by Eliza Knight
“Where’s the laird?” Jamie’s father bellowed.
“If what this lad said is true, then I may be right here,” the boy said, straightening his shoulders.
Laird Montgomery’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightened with understanding. “Aye, lad, ye are.”
He leapt from his horse, his eyes lighting on Jamie “Where’ve ye been, lad? Ye scared the shite out of us.” His father looked pale, shaken. Had he truly scared him so much?
“There was a lass,” Jamie said, “at the ambush. I brought her home.”
His father snorted. “Always a lass. Mark my words, lad. Think here.” His father tapped Jamie’s forehead hard with the tip of his finger. “The mind always knows better than the sword.”
Jamie frowned and his father walked back toward the young laird. It was the second time that day that he’d not agreed with his father. For if a lass was in need of rescuing, by God, he was going to be her rescuer.
Chapter One
Dunrobin Castle, Scottish Highlands
Early Spring, 1297
“I’ve arranged a meeting between Chief MacOwen and myself.”
Lorna Sutherland lifted her eyes from her noon meal, the stew heavy as a bag of rocks in her belly as she met her older brother, Magnus’, gaze.
“Why are ye telling me this?” she asked.
He raised dark brows as though he was surprised at her asking. What was he up to?
“I thought it important for ye to know.”
She raised a brow and struggled to swallow the bit of pulverized carrot in her mouth. Her jaw hurt from clenching it, and she thought she might choke. There could only be one reason he felt the need to tell her this and she was certain she didn’t want to know the answer. Gingerly, she set down her knife on her trencher and took a rather large gulp of watered wine, hoping it would help open her suddenly seized throat.
A moment later, she cocked her head innocently, and said, “Does not a laird and chief of his clan keep such talk to himself and his trusted council?” The haughty tone that took over could not be helped.
After nineteen summers, this conversation had been a long time coming. It was Aunt Fiona’s fault. She’d arrived the week before, returning Heather, the youngest and wildest of the Sutherland siblings, and happened to see Lorna riding like the wind. Disgusted, her aunt marched straight to Magnus and demanded that he marry her off. Tame her, she’d said.
Lorna didn’t see the problem with riding and why that meant she had to marry. So what if she liked to ride her horse standing on the saddle? She was good at it. Wasn’t it important for a lass to excel in areas that she had skill?
Now granted, Lorna did admit that having her arms up in the air and eyes closed was borderline dangerous, but she’d done it a thousand times without mishap.
Even still, picturing her aunt’s look of horror and how it had made Lorna laugh, didn’t soften the blow of Magnus listening to their aunt’s advice.
Magnus set down the leg of fowl he’d been eating and leaned forward on the table, his elbows pressing into the wood. Lorna found it hard to look him in the eye when he got like that. All serious and laird-like. He was her brother first, and chief second. Or at least, that’s how she saw it. Judging from the anger simmering just beneath the surface of his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, she was about to catch wind.
The room suddenly grew still, as if they were all wondering what he’d say—even the dogs.
He bared his teeth in something that was probably supposed to resemble a smile. A few of the inhabitants picked up superficial conversations again, trying as best they could to pretend they weren’t paying attention. Others blatantly stared in curiosity.
“That is the case, save for when it involves deciding your future.”
Oh, she was going to bait the bear. Lorna drew in a deep breath, crossed her arms over her chest and leaned away from the table. She could hardly look at him as she spoke. “Seems ye’ve already done just that.”
Magnus’ lips thinned into a grimace. “I see ye’ll fight me on it.”
“I dinna wish to marry.” Emotion carried on every word. Didn’t he realize what he was doing to her? The thought of marrying made her physically ill.
“Ye dinna wish to marry or ye dinna wish to marry MacOwen?”
By now the entire trestle table had quieted once more, and all eyes were riveted on the two of them. However she answered was going to determine the mood set in the room.
