Wicked Highland Heroes

by Tarah Scott

  “What thievery is this?” she demanded. “Your master has no right to claim my property. We are not yet wed.” But she knew the vows—and consummation—were a mere formality. Edward’s decree held as much power as did the priest’s benediction. Still, that gave him no right to occupy her home before even meeting her.

  The monster carrying her gave no answer. She had expected none. He was an Englishman, and Englishmen considered their women chattel. St. Claire would soon learn that Lady Rhoslyn Harper, granddaughter of Sir Hugo Seward, Baron Kinsley, daughter of Ihon Seward, was no man’s property.

  At the far end of the room burned a low fire in a large hearth. Flickering tongues of flame cast light across the room, revealing the forms of warriors sleeping on the floor. English men-at-arms, she would wager. Where were her men? Had there been a battle? Rhoslyn thanked God she had sent her stepdaughter to stay with her grandfather while she resided at the convent. The girl would have been terrified if she’d been at Castle Glenbarr when St. Claire took possession.

  Her captor crossed left, to a narrow staircase. Rhoslyn expected to be put down on her feet, but he threw her over his shoulder and took the stairs two at a time.

  “Beast,” she muttered, but kept still for fear of hitting her head in the narrow space.

  He reached the second level and ascended another set of stairs to the third floor where lay the too-familiar private quarters. He took several paces, then pushed through a door that opened upon her late husband’s bedchambers. Rhoslyn was abruptly tossed from his shoulder. She cried out and tensed for impact with the stone floor, but bounced on a mattress.

  The bed’s thick canopy curtain closed behind her. Surprise immobilized her for an instant, then the tread of boots on stone penetrated her stupor. Rhoslyn scrambled to the edge of the bed and threw back the curtain. She drew a sharp breath at sight of her abductor’s broad shoulders. His large body had nearly crushed her, but seeing him, she now understood how he had dispatched her protectors so easily—and why St. Claire sent him. He was even larger than the Dragon was rumored to be. That didn’t mean she would allow him to leave her in the bed where her husband died.

  Rhoslyn leapt from the bed and stumbled before catching herself, then lunged toward the door. The knight reached it several long strides ahead of her and passed into the hall. He slammed the door shut behind him and she collided with the wood.

  Chapter Two

  A hard rap on the solar door alerted Talbot to his captain’s return.

  “Enter.”

  Baxter D’Angers stepped into the room as Talbot splashed water on his face from the bowl on the table then grabbed a clean cloth to wipe his face.

  Baxter crossed to him. “I am gone three days and everything goes to hell. Alexander tells me your bride fled her convent.” His attention caught on the bloodied cloths scattered about the table, then his eyes shifted to the bandage Talbot had wrapped around his wrist. “What in God’s name happened?”

  “Lady Rhoslyn decided Melrose would make a better husband than me.”

  “Melrose?” Baxter blurted. “What the devil? He is a supporter of Balliol. Seward openly supports Bruce—perhaps even William Wallace, if gossip is to be believed. He cannot possibly want to ally himself with a Balliol supporter. Seward’s support of Bruce is one reason Edward chose her as your bride.”

  Talbot lifted a brow.

  “I am not an idiot. Even I can see the obvious.” Baxter shook his head. “Is Seward fool enough to defy Edward—or you—and think he can succeed?”

  “Had his granddaughter reached Longford Castle it would have been very possible. I understand the castle is well fortified and could likely survive a siege until Lady Rhoslyn bore him a child.”

  Baxter shook his head. “Kinsley is a fool. Edward’s edict cannot be disputed. You have even taken possession of this hellish place.”

  “Glenbarr Castle is no more hellish than Nightwell Hold.”

  “Nightwell Hold is in England,” Baxter replied. “I told you the old baron was not to be trusted. How did you know—”

  A knock at the door interrupted Baxter, and Talbot bid them enter.

  Thom, one of his men-at-arms, entered and stopped just inside the room. “Her men are on the way here, including her two escorts. Three died in the fray.”

  Talbot tossed the clean rag on the table. “Seward will have to explain to their wives why his treachery got them killed.”

