scone Abbey was quiet but for a murmur of conversation between her grace and her husband, the King of Scots.
The couple had been conversing in low tones for some time. Nearby, Walter Traill, Bishop of St. Andrews and thus Primate of Scotland, knelt on a prayer cushion. His lips moved in silent prayer for her grace’s soul, soon to take flight.
The only other person there was the youngest of the Queen’s ladies. Wearing a demure gray damask gown with a white caul and veil to conceal her hair, she sat on a cushioned seat in the window embrasure. Occasionally, she touched the narrow gold ring on the middle finger of her left hand.
The door to the chamber opened to the sound of muttered expostulation from the arcade outside. A terse but otherwise unintelligible remark followed.
Silence fell when a tall, thin, dark-haired man entered the chamber alone.
Bishop Traill crossed himself and got to his feet. With a measuring look at the Queen, he said, “My lord duke, ’tis good of you to pay your respects. Recall, though, that her grace’s doctors desire her to remain peaceful.”
The Duke of Albany, at sixty-one, was the King’s younger brother. He also stood third in line for the throne after his grace’s sons—twenty-three-year-old Davy Stewart, Duke of Rothesay, and seven-year-old James Stewart, Earl of Carrick.
Silver buttons and lacing leavened Albany’s customary black clothing. Silver also streaked his once glossy black hair. His dark eyes glinted with intelligence and with the calculating look that was habitual for him.
Queen Annabella visibly recoiled when he approached her deathbed.
“Sister,” he said, “I trust that you feel better today. I come only to see if I might do aught to ease your way.”
Annabella shut her eyes, then opened them and said, “Thank you, sir. But I…”
When the pause lengthened and her eyes closed again, the King said, “She has asked that we pray for her. Otherwise, we can do nowt. She must rest now.”
The firmness in his voice doubtless startled the others in the chamber, for it was unusual. By nature, Robert III of Scotland was gentle and scholarly.
Unimpressed, Albany said, “I mean only to assure her that she need have no concern about her sons. I’ll look after them and see that no harm befalls…”
Here, he paused, because the Queen’s agitation was plain to all.
The young woman in the window embrasure behind the duke stood abruptly. Her lips pressed tightly together, and she hesitated, watching him.
Annabella tried to raise her head, but the King gently laid a hand on her brow, saying, “Nay, my love.” A wave of his free hand warned his brother off.
Paying no heed, Albany gazed down at the Queen.
The young woman took a step nearer but stopped when the bishop moved to Albany’s side. “You do no good here, my son,” Traill said. “Her grace did ask that only her close kin attend her. We must pray that Rothesay arrives before she departs.”
“I, too, am close kin, Father. I will stay.”
“You will go, because your presence upsets her grace when she should stay calm. I have administered the last rites. So for you to disturb her further,” he added on a sterner note, “would be an ungodly—in troth, a censurable act, my son.”
Albany seemed about to refuse again, but the bishop’s pale blue gaze caught and held the duke’s darker one.
Despite the sternness in Traill’s voice, his demeanor remained serene.
Apparently, Albany saw something else, for with a nod, he turned away.
As he did, he encountered the steady, accusatory gaze of the Queen’s lady.
An approving spectator of his banishment, she stared calmly at him without flinching, although the look he gave her ought to have chilled her soul.
Despite his departure, Annabella remained agitated, fiercely clutching her husband’s arm. When he bent his head near, she muttered anxiously into his ear.
The King nodded and murmured back to her. The bishop returned to his prayer cushion and his prayers. And the Queen’s lady returned to her silent vigil.
Half an hour after Albany left, Davy Stewart, Duke of Rothesay and heir to the Scottish throne, entered the room. He was just in time to bid his mother farewell.
Chapter 1
Scotland, Turnberry Castle, 19 February 1402
Her bare skin was as smooth as the silky gown she had worn before he’d helped her take it off. His fingertips glided over her, stroking a bare arm, a bare shoulder, its soft hollow, and then the softer rise of a full breast heaving with desire for him.
Cupping its softness, he brushed a thumb across its tip, enjoying her passionate moans and arcing body as he did and feeling the nipple harden.
Part of him had hardened, too. His whole body urged him to conquer the lush beauty in his bed. But, although he was an impatient man, he was also one who liked to take his time with women. Experience—a good deal of it—had taught him that coupling was better for both when he took things slowly.
Neither of them spoke, because he rarely enjoyed conversation with sex. Preferring to relish the sensations, he favored partners who did not chatter.
Stimulating them both with his kisses, he shifted an arm across her to position himself for taking her. As she spread her legs for him, she caressed his body with her hands, fingers, and tongue, sparking sensual responses from every nerve.
He found it increasingly harder to resist simply taking her, dominating her, and teaching her who was master in his bed.
The bed shifted slightly on the thought. He had a fleeting semiawareness that he was dreaming—fleeting because he shoved the half-formed thought away lest, if true, he might waken too soon.
Somehow, in the odd way that dreams have of changing things about, the beauty had got to one side of him. He could no longer see her in the darkness, but ever willing, he shifted to accommodate the new arrangement.
