King of Storms

by Amanda Scott

  “Pressed to choose between a marriage and a coffin, I believe any sensible man would choose the marriage,” Lady Murray said. “However, I should like to see this young man before you hang him. Will you permit that, sir?”

  “I suppose next you will say you want your daughters to see this villain, too,” he said testily. His sardonic expression said he believed nothing of the sort, but it altered ludicrously when the wife of his bosom agreed that she did indeed want her daughters to see the reiver.

  “It will be a beneficial experience for them,” she said placidly.

  Meg, certain that her mother had been about to decline having any such notion in mind, and therefore having just begun to breathe again, had reached for her goblet but her ladyship’s reply diverted her attention enough to make her knock it over, spewing ale across the table and drawing a curse from her father.

  As gillies leaped to clean up the mess, Sir Iagan said, “To admit such a ruffian to my daughters’ presence would be most unsuitable. I won’t permit it.”

  “You said yourself that the young man is well born,” Lady Murray said. “You may desire me to excuse Rosalie, but there can be naught amiss in showing Meg or Amalie what happens even to powerful men who break the law. Moreover, if you should change your mind after further considering my suggestion, there will be no harm in letting them see the man one of them will marry.”

  “Very well then,” he said grimly. “But I permit it only because seeing him in his present state, if it accomplishes nowt else, will put this foolish notion of marrying him to one of your daughters right out of your head, madam.”

  “Mayhap it will,” she agreed equably.

  With a brusque gesture to one of the hovering gillies, he snapped, “Tell them to fetch the reivers’ leader here to me, and tell them to bring him just as he is.”

  Meg watched the gillie hurry from the hall, wishing with half her mind that she could snatch him back and with the other half that she could fly along beside him, unseen, and have a look at the prisoner before he was haled in before her.

  Well aware that such powers were beyond the ken of ordinary mortals and that God could read her thoughts, she surreptitiously crossed herself.

  When the cell door creaked open, even the faint light from the stairwell outside it made Wat wince. Believing that the guards had come for all three of them, to hang them straightaway, he was surprised when the two men who entered each grabbed one of his arms and hauled him upright.

  “You’ll have to untie my feet, lads,” he said, stifling a groan. “Even then, I doubt I can walk, for I’ve scarcely any feeling left in them.”

  The larger of the two men said, “We weep for ye, reiver, but we dinna care an ye walk or no’. Ye’ll come wi’ us any road.”

  “What of my men?”

  “They’re to bide here a wee while longer.”

  They had clearly meant to drag him, but when they realized how heavy he was and that the winding stone stairway was too narrow to accommodate all three abreast, they finally untied his feet.

  “I dare ye to run,” the one who had spoken before said with a grim chuckle. “’Twould please me much tae clout ye again.”

  Wat did not reply. The circulation returning to his feet made him clench his teeth against the pain, to prevent any sound his captors might interpret as proof that he suffered. If they meant to hang him, so be it. He would not whimper.

  His feet refused to cooperate with his brain, however. His ankles felt as weak as new-sprouted saplings, and he could not feel his toes, but pain from his feet and ankles radiated into his legs, and his knees felt no steadier than his ankles.

  Although one guard pulled and the other pushed, it still took the combined efforts of both, and his own, to get him up the winding stone stairway and outside into the cobbled bailey. Wat turned his face to the sun then, enjoying its warmth but keeping his eyes shut to let them accustom themselves to the glare.

  “Dinna dawdle, man,” the spokesman snapped. “The master awaits ye.”

  “Let him wait,” Wat retorted. “He cannot hang me twice.”

  In response, the men hauled him forward, making him stumble along as best he could between them. In this fashion, they dragged him through a doorway, up another, broader stairway, and through an archway into Elishaw’s great hall. He could feel his toes by then, but the renewal of that fiery pain was no comfort.

  They shoved him forward with his hands still bound behind him. Although he struggled to remain upright, his balance betrayed him, and he fell heavily to the stone floor. Only with effort did he manage not to strike his head.