  “We lost one of our own,” Thom said.

  Talbot cut his gaze to him. “Who?”

  “Valance.”

  Talbot wanted to find the old baron and beat him senseless. “Valance had a young wife. Seward will pension the widow.”

  “You might take it out of his granddaughter’s hide,” Baxter said in a rare flash of anger.

  Talbot was inclined to agree. “Inform me when the men arrive,” he ordered Thom.

  Thom nodded, then left.

  Baxter nodded at Talbot’s wound. “Which of his men wounded you?”

  Talbot gave a harsh laugh. “Not a one. It was the lady.”

  Baxter looked taken aback. “She was willing to go so far as kill you?”

  “Aye, and she came closer than I care to admit.”

  “A month chained in the dungeon will give her time to remember her wifely duties.”

  “She will be chained, but to me, not the dungeon. She is in my bedchambers awaiting the priest who will officiate the vows.”

  “Your bedchambers?” Baxter blurted.

  Talbot nodded. “I sent word that Seward can attend us this week—at his leisure—for the wedding feast.”

  “You are playing with fire.”

  “With that woman?” He snorted. “Aye, that I am.”

  He remembered his surprise—and shock—when her blade sliced the flesh of his wrist. He also hadn’t forgotten the feather-light weight of her body across his thighs. He hadn’t met her before tonight, hadn’t cared if the sight of her shriveled his bollocks to the size of peas. She represented the possible end of constant warring, the birth of sons, and daughters he would have to heavily dower if they, too, turned out to be horse-faced like their mother.

  But Rhoslyn Harper wasn’t horse-faced, and her body—her body belonged to a woman who hated him. He would have no trouble consummating the marriage, but he would have to tie his wife’s hands to the bedpost to keep her from plunging a knife into his back while he drove into her. He felt himself harden at the thought and grimaced. It might not have been as pleasurable if she had been horse-faced, but it would have been safer.

  “Is the king’s favor worth allying ourselves to such vipers?” Baxter’s voice disrupted his thoughts. “She will cause you misery all your days. I would not ask it of you. No one would.”

  Talbot crossed to the table near the hearth where a pitcher of ale sat and poured two mugs. He returned to his friend, handed him a mug, and motioned for him to sit on the bench in front of the fire.

  They sat and Talbot took a long, fortifying drink of ale before he said, “My marriage is not about incurring favor, as you well know. I can no more ignore Edward’s command than Lady Harper can ignore her duty.”

  Though she had done just that tonight. That was unfair, he realized. What Scottish noblewoman would willingly marry an English knight, and a bastard knight at that, even if he had been legitimized?

  Lady Rhoslyn Harper was not stupid, as he had learned tonight. Clearly, she didn’t agree with the pervading Scottish sentiment that the extended period of relative peace between Scotland and England meant that Edward wasn’t trying to bring Scotland under his rule.

  Baxter finished his ale and set the mug on the bench beside him. “You have enough land and wealth to live well the remainder of your days. You no longer need please Edward.”

  Talbot took a draw on his ale. His wrist ached. He would need several mugs to ease the pain, but not so much as to dull his wits when he was finally alone with his bride. He glanced at the door connecting the solar to the antechamb
er that led to his bedchambers. He had expected more shouts when he’d slammed the door in her face. She was too quiet. Had she accepted her fate? He snorted. Not that one.

  He took another gulp of ale, then said, “You are naive if you believe Edward will ever release me from service.” Talbot flashed a tired smile. “I have made myself too valuable.”

  “And this is how he rewards you? Exiled in this God forsaken country.”

  Talbot stretched his legs toward the inviting fire. “God forsaken, perhaps. But also far from the certain trouble brewing in England.”

  “And if the Guardians cannot maintain peace in Scotland?” Baxter demanded. “How much peace will there be here, even this far north? Wallace has no intentions of letting Edward rule Scotland, even if the Guardians are fool enough to let him seize power.”

  Talbot sighed. He could always count on his captain to name the worst of his fears. “The Guardians chose Edward to arbitrate because he can break the deadlock, and he has the power to enforce his decision. No one wants war in Scotland. Not the Guardians, not Edward—nor I. You put too little faith in our king.”

  “I know our king,” Baxter shot back, but with no real malice.

  “No matter,” Talbot said. “Any rebellion that breaks out here is preferable to war with Wales or France.”

  Or England, for that matter.

  If Talbot could maintain order, here in Buchan, Edward was unlikely to call him to service for anything short of a large campaign. He tired of killing. Seventeen years was enough.

  “Let us pray the problems here in Scotland remain small,” he said.

  Baxter regarded him from the corner of his eye. “Your betrothed tried to kill you.”

  Talbot barked a laugh. “Women are troublesome.”

  Baxter gave him a sidelong glance. “I have often wondered that he doesn’t worry that your mother’s Scottish blood might sway your allegiance.”

  “Edward believes that I will be accepted because my mother was Scottish. I never knew her. I am no more Scottish than you are Flemish.”

  “I am loathe to admit it, but the place suits you,” Baxter said.

  “And the rest of Lady Rhoslyn’s property will suit me as well.”

  Whether the lady liked it or not.

  * * *

  Rhoslyn faced the room St. Claire thought was her prison. Fool. She knew this castle as well as the one she grew up in. A sudden chill threaded through her. There was but one reason St. Claire would lock her in his bedchambers. He intended to skip the wedding vows and consummate their marriage.

  So why hadn’t he forced himself between her legs when he captured her? The contract was solid enough that no priest need validate their union. The marriage would stand. Another—more devastating—truth hit. He need not lay a hand on her. The mere fact she was in his bedchambers was enough to seal her fate.

  Rhoslyn hurried to the bed. She stuffed the pillows beneath the blankets, then arranged them to look like a sleeping body. She lit a taper from the fire in the hearth then slid to the right and groped about the paneling for the hidden latch. A small click sounded and the panel opened to a secret passageway leading to a guest bedchamber on the far end of the castle’s west wing. Stepping inside, she pulled her mantle close around her and drew the panel shut.

  Candle extended before her, she navigated the narrow passage. Anger coursed through her. Two men she had never met controlled her life: King Edward and his puppet knight Sir Talbot St. Claire.

  Knight.

  The word echoed in her mind on a wave of disgust. What did a man like St. Claire know of honor, truth, or loyalty? Loyalty. Aye, perhaps he did understand that precept. Loyalty to a king who would fill his knights’ coffers with coin dripping with blood—Scottish blood, if need be.

  What a fool she’d been to spend fourteen months grieving. He hadn’t said it, but she’d read the worry in her grandfather’s eyes when he agreed to her request. Before he died, he wanted a grandson to inherit the home and land that had been passed down in his family for generations. She’d been too grief-stricken to care about the future. Her selfishness had lost them everything, including, she realized, her stepdaughter. St. Claire would replace her grandfather as their protector, and would decide who Andreana married. Another English knight, no doubt, who would secure more of her dead husband’s wealth for his English king.

  Perhaps Andreana’s future alone was worth fighting for. Was not her own fate worth fighting for? How many good Scottish men would have to die to keep what was theirs from Edward’s greedy fingers?

  Fear squeezed her heart. If only she had reached her grandfather. She needed his strong shoulder to cry on, his reasoning to assure her they could keep what was theirs without throwing their clans into a war against England.

  How had St. Claire learned she was fleeing the convent? Did he know she intended to marry Lord Melrose? Sir Ascot told her that only he and her grandfather knew of her escape. Even their trusted men-at-arms hadn’t been told of their destination.

  Rhoslyn reached the end of the passageway and eased open the panel an inch, then listened for any sounds in the room. Silence. She stepped inside, and stopped. Where could she go? How many hours before dawn? Getting a horse was impossible. Even if she managed to reach the stables, St. Claire’s guards wouldn’t allow her through the gate. Her only choice was to leave through the passageway leading from the chapel to the rear of Castle Glenbarr and outside the walls.