Och, she hated it when the lot of nosy bodies couldn’t get enough of the family drama. Granted at least fifty percent of the time she was involved in said drama.
Lorna studied her brother, who, despite his grimace, waited patiently for her to answer.
The truth was, she did wish to marry—at some point. Having lost her mother when she was only four years old, she longed to have a child of her own, someone she could nurture and love. But that didn’t mean she expected to marry now. And especially not the burly MacOwen who was easily twice her age, and had already married once or twice before. When she was a child she’d determined he had a nest of birds residing in his beard—and her thoughts hadn’t changed much since.
She cocked her head trying to read Magnus’ mind. Was it possible he was joking? He could not possibly believe she would ever agree to marry MacOwen.
Nay, Lorna wished to marry a man she could relate to. A man she could love, who might love her in return.
“I dinna wish to marry a man whose not seen a bath this side of a decade.” Lorna spoke with a reasonable tone, not condescending, nor shrill, but just as she would have said the flowers looked lovely that morning. It was her way. Her subtlety often left people second guessing what they’d heard her say.
Magnus’ lip twitched and she could tell he was trying to hold in his laughter. She dared not look down the table to see what the rest of her family and clan thought. In the past when she’d checked, gloated really, over their responses it had only made Magnus angrier.
Taming a bear meant not baiting him. And already she was doing just that. She flicked her gaze toward her plate, hoping the glance would appear meek, but in reality she was counting how many legumes were left on her trencher.
“Och, lass, I’m sure MacOwen has bathed at least once in the last year.” Magnus’ voice rumbled, filled with humor.
Lorna gritted her teeth. Of course Magnus would try and bait her in return. She should have seen that coming.
“And I’m sure there’s another willing lass who’ll scrape the filth from his back, but ye willna find her here. Not where I’m sitting.”
Magnus squinted a moment as if trying to read into her mind. “But ye will agree to marry?”
Lorna crossed her arms over her chest. Lord, was her brother ever stubborn. “Not him.”
“Shall we parade the eligible bachelors of the Highlands through the great hall and let ye take your pick?”
Lorna rolled her eyes, imagining just such a scene. It was horrifying, embarrassing. How many would there be in various states of dress and countenance? Some unkempt and others impeccable. Men who were pompous and arrogant or shy or annoying. Nay, thank you. She was about to spit a retort that was likely to burn her Aunt Fiona’s ears when the matron broke in.
“My laird, ’haps after the meal I could speak with Lorna about marriage…in a somewhat more private arena?” Aunt Fiona was using that tone she oft used when trying to reason with one of them, that of a matron who knew better. It annoyed the peas out of Lorna and she was about to say just that, when her brother gave a slight wave of his hand, drawing her attention.
Perhaps his way of ceasing whatever words were on her tongue.
Magnus flicked his gaze from Lorna to Fiona. Why did the old bat always have to stick her nose into everything? Speaking to her in private only meant the woman would try to convince Lorna to take the marriage proposition her brother suggested. And that, she absolutely wouldn’t do.
“’Tis not necessary, Aunt Fiona,” Lorna said, at the exact same time
Magnus stated, “Verra well.”
Lorna jerked her gaze back to her brother, glaring daggers at him, but he only raised his brows in such an irritating way, a slight curve on his lips, that she was certain if she didn’t excuse herself that moment she’d end up dumping her stew on his head. He had agreed on purpose—to annoy her. A horrible grinding sound came from her mouth as she gritted her teeth. Like she’d thought—brother first, chief second.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing abruptly, the bench hitting hard on the back of her knees as so many people held it steady in place.
“Sit down,” Magnus drawled out. “And finish your supper.”
Lorna glared down at him. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
Magnus grunted and smiled. “Och, we all know that’s not true.”
That only made her madder. So what if she ate just as much as the warriors? The food never seemed to go anywhere. She could eat all day long and still harbor the same lad’s body she’d always had. Thick thighs, no hips, flat chest and arms to rival a squire’s. If only she’d had the height of a man, then she could well and truly pummel her brother like he deserved.