  “’Tis right and proper that ye should abase yourself, ye scurrilous villain!”

  Looking up, Wat saw a thickset man in plain leather breeks and a short black cloak standing over him and looking down with arms akimbo. Having seen Murray at horse races more than once, he had no trouble recognizing the man.

  Forcing himself awkwardly to sit, he said, “Hello, Murray, you damnable thief. If you mean to hang me, get on with it.”

  “I do want to hang you,” Murray said.

  Feeling at a distinct disadvantage staring up at the man as he was, Wat said nonetheless tartly, “It was my right to regain my livestock and my dogs.”

  “And to whom did ye declare this right, laddie?”

  Glowering, Wat said nothing. He could gain nothing by admitting to the man who had stolen his beasts that more lawful routes did exist for recovering them.

  “As I thought,” Murray said. “Ye and your lads are nowt but common felons, but I’ve the power of the pit and the gallows, just as your father does, and I’ve my own hanging tree right outside in the bailey just waiting for ye.”

  As Wat digested the fact that Murray had recognized him, he heard a lilting female voice, more English than Scot, say, “Forgive me, my lord husband, but that young man should not sit in my presence, or in yours, come to that.”

  Murray grimaced, but the startled look he shot over his shoulder at the high table not only drew Wat’s gaze in that direction but told him that his host had forgotten the presence of the three ladies who sat there.

  To the two men who had brought Wat in, Murray said, “Help him stand, lads, and stay by him, for I’ve summat more to say. Sithee, lad, though it goes right against the grain wi’ me, I do have a proposition to make ye. If ye find it to your liking—which I doubt—ye might yet miss dangling from me tree.”

  On his feet again now, flanked by the two guards, Wat eyed Murray warily. “What is this proposition, then, that you dislike it so?”

  “Why, nobbut that ye’ll agree to take my eldest daughter there, the lady Margaret, for your wife.”

  Certain that he must have misunderstood, Wat said, “My wife?”

  “Aye, that’s it,” Murray said, nodding. “Stand up, lass,” he added with an encouraging gesture. “Let the lad have a look at ye.”

  Still stupefied, Wat gaped as one of the women got slowly to her feet.

  His first impression was that her mouth was too big and her body too thin for his taste. Moreover, had he met her in the yard, he’d have thought her a servant, because her clothing gave no indication of her father’s supposed wealth or rank.

  She was not near enough to discern the color of her eyes, but he thought they looked ordinary. Her pale, rather long, narrow face was red with embarrassment, and thanks to her coif and veil, he could not see a single strand of her hair.

  Even so, her personal appearance had little to do with his outrage.

  “You must be mad,” he said curtly to Murray.

  “D’ye mean to say ye’ve already got a wife?”

  “I do not, although my father is presently negotiating a marriage for me with a cousin of the Earl of Douglas.”

  “From what I hear o’ ye, they’ll no’ be surprised an ye pick your own wife, and ye’ll like my Meg better nor any Douglas wench,” Murray said confidently.

  The thought flashed through Wat’s mind that his host could well be rig
ht about the Douglas wench in question, since he had known Fiona since they were children and found it impossible to imagine being married to her. But his wishes did not enter into it. An alliance between the two families would serve both well.

  Pushing these swift but irrelevant thoughts aside, he said, “I may have a habit of running contrary to plans that others make for me, but that would hardly be cause to let you choose my wife, Murray.”

  “Aye, well, I was hoping ye’d say as much, for if ye willna agree to marry the lass, I can hang ye straightaway.”

  “Then do it,” Wat snapped. “I’ll not marry your daughter, whatever you may threaten. I am not afraid to die.”

  “Amen, then,” Murray said, signing to the guards before adding, “My Meg, let me tell you, is worthy of a better man than ye are. Ye’ve offended her wi’ your ingratitude, and by heaven, ye offend me the more. Take him out to the tree, lads.”

  As the guards grabbed him and began to hustle him away, Wat wrenched away from them long enough to turn back and say, “Pray, mistress, forgive me. I swear, I meant no offense to you.”

  To his amazement, she gazed steadily back at him and replied in a calm and surprisingly low-pitched, musical voice, “I took no offense from your rudeness, reiver. I have even less desire to marry you than you have to marry me.”

  Her words did more than prick his conscience. They stirred the swift, ever-ready response to challenge that had ruled much of his behavior since birth.

  It was a great pity, he thought as the guards thrust him roughly out of the hall, that he would die before he could teach the wench to appreciate him more.

  THE DISH

  Where authors give you the inside scoop!

  From the desk of Amanda Scott

  Dear Reader,

  Resolving the problems an author puts in her own path can lead to unexpected places. That’s exactly what happened when it came to providing a hero for Lady Sidony Macleod in KING OF STORMS. The youngest of eight sisters, Sidony had been a shadow child—quiet, obedient, a follower rather than a leader, becoming a woman who rarely acted on her own initiative, incapable of making decisions.

  In fact, she was the antithesis of my usual outspoken, action-oriented heroines, and, therefore, she needed a man who could ignite fire in her. So I made a list of potential heroes that included a few John Wayne characters, the Bruce Willis character from the Die Hard movies, and some others of their ilk.

  The result was Sir Giffard “Giff” MacLennan, a Scottish Knight Templar tasked with moving Scotland’s Stone of Destiny to safety in the Western Isles. Giff approaches everything (sex, life, sailing) zestfully, impulsively, and with total commitment. He makes decisions quickly, needing little fore-thought. Even his most admiring friends call him reckless, but when a thing needs doing, Giff does it, and he has no patience for anyone who questions or criticizes his judgment, let alone a dangerously beautiful woman who dares to do so.

  If his actions are occasionally abrupt, even out-rageous, so what? Tasks that others deem impossible have long provided him with activities interesting enough to keep his mind from dwelling on the reason he cares so little for his own safety.

  Nevertheless, when his cocksure world and Sidony’s placid, predictable one collide, all bets are off.

  I hope you enjoy KING OF STORMS.

  Sincerely,

  http://home.att.net/~amandascot

  From the desk of Marliss Melton

  Readers always ask me where I get ideas for my books. Sadly, the tragedy on which my story NEXT TO DIE (available now) is based on was real. But the book itself is pure fiction, founded on the following strange coincidence:

  I needed a real SEAL to edit my action scenes since I wanted them to be as true to life as possible. But where could I find a SEAL with any interest in helping out a romance author? I went to NavySEALs.com to post an inquiry and found myself staring at a picture of my hero, Joe Montgomery. There he was in all his golden-boy glory!

  Actually, it was a photo of Commander Mark Divine, co-founder of NavySEALs.com. Not only did he look just like Joe but, to my amazement, he had written a tribute to the nineteen warriors to whom my own book is dedicated. In his tribute, Mark wrote about the survivor, “What if it were me?” That single line got my mind churning.

  What if a commander had taken the place of a sick chief in order to see a critical mission succeed (and for one last thrill in the field), and the worst possible outcome occurred? Wouldn’t he blame himself for what happened? Taking off with that premise, I came up with the hero—the officer who had it all, looks, brains, and women, until one fateful decision brought him face-to-face with his shortcomings. Ironically, the woman who restores his self-confidence is his next-door neighbor—ordinary and nurturing Penelope Price. Penny, whose life is at risk for exposing her father’s murderer, is in desperate need of a hero. While struggling to rise to that challenge, Joe finds himself falling in love for the first time in his life.

  Thanks to Commander Mark Divine, I had my story idea. But that’s not all. He volunteered to read my action scenes, not just for Joe’s book but for subsequent novels. Mark Divine is professional, helpful, encouraging, and timely—serious, serious hero material—and I am so grateful that our paths collided, though they never would have if not for Danny Dietz, Michael Murphy, and James Suh, warrior angels in God’s great army.

  www.marlissmelton.com