  Longford Castle was three quarters of an hour’s ride. Walking would take hours. She’d have to keep to the forest to avoid the men St. Claire would send in search of her. Fraser Bell worked the farm nearest Castle Glenbarr. He would help her. No. She couldn’t ask his help. St. Claire would punish anyone who aided her. A mental picture flashed of Fraser’s two daughters weeping over their father’s grave. Instead of asking Fraser’s help, she would steal one of his horses.

  Rhoslyn forced her thoughts to slow. She needed a weapon. Three jeweled daggers lay hidden in a locked room beneath the castle, along the passageway leading to the dungeon. Only she, her grandfather, and Alec’s cousin Duncan held keys. Here was stored a chest filled with coin, a lifetime’s wealth saved for lean times or, God forbid, the financing of wars.

  Did St. Claire know of the room? She imagined King Edward’s long fingers sifting through the coins. Anger tightened her insides. The money and valuables stored there didn’t belong to him or St. Claire. Rhoslyn forced a slow breath and concentrated on how she would reach the room undetected, then she realized something terrible; she had to return to Alec’s bedchamber for the key.

  * * *

  The fog wasn’t lifting. Instead, it had thickened in the minutes Talbot had lingered in the bailey with Baxter and the man who informed them that Baron Kinsley was besieged at Longford Castle by local chief Aodh Roberts. Talbot cursed. He hadn’t expected settling in Scotland to be easy, but neither had he expected to find himself in the middle of a family feud.

  Talbot glanced at the light that penetrated the fog from a third floor window. Lady Rhoslyn was locked there in his bedchambers. He was cold and tired and had looked forward to a few hours’ sleep before rousing the priest to perform the benediction that would solidify their marriage. No man would dare defy the king—or Talbot—after that.

  Talbot sighed and fixed his gaze on Iain. Light from the nearby wall sconce illuminated his intense gaze. Iain had been Seward’s captain for over twenty years. His loyalty to the baron could cut the fog. There would be no rest tonight.

  “Is Melrose prepared for a battle?” Talbot asked.

  “He is no’ his father,” the Highlander replied.

  Talbot nodded. “I heard the old earl was a seasoned knight.”

  “He was,” Iain said.

  “I suppose you must aid Seward,” Baxter said. “Even if the matter has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with ye,” Iain interjected. “Until now, Roberts wouldna’ dare defy Seward. He knows Lady Rhoslyn would kill
him herself.”

  “God forbid I do any less,” Talbot said. “It is Seward that Roberts wants, then, not Melrose?”

  “Roberts doesna’ love Melrose—he and the old baron fought constantly over cattle—but he hates Seward and I believe he is counting on ye being pleased when he is dead.”

  Talbot nodded. “What does Roberts hope to gain by killing him?”

  “Revenge. He wanted to marry the Lady Rhoslyn, but Seward married her to Harper instead.”

  Talbot wagered it was the lady who refused. He also suspected Roberts had more than revenge in mind.

  Iain pinned him with a hard stare. “These are your people now, St. Claire. You must protect your own, or no’ a single Highlander will follow ye. I have fifty men waiting outside Castle Glenbarr willing to follow you. It is a start. Dinna’ throw it away.”

  Talbot knew he had to prove himself. But even if he saved all of Buchan, the one fight the Highlanders might not aid was the effort to drag his wife from one of their kinsman’s bed, especially if she carried that man’s child.

  Frustration lashed through him. Even if Melrose got Rhoslyn with child, Talbot wouldn’t annul their marriage. He wouldn’t be the first man to raise as heir a son that wasn’t his. Before this night ended, Seward would understand that.

  Talbot considered having the priest perform the marriage ceremony before marching to Longford Castle. He relished the idea of surprising Seward with that news once Talbot rescued him. Though there would be no consummating the union before he left. Lady Rhoslyn certainly expected more than a three-minute introduction to his skills as a lover.

  He addressed Baxter. “Gather a hundred men and send them to Longford. Have Ross lead them with Iain and his men. Let us see what Harper’s captain is made of. You ride out, meet the men bringing Seward’s men-at-arms, and take them to Longford. Stay west of the castle in the forest, until I arrive. Send scouts to assess Roberts’ men. Sunrise is another three hours. If luck is with us, we can end this before daylight.”