She sat back down slowly and stared up at Magnus, eyes wide. Was that the reason he’d suggested MacOwen? Would no other man have her?
Nestling her hands in her lap she wrung them until her knuckles turned white.
Magnus clunked down his wooden spoon. “What is it, now?”
“Why did ye choose MacOwen?” she whispered, not wishing the rest of the table to be involved in this particular conversation. Not when she felt so vulnerable.
He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “The man asked.”
“Oh.” She chewed her lip, appetite truly gone. ’Twas as she thought. No one would have her.
“Lorna…”
She flicked her gaze back up to her brother. “I but wonder if any other man would have me?”
Magnus’ eyes popped and he gazed on her like she’d grown a second head and then that head grew a head. “Why would ye ask that?”
She shrugged.
By now everyone had gone back to talking and eating, knowing there’d be no more juicy gossip and Lorna was grateful for that.
“Lorna, lass, ye’re beautiful, talented, spirited. Ye’ve taken the clan by storm. I’ve had to challenge more than one of my warriors for staring too long.”
“More than one?” She couldn’t help but glance down the table wondering which men it had been. They all slobbered like dogs over their chicken.
“None of the bastards deserve ye.”
She turned back to Magnus. “And yet, ye picked the MacOwen?” She raised a skeptical brow. Ugh, of all men, he was by far the worst choice for her.
Magnus winked and picked up another scoop full of stew, shoveling into his grinning mouth.
Lorna groaned, shoulders sinking. “Ye told him nay, didna ye? Ye were baiting me.”
Magnus laughed around a mouth full of stew. “Ye’re too easy. I’d see ye married, but not to a man older than Uncle Artair,” he said, referring to their uncle who had to be nearing seventy.
“Ugh.” Lorna growled and punched her brother in the arm. “How could ye do that? Ye made every bit of my hunger go away and ye know how much I love Cook’s stew.”
Magnus laughed. The sound boomed off the rafters and even pulled a smile from Lorna. She loved to hear him laugh, and he didn’t do it often enough. When their parents died, he’d only been fourteen, and he’d been forced to take over the whole of the clan—including raising her, and her siblings. Raising her two brothers, Ronan and Blane, and then the youngest of their brood, Heather was a feat in itself, one only Magnus could have accomplished so well. In fact, the clan had prospered. She couldn’t be more proud. If anyone deserved a good match, it was Magnus.
Her heart swelled with pride. “Ye’re a good man, Magnus. And an amazing brother.”
He reached toward her and gave her a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder. “I’ll remember that the next time ye wail at me about nonsense.”
Lorna jutted her chin forward. “I do not wail—and nothing I say is nonsense.”
“A true Sutherland ye are. I see your appetite has returned.”
Lorna hadn’t even realized she’d begun eating again. She smiled and wrapped her lips around her spoon. Resisting Cook’s stew was futile. The succulent bits of venison and stewed vegetables with hints of thyme and rosemary played blissfully over her tongue.
“My laird.” Aunt Fiona’s voice pierced the noise of the great hall.
Magnus stiffened slightly, and glanced up. Their aunt was a gem, a tremendous help, but Lorna had heard her brother comment on more than one occasion that the woman was also a grand pain in the arse. Lorna dipped her head to keep from laughing.
“Aye?” he said, focusing his attention on their aunt.
“I’d be happy to have Lorna return home with me upon my departure. Visits with me have helped Heather so much.”
Lorna’s head shot up, mouth falling open as she glanced from her brother to her aunt. Good God, no! Beside her on the bench, Heather kicked Lorna in the shin and made a slight gesture with her knife as though she were slitting her wrist. Lorna pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
“I’m sure that’s not necessary, Aunt,” Lorna said, giving the woman her sweetest smile. At least she’d not told her there was no way in hell she’d step foot outside of this castle for a journey unless it was on some adventure she chose for herself. She’d heard enough horror stories about the etiquette lessons Heather had to endure.
“Magnus?” Fiona urged.
There was a flash of irritation in his eyes. Magnus didn’t mind his siblings calling him by his name, but all others were to address him formally. Lorna agreed that should be the case with the clan, but with family, Lorna thought he ought to be more lenient, especially where their aunt was concerned.
Aye, she was a thorn in his arse, but she was also very helpful.
Before her brother could say something he’d regret, Lorna pressed her hand to his forearm and chimed in. “’Haps we can plan on me accompanying Heather on her next visit.”
That seemed to pacify their aunt. She nodded and returned to her dinner.
Ronan, who sat beside Magnus on the opposite side of the table, leaned close to their brother and smirked as he said something. Probably crude. Lorna rolled her eyes. If Blane was here, he’d have joined in their bawdy drivel. Or maybe even saved her from having to invite herself to stay at their aunt’s house.
As it was, Blane was gallivanting about the countryside and the borders dressed as an Englishman selling wool. Sutherland wool. Their prized product. Superior to all others in texture, softness, thickness, and ability to hold dye.
She stirred her stew, frowning. Blane always came home safe and sound, but she still worried. There was a lot of unrest throughout the country, and the blasted English king, Longshanks, was determined to be rid of them all. It would only take one wrong move and her beloved brother would be forever taken away.
Lorna glanced up. She gazed from one sibling to the next. She loved them. All of them. They loved each other more than most, maybe because they’d lost their parents so young and only had each other to rely on. Whatever the case was, they’d a bond not even steel could cut through.
Magnus raised his mug of ale. “A toast!” he boomed.
Every mug lifted into the air, ale sloshing over the sides and cheers filled the room.
“Clan Sutherland!” he bellowed.
And the room erupted in uproarious calls and clinks of mugs. A smile split her face and she was overcome with joy.
She’d be perfectly happy never to leave here. And perfectly ecstatic to never marry MacOwen.
Even still, as she clinked her mug and took a mighty gulp, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was a man out there she could love, and one who just might love her in return.
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Excerpt from Savage of the Sea
Chapter One
Edinburgh Castle, Scotland
November 1440
Shaw MacDougall stood in the great hall of Edinburgh Castle with dread in the pit of his stomach. He was amongst dozens of other armored knights—though he was no knight. Nay, he was a blackmailed pirate under the guise of a mercenary for the day. And though he’d not known the job he was hired to do until he arrived at the castle, and still didn’t really. He’d been told to wait until given an order, and ever since, the leather-studded armor weighed heavily on him, and sweat dripped in a steady line down his spine.
The wee King of Scotland, just ten summers, sat at the dais entertaining his guests, who were but children themselves. William Douglas, Earl of Douglas, was only sixteen, and his brother was only a year or two older than the king himself. Beside the lads was a beautiful young lass, with long golden locks that caught the light of the torches. The lass was perhaps no more than sixteen herself, though she already had a woman’s body—a body he should most certainly not be looking at. And though he was only a handful of years over twenty, and might be convinced she was of age, he was positive she was far too young for him. Wide blue eyes flashed from her face and held the gaze of everyone in the room just long enough that they were left squirming. And her mouth… God, she had a mouth made to—
Ballocks! It was wrong to look at her in any way that might be construed as…desire.
There was an air of innocence about her that clashed with the cynical look she sometimes cast the earl, whom Shaw had guessed might be her husband. It wasn’t hard to spot a woman unhappily married. Hell, it was a skill he’d honed while in port, as he loved to dally with disenchanted wives and leave them quite satisfied.
Unfortunately for him, he was not interested in wee virginal lasses. And so, would not be leaving that lass satisfied. Decidedly, he kept his gaze averted from her and eyed the men about the room.