Finding the warm, softly silken skin of her shoulder, he reached for her breasts again, rising onto his elbow and leaning over her as he did. He felt her body stiffen. And when his seeking hand found one soft breast, it seemed smaller than before, albeit just as well formed and soft. Sakes, but the woman seemed smaller.
Most oddly, though, he touched real silk instead of bare skin.
Undaunted, he ignored her increasing rigidity and slid his hand down to move the annoying silk out of his way, seeking access to his primary objective.
As he eased his hand along one silken thigh, her body heaved. A gasping cry sounded near his right ear, and in a flurry of movement, she slid from his grasp.
Flying from the bed, she managed on her way to deal him a stunning blow on his cheek with a bare-knuckled fist. He saw only flashes of movement after that, and light. Before
he could collect himself enough to know that he was awake and had been toying with an unknown but very enticing female in his bed, a sound near the door told him that she was rummaging through the kist there.
Leaping from the bed, he shot toward her. But the door crashed back as he reached for her, hitting his outstretched fingers and hand hard when it did.
The glow of torchlight in the corridor revealed long, lush, dark-red hair; a drab robe hastily flung over a pink shift that barely concealed long, lovely legs; curving hips; and a tantalizingly small waist as she ran. His aching hand and burning cheek provided excellent reasons to retaliate. But he had no sooner started to give chase than he recalled his own state of naked readiness and collected his wits.
Chasing a nubile young beauty by dead of night in a state such as his might find favor in some masculine establishments. But his grace the King’s royal castle of Turnberry was definitely not one of them.
The young woman fleeing up the corridor did not dare look behind her, lest her pursuer know and recognize her. But as she gripped the handle of the royal nursery door, she could not resist glancing back through the veil of her unplaited hair to see with a surge of relief that the dimly lit corridor behind her was empty.
She had been sure that he would pursue her. But what a coil if he had! And worse had he chanced to recognize her or see her well enough to know her later.
Shoving the nursery door open, she whisked herself inside. Quietly shutting the door, she eased the latch hook into place and shot the bolt, giving thanks to God that Hetty had not done so before then.
Feeling safe at last, she noted in the light of the one cresset still burning in the chamber, and the dimmer glow of embers from the banked fire, that Hetty was fast asleep on a pallet near the hearth. In the far corner of the room, the drawn curtains of a cupboard bed warned her to wake Hetty quietly.
Moving to the pallet, listening for sounds from the corridor that might herald a search by the man who had been sleeping in Hetty’s bed, she gently shook the plump, middle-aged mistress of the royal nursery.
“Hetty, wake up,” she murmured. “Oh, don’t screech, but do wake up!”
The woman’s eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright. “My lady!” she exclaimed. Softening her voice, she added, “What be ye doing in here?”
Seventeen-year-old Lady Marsaili Drummond Cargill grimaced. “I could not sleep, Hetty. I went to your room and climbed into your bed as I used to do, but—”
“Och! Ye did nae such thing! Not tonight of all—! What time is it then?”
“I don’t know. Midnight I think. Oh, Hetty—”
“Mercy, but his grace’s man did say—”
“Someone was in your bed, Hetty. A man!”
“Is that no what I was just trying to tell ye? The King’s gentleman—”
“It cannot have been Dennison,” Marsaili said. “Dennison would never—”
“Whisst now, will ye whisst? I’m trying to tell ye, if ye’ll just hearken to me. Bless us, but I thought ye’d learned to curb such foolish, impulsive—”
“Hetty, the man was naked!”
Henrietta Childs, mistress of the royal nursery, grabbed the lady Marsaili firmly by the shoulders, gave her a shake, and looked into her eyes. “Lady Marsi, have done! Tell me right now, was the man awake?”
“Not at first.”
“At first!” Hetty’s voice went up on the words. With a swift look at the curtained bed in the corner, she lowered it to a whisper to add, “What did he do?”
“He rolled over and… and… Before I realized that he wasn’t you—”
“Ay-de-mi! Did he touch ye?”
Remembering, and instantly feeling the strong, hitherto unfamiliar but most pleasurable sensations that his touch had stirred in her, Marsi swallowed. But Hetty looked fierce. And Hetty had known her from her cradle and was reminding her of that with every word and look. So Marsi said, “He did, aye. But he did not see me, Hetty. I jumped out of the bed, snatched up my robe, and fled here to you.”
“Snatched up your robe, did ye? What more have ye got on under it?”
“My shift. But, Hetty, who is he?”
“I dinna know his name, and I’m no to tell anyone about him.”
“Hetty, it’s me. Who would I tell? I haven’t a friend left in this whole castle except you, and haven’t had since Aunt Annabella died.” Twisting the ring on her left middle finger as she pictured her beloved aunt, she added, “What’s more, they say that Albany may arrive tomorrow! And if not tomorrow, then Tuesday. His grace warned me that Albany wants to see me wedded at once and will not wait the year that I should wait if I am to mourn Aunt Annabella’s death properly.”
