by Amanda Scott
RAVES FOR THE NOVELS OF
AMANDA SCOTT
SEDUCED BY A ROGUE
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Tautly written… passionate… Scott’s wonderful book is steeped in Scottish Border history and populated by characters who jump off the pages and grab your attention… Captivating!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Another great Scottish medieval romance… Filled with fourteenth-century history, the story line is fast-paced from the moment Mairi and Rob meet and never slows down.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Another excellent novel from Amanda Scott, who just keeps producing one fine story after another.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Readers fascinated with history… will love Ms. Scott’s newest tale… Political intrigue adds a level of tension to this wonderful Scottish romance… leaves readers clamoring for the story of Mairi’s sister in TEMPTED BY A WARRIOR.”
—FreshFiction.com
TAMED BY A LAIRD
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Scott has crafted another phenomenal story. The characters jump off the page and the politics and treachery inherent in the plot suck you into life on the Borders from page one. This is the finest in historical romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Remarkable… Soars with intrigue, exciting characters, and a wonderful setting.”
—MyShelf.com
“[Scott] instills life and passion in her memorable characters… Few writers have come close to equaling her highly creative and entertaining stories.”
—ClanMalcolm.com
“Fascinating… fourteenth-century Scotland’s rich history comes alive in this romantic novel full of intrigue.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Scott creates a lovely, complex cast… and has a deft touch with thorny period language.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A delightful story filled with romance, passion, humor, and intrigue… Scott makes Scotland come alive.”
—RomanceNovel.tv
“Fast-paced… A super Scottish medieval romance starring two terrific lead characters and a strong support cast who bring out the essence of the era of the main players.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Scott is able to make settings and history come to life… for a read brightened by suspense, wit, and love, Tamed by a Laird is a great choice.”
—RomRevToday.com
BORDER MOONLIGHT
“Features Scott’s trademarks: strong-willed women and warrior men, mystery and intrigue, dashes of humor and wit, deep characterization, complex plots, and, above all, historical and geographic accuracy in the days of ancient Scotland.”
—Sacramento Bee
“Fast-paced… An exciting Border romance with plenty of action… A terrific historical gender war.”
—Midwest Book Review
“It was hard to put this one down… A pleasure to read.”
—ReadingRomanceBooks.com
BORDER LASS
“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots… Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of medieval Scotland.”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Readers will be thrilled… a tautly written, deeply emotional love story steeped in the rich history of the Borders.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Scott excels in creating memorable characters.”
—FreshFiction.com
BORDER WEDDING
“5 Stars! Scott has possibly written the best historical in ages!”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Not only do her characters leap off the pages, the historical events do too. This is more than entertainment and romance; this is historical romance as it was meant to be.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Wonderful… full of adventure and history.”
—Midwest Book Review
KING OF STORMS
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel… with a lively love story.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A terrific tale… Rich in history and romance, fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enchanting… a thrilling adventure… a must read… King of Storms is a page-turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart.”
—FreshFiction.com
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—NovelTalk.com
HIGHLAND PRINCESS
“Delightful historical… Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA SCOTT
SEDUCED BY A ROGUE
TAMED BY A LAIRD
BORDER MOONLIGHT
BORDER LASS
BORDER WEDDING
KING OF STORMS
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
LADY’S CHOICE
PRINCE OF DANGER
LORD OF THE ISLES
HIGHLAND PRINCESS
THE SECRET CLAN: REIVER’S BRIDE
THE SECRET CLAN: HIGHLAND BRIDE
THE SECRET CLAN: HIDDEN HEIRESS
THE SECRET CLAN: ABDUCTED HEIRESS
BORDER FIRE
BORDER STORM
BORDER BRIDE
HIGHLAND FLING
HIGHLAND SECRETS
HIGHLAND TREASURE
HIGHLAND SPIRITS
THE BAWDY BRIDE
DANGEROUS ILLUSIONS
DANGEROUS ANGELS
DANGEROUS GAMES
DANGEROUS LADY
THE ROSE AT TWILIGHT
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Lynne Scott-Drennan
Excerpt from Highlands Trilogy copyright © 2010 Lynne Scott-Drennan
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: July 2010
ISBN: 978-0-446-56891-3
Contents
Copyright
Raves for the Novels of Amanda Scott
Other Books by Amanda Scott
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
A Preview of Amanda Scott's
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Chapter 1
The Dish
To You, Fearless Reader, with many thanks and the fond hope that, for a short time, this book will transport you happily to another time and place.
Author’s Note
For the reader’s convenience, the author offers the following aids:
Cleuch = CLOO, a ravine, gorge
Dobby = having spikes, prickly
“the Douglas” = the Earl of Douglas only
Dunwythie Hall = “the Hall,” the fortified house at Dunwythie Mains
Low tide, or low water = the farthest ebb of a tide
Mains = the primary seat of a lord (from “demesne”) as in Dunwythie Mains
Nithsdale = NEETHS-dale
Rig = ridge (Riggshead = a joining of ridges)
The Sands = Solway Sands (a twenty-mile stretch of sand from head of the Firth to the mouth of the river Nith, which occurs when a spring tide ebbs)
Spring tide = tide occurring at or shortly after the new or full moon, resulting in maximum rise (and ebb), occurs twice a month
Prologue
Annandale, Scotland, 5 June 1377
His first slap made her left ear ring.
“Now see what ye’ve made me do!” he shouted over the rush and roar of the river below. A half-moon lit the grassy track and revealed white foam on the water.
Holding a hand to her stinging cheek, seventeen-year-old Fiona Jardine scowled at the tall, powerful-looking man who had struck her and said stubbornly, “Clouting me won’t change the truth, Will Jardine. It was your fault, not mine!”
He loomed over her, terrifying in his fury. “By God,” he snapped, putting the face she had once thought so handsome close to hers, “ye’ll no talk to me like that!”
“You’re ape-drunk,” she said. In the crisp night air, she could smell the whisky on him, so powerful that it made her dizzy just to inhale its fumes.
When he drew back his hand to slap her again, she tried to get away, to protect herself. But his left hand shot out then, and with bruising strength, he caught her by an arm and whipped her back to face him.
“Let me go!” she shrieked. But he did not let go, and he was one of the strongest men she knew.
“Aye, I’ll let ye go. After I’ve taught ye a lesson.”
Struggling frantically and screaming with fear as she tried to break free, she managed to duck the next slap, only to suffer a backhanded blow instead that made her right ear throb with pain.
Before she could catch her breath, he hit her again, a hard smack of his calloused palm right across her mouth. Had he not held her upright, she would have fallen. As it was, she tasted blood and feared that he had loosened a tooth.
He laughed. “Ye should ken fine by now, lass, that what I say, I mean.”
His next blow flew at her belly, but by twisting hard, she took it instead on her side just above her waist. Gasping at a pain so sharp that it took her breath away, she continued to fight him anyway, out of pure terror. But the pain was overwhelming, her strength fast waning, and his next blow sent her reeling to the ground.
Her head struck something hard. Blearily, she saw him step toward her.
Then, looming above her, he drew back his foot.
Through the stunning ache in her head, distantly, she heard him say, “Mayhap, now, ye’ll remember to keep your place, madam wife.”
After that, she knew nothing more.
Chapter 1
Spedlins Tower, Annandale, 20 June 1377
The leather-clad, booted traveler approaching the open kitchen doorway on the pebbled path running behind Spedlins Tower paused at hearing a soft feminine voice inside:
“‘I expect I should be spinning, too, aye,’ the maiden said sadly. ‘But it would be t’ nae purