Highland Hero

by Amanda Scott

  If he loved her even half as much as she knew now that she loved him…

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  Epilogue

  MacGillivray House, Perth, two nights later

  His naked thigh felt rough and hairy to her stroking palm until she slid it to the smoother skin of his inner thigh. When her knuckles brushed lightly against his cods, she smiled to hear his quickly indrawn breath. His cock stood stiff and eager for her touch. It was heady to know that she could stir his lust so easily.

  Their bedchamber lay just across the landing from that of Fin and his wife, Catriona. She liked Cat. She savored the fact that Cat had immediately accepted her as a sister. In a way, Marsi thought, that was nearly as heady as having sex with Ivor.

  The strength of her astonishment at Cat’s ready acceptance would ease quickly as they became better acquainted, she knew. But she doubted that the strength of her love for stirring Ivor’s lust would ever wane.

  He was an impatient man, though, and she knew that he would not lie quietly for long. Already he had begun teasing her right nipple. As the thought occurred to her, he rose up on an elbow, pushed her gently back, and positioned himself for taking her. As she spread her legs for him, she continued to caress him in all the ways that he had taught her, delighting in his lustful response.

  His hand moved to her mound, and he slipped a finger inside her. She knew he would try to restrain himself, to be gentle. He had apologized once when he’d thought that he might have been too aggressive, but she had hushed him. She loved knowing that he could not resist her, that he wanted to dominate her in bed.

  She trusted him and knew that he would not hurt her.

  He took her swiftly, powerfully, and left her gasping in her culmination. His own release followed swiftly. When they both lay back, sated, she sighed and snuggled against him, resting her head on his chest.

  “Now do you believe we are truly married?” he murmured, stroking her hair.

  “I do,” she said. “I believed it in that pitch-black hold of Jake’s. But that was not my ideal bedchamber. I would not have wanted to be down there without you.”

  “I’d liefer you not be anywhere without me, sweetheart.” But he could scarcely blame her for disliking the dark hold.

  Jake had stood in the entry to light their way down into it but had refused to leave a flame burning there while the ship was moving. He had offered to leave the entrance open instead. A look from Ivor had elicited another of Jake’s mischievous, flashing grins, but the door had shut softly a moment later.

  Ivor smiled at the memory and at the knowledge that Jake was going to spend a few more days with them at MacGillivray House.

  “I love you,” she murmured.

  “So you told their reverences the other night. And me, too, come to that.”

  “I did, aye.”

  She sounded drowsy, but she did not fool him. He knew what she wanted to hear, and he would say the words as often as she wanted to hear them. “I love you, too, sweetheart, more than life. I didn’t know that I could love anyone so much.”

  Her sigh expressed her contentment. Then, still drowsily, she said, “I hope Jake finds someone to love, too, don’t you? I think he admires your cousin Alyson.”

  “I hope not,” Ivor said. “Alyson is betrothed and will marry in June.”

  “Do you think a wee detail like that would defeat Jake?”

  “If he values his hide, it will,” Ivor said, putting sternness in his voice.

  “You are gey fierce, sir, but I doubt that you would murder Jake. Forbye, but you will be too busy looking after Cargill. I want to see Rothiemurchus, too.”

  “When Fin and Catriona return to Loch-an-Eilein, we’ll go with them. My family will want to see us married by a priest, I’m thinking, documents or none.”

  “Life is going to be much more interesting with you than it was at Turnberry.”

  Knowing that he had made a powerful enemy in Albany, Ivor hoped that his future would be delightfully tame.

  A fortnight later, he received a message from Bishop Wardlaw.

  Bishop William Traill, Primate of Scotland, had died at St. Andrews, and the Duke of Albany had arrested Davy Stewart, heir to Scotland’s throne.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed Highland Hero. For those who like more information about certain details, I include the following:

  If you have visited the Lake of Menteith (the only “lake” in Scotland), you may wonder why it is the Loch of Menteith in this book. The reason is that until the end of the nineteenth century, most maps including the Gazetteer of Scotland called it so. Therefore, I figured that folks at the beginning of the fifteenth century probably also did. So I did, too.

  Those of you who noted that Robert III, King of Scots, and his younger brother Robert, Duke of Albany, seem to have had the same given name, Robert Stewart, will be interested to know that the King’s given name was not Rober but John, Earl of Carrick. John of Carrick became Robert III because, had he kept the name John, he would have become John II. This name was deemed unacceptable, even likely to undermine the Stewark kingship, because John Baliol (with English assistance) had “usurped” the throne as John I before Robert the Bruce, progenitor of the Stewart line, defeated him (and the English) to become King of Scots. So Robert III took his royal nam from his own father, Robert II, and from the Bruce, who was Robert I. The man who persuaded John to do so was none other than his younger brother Robert.

  Information about archery at the time comes from various sources, but most are listed in the bibliography of the (for once) excellent article about the subject on Wikipedia.com. Detailed information about lengths of longbows (yes, used at the time throughout Britain), and how far a good archer could shoot an arrow, comes from what scholars learned when bows and arrows were found on the Mary Rose in sufficient quantity that they could be tested for distance and accuracy.

  The custom of wearing a betrothal or wedding ring on the “third finger,” (counting the index finger as “one”) or “fourth finger,” if one counts the thumb first, seems to have stemmed from a belief that a nerve in that finger ran right to the heart. Ecclesiastical rituals from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries in France prove that with few exceptions the nuptial ring was worn on the bride’s right hand. However, a gold ring found in an ancient burial place near Salisbury was on the left one and twice encircled the “fourth” finger. Also, the Holy Kirk’s marriage ceremony of nearly the same period in Britain ordains that the man put the ring on the “third finger” of the bride’s left hand. The very ritual was elaborate: The ring was first given by the man to the woman, then taken from the woman by the priest, who after blessing it returns it to the man, who then puts it to her thumb while saying “In the name of the Father,” then to her first finger when he says, “and of the Son,” then to the second finger for “and of the Holy Ghost. Then, he slips it onto her “third finger” as he says, “Amen.”

  I also received help from unexpected sources. A fan sent email from Scotland to offer a suggestion and tell me how realistic my settings seemed to her. I explained that I did a lot of research and mentioned that I was just then trying to figure out how I should spell Loch-an-Eilein in this book. My favorite source of all things Scottish had said that Eilean was the correct Gaelic spelling (and the aforementioned Gazetteer had likewise spelled it so). My correspondent said, “I have a friend who lives there. Shall I ask her?” So, the residents of Rothiemurchus got to call that tune, deeming that it should be Loch-an-Eilein, as it is spelled today.

  My sources for Highland Hero include The Confederation of Clan Chattan, Its Kith and Kin by Charles Fraser-Mackintosh of Drummond, Glasgow, 1898; The House and Clan of Mackintosh and of the Clan Chattan by Alexander Mackintosh Shaw, Moy Hall, n.d.; Rings for the Finger, by George Frederick Kuntz, New York, 1917; and of course, the always impressive Donald MacRae.

  Again, I
also thank my wonderful agents, Lucy Childs and Aaron Priest, my terrific editor Frances Jalet-Miller, Senior Editor Selina McLemore, my publicist Nick Small, Production Manager Anna Maria Piluso, copyeditor Sean Devlin, Art Director Diane Luger, Cover Artist Claire Brown, Editorial Director Amy Pierpont, Vice President and Editor in Chief Beth de Guzman, and everyone else at Hachette Book Group’s Grand Central Publishing/Forever who contributed to this book.

  If you enjoyed Highland Master and Highland Hero, please look for the third book of the Scottish Knights Trilogy, Highland Lover, at your favorite bookstore in April 2012.

  In the meantime, Suas Alba!

  Sincerely,

  www.amandascottauthor.com

  Don’t miss the second

  book in Amanda Scott’s

  tantalizing Scottish

  Knights Series!

  Please turn this page

  for a preview of

  Highland Lover

  Available in mass market

  in April 2012.

  Chapter 1

  The Firth of Forth, Scotland, late March 1403

  Nineteen-year-old Lady Alyson MacGillivray grasped the urgent fingers clutching her arm and tried to pry them loose as she said, “Prithee, calm yourself, Ciara.* If this ship sinks, clinging to me will avail you naught.”

  “Mayhap it will not, m’lady,” her middle-aged attire woman said, still clinging hard enough to leave bruises. “But if this ship drops down off another o’ these giant waves as it did afore, mayhap neither of us will go flying into yon wall again.”

  Alyson did not reply at once, having noted that, although the huge vessel still rocked on the heaving waters of the firth, the noises she could hear had changed. The wind still howled. However, the awful creaks and screeches that had made Ciara fear aloud—and Alyson silently—that the ship would soon shake itself apart had eased.

  “We’re slowing,” Alyson said.

  The cabin door opened without warning, and Niall* Clyne, Alyson’s husband of two months, filled the opening. He was a handsome, fair-haired, blue-eyed man of mild temperament, and she had known him most of her life. He ducked his head as he entered, to avoid banging it against the low lintel.

  Alyson saw at once that Niall looked wary.

  “Put that lantern out, Allie,” he said. “We must show no light aboard now.”

  “Who would see it?” Alyson asked reasonably. “That tiny window—”

  “Porthole,” Niall said.

  “—is shuttered,” she continued. “Little light would show through it in any event. Surely, on such a dark night—”

  “Just put it out,” he said. “It isn’t safe to keep a flame here in such weather.”

  Ciara protested, “Sir, please, it be scarifying enough with it in this place! Forbye, in such weather, we ought never tae ha’ left Leith Harbor! Men did say—”

  “An overturned lantern would quickly start a fire,” Niall said. “And a fire at sea would be even more terrifying than one on land. We’d have no place to go.”

  “But—”

  “Hush, Ciara,” Alyson said, watching Niall. Although the order he’d given was sensible, she was as sure as she could be that he was relaying it from someone else. Without moving to put out the lantern, and relieved that Ciara had let go of her arm when the door opened, she said to Niall, “We have stopped, have we not?”

  “Aye, or nearly, for we have dropped two of our anchors,” he said. “But you must put out that light, lass. Even the storm lights on deck are dark now.”

  “So we do not want to be seen,” Alyson said. “But who would see us?”

  “That is not for you to know,” Niall said.

  “Do you know?” she asked. “Or is your friend Sir Mungo keeping secrets from you as well as from us?”

  With audible strain in his voice, he said, “You must call Mungo ‘Sir Kentigern,’ Alyson. His friends call him Mungo, because that is what friends often do call a man with that name. But he is not Sir Mungo to anyone.”

  “I keep forgetting that,” she said calmly. “Sir Kentigern is such a lot to say. But you do not answer my question, Niall. Do you know why we have stopped?”

  “I ken only that they have sent a boat ashore with six oarsmen,” he said. “Now, that must be enough. Will you put out that light, or shall I?”

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “Good night, Niall.”

  “Good night, my lady.” Evidently, he trusted her word, because he went out and shut the door without saying more.

  Ciara waited only until he had shut it to say with panic in her voice, “Ye’ll no put that light out, m’lady, I prithee! ’Twould be dark as a tomb in here!”

  “Do you want Sir Kentigern to come down to us?” Alyson asked her.

  “Nay, I do not,” Ciara said. “For all that he may be the master’s friend, I dinna like the man.”

  “Nor do I,” Alyson said, careful not to reveal the understatement of those three short words in her tone. “You should lie down on yon shelf bed now and try to go to sleep when I put out the light. I shan’t need you to undress me.”

  “I ken fine that I shouldna sleep in your bed, m’lady,” Ciara said. “But I’ll take it and thank ye for letting me have it, because get in that hammock and let this storm-tossed ship fling me about with every motion, I will not!”

  “Hush now, Ciara. Take advantage of this respite, and try to sleep.”

  Why, though, Alyson wondered, were they stopping so soon? They had left Edinburgh’s Leith Harbor at dusk, Sir Kentigern “Mungo” Lyle having insisted they could wait no longer. Mungo was secretary to the Earl of Orkney, whom Niall served as well, and it was on business of Orkney’s that the two men were traveling to France.

  Alyson had met the earl. He was only a few years her senior and knew his worth, but he was not nearly as puffed up in his own esteem as Mungo was.

  They had had to wait in the harbor too long as it was, Mungo insisted. Earlier storms had delayed and battered their ship, the Maryenknyght, on her voyage from France to Edinburgh with a cargo of French wines. Then they’d had to load the return cargo and spare two more days for hasty repairs.

  But now, whatever was happening on deck…

  “I’m going to go up and see what’s going on,” Alyson told Ciara. “Prithee, do not argue or fling yourself into a fret, because you will not dissuade me. We are where we are. But I want to know where that is and what they are doing.”

  “Prithee, m’lady—”

  “We can judge our danger better if we have information, Ciara, so you must be patient. Occupy yourself with trying to sleep. I will hold this lantern until you are safe on that bed but no longer, lest Mungo should come down to look in on us.”

  If he did, he would more likely run right into her on her way up. But Alyson doubted that Ciara would think of that. Ciara was concerned with her own safety, which was reasonable but immaterial when one could do naught to increase it.

  Ciara eyed her mistress measuringly. Although she had served Alyson for only the two months since Alyson’s wedding, Ciara evidently knew her well enough to realize that further debate would be useless, because she swiftly unlaced her kirtle and pulled it off. Then, in her flannel shift, with a thick quilt over her, she lay on the narrow bed with its thin pallet, visibly gritted her teeth, shut her eyes tight, and nodded for Alyson to put out the light.

  Alyson donned her warm, hooded cloak first, then blew out the lantern and felt for its hook on the wall. Hanging the lantern carefully, she felt her way to the door latch and raised it, hoping that she would not be so unfortunate as to meet anyone before she had seen whatever there was to see.

  The cabin door opened onto a narrow, damp passageway that led to a ladder up to the deck. The ship’s hold lay below her, no longer full of wine casks but of roped piles of hides and wool on their way to France. That cargo was already noisome enough to fill the passageway with pungent odors.

  Wrinkling her nose but grateful for the faint light coming through the open
hatchway, she raised her skirts with one hand, touched the wooden wall with the other for balance, and hurried toward the ladder.

  Its rungs were flat on top and the ladder no more than five or six feet to the hatchway, but the process of climbing it in skirts was awkward. The shipmaster’s forecastle cabin and a smaller second one flanked the open hatchway. A wooden rail aided Alyson when she climbed high enough to grasp it.

  The wind sounded thunderous, but the hatchway, recessed between the two forecastle cabins as it was, sheltered her somewhat. The hatch cover itself was strapped against the portside cabin. She wondered if it had been so all along or if Niall had opened the hatch and left it so. Surely, it ought to stay shut to keep the angry sea from sloshing into the passageway, the two tiny lower cabins, and the vast hold below.

  Overhead, black clouds scudded across the night sky. Gaps between them briefly revealed twinkling stars, and as she emerged onto the wet deck, she saw a crescent moon rising over the open sea to her right amidst those flying clouds. They seemed to whip above, below, around, and across the moon in a wild, erratic dance. Since Edinburgh lay behind them, she knew she must be facing east. The prow of the boat therefore pointed south, so they were at the mouth of the Firth of Forth.

  From where she stood, looking aft and to her right as she did, she saw only the moon and glossy black mountains of ocean. To her left, she easily made out the land mass of the firth’s south coast. Dots of light twinkled in the southwestern distance—perhaps the lights of North Berwick.

  Moving forward a few feet to look directly south, beyond the master’s cabin, she had to hold her hood against the whipping wind. But the view was astonishing.

  At no great distance beyond the ship’s rail, sporadic moonlight revealed a huge, precipitous rock formation looming above angry, thunderous waves that broke around it in a frothy skirt turned to silvery lace wherever the moonlight touched it.