“My lady, I ken fine that the duke comes soon to Turnberry. Sithee, that is why that man sleeps in my bed now.”
“He is Albany’s man?”
“Nay, he is not.” Hetty looked upward, as if seeking guidance. Then, drawing breath and letting it out, she said, “I’ll tell ye, then. But only so that ye willna go trying to find out for yourself, as I ken fine ye will if I keep silent. But ye must no breathe a word to anyone else of what I say. Swear to it now.”
“You know that I will tell no one,” Marsi said. “I keep secrets even better than I ferret them out, Hetty. You know that, too.”
“I do, aye, or I’d say nowt of this to ye. Your wee cousin Jamie’s future may depend on it, though, so see that ye keep your word. Sithee, his grace did send for that man to take our laddie away from here before Albany arrives.”
“Away? But when do they go? And where will he take him?”
“Dennison didna say where we will go,” Hetty said. “Nor were I so brazen as to ask him. But we may go as soon as tomorrow, for I was to pack for Jamie.”
“Aye, sure, his grace must want Jamie away at once if Albany is coming. Recall that Albany told dearest Annabella that he would look after Jamie and Davy and keep them safe from harm. But she feared that he meant to take charge of Jamie as soon as he could after she was gone and would use him as a pawn whenever he thought that doing so would serve his own ends, just as he means to use me. Then, if he controls Jamie when the King dies, and aught should happen to Davy…”
“Jamie would be all that stands then between Albany and the throne,” Hetty said. “As ruthless as Albany can be, our laddie’s very life might be in danger then.”
“But I wish that you need not go, Hetty, either of you.”
“I’d liefer we didna have to go, either,” Hetty said. “I ken fine that ye’ll miss us sorely. But if we stay and Albany does come, he’d likely take charge of ye both if he means to arrange for your wedding straightaway. And I doubt that he’d let me accompany either of ye then.”
“Faith, I wish he would recall that I am not his ward but the King’s,” Marsi said. “As set as Albany is on marrying me to his boot-licker Redmyre, and as aware as he must be that Aunt Annabella supported my rejection of the match, I doubt that he’ll heed my protests, especially if Jamie eludes his grasp.”
“He might have to heed ye, though,” Hetty said. “Although he is the King’s brother and much stronger of will, his grace has stood against him before.”
Marsi gave an unladylike snort. “Aye, he has, but rarely. You ken as well as I do that his grace cannot hold out long if Albany gets him alone and says that he must do as Albany wishes. What can I do, Hetty? Albany has threatened me with dire punishment if I do not obey him, and in truth, he frightens me.”
“Aye, he frightens most folks with any sense.”
“Come with us, Marsi,” piped up a third voice. “Wherever we go, it must be a happier place than Turnberry will be whilst my uncle Albany bides here.”
Both women turned toward the curtained bed, where the tousled auburn head of Marsi’s cousin James Stewart, Earl of Carrick, peeped between the blue curtains.
“Jamie, were you listening to us?” Marsi demanded. “Naughty laddie!”
“I couldna sleep,” the dark-eyed boy who stood second
in line for the Scottish throne said soberly. As always, he sounded older than his seven and a half years.
Hetty got up and reached for a yellow silk robe that lay across a nearby stool. “I’ll warm some milk, sir,” she said. “It will settle ye again.”
“I don’t want milk. Must I command ye tae go with us, Marsi?”
“Oh, Jamie, I wish you could. But your royal ways don’t fool me, laddie. You fear your uncle almost as much as I do.”
“Aye, sure, but he canna find either of us if we be elsewhere,” James pointed out. “When he leaves Turnberry, we can come back and be comfortable again with my royal sire. Do come with us, Marsi. Ye make me laugh, and Hetty does not.”
Marsi hesitated, absently twisting the gold ring that her aunt Annabella had given her while she considered Jamie’s suggestion.
Hetty gave her a stern look. “Lady Marsi, ye must not. For once, prithee, heed old Hetty, who kens ye best. And heed the consequences, if ye do such a daft thing. Ye’re a noblewoman, my lady, and still a maiden! Ye’d be the talk o’ all Scotland when it became known that ye’d run off. No to mention what Albany would do when he found ye, as he would. That man believes he has as much right as the King does to order your future, and ye’ve said yourself that his grace will likely agree with him.”
But Marsi rarely heeded consequences. Before her doting parents had died and left her a ward of her aunt, the Queen of Scots, most consequences had been pleasant. And when they were not, they were always soon over.
However, with Annabella dead and no longer able to protect her, the cost of staying to face Albany alone could be even worse than she had imagined.
“I could pose as your assistant, Hetty, and help you look after Jamie.”
“And I could help ye look after Marsi, Hetty,” Jamie said, grinning.
Henrietta looked dourly at Marsi. “What was I thinking to tell ye, ye must not?” she muttered. “If ye obey Albany, ye’ll face only a marriage ye dinna want, as does many a noble maiden by obeying her father. But a body would think that after knowing ye for most of your eighteen years, I’d ken better than to challenge ye so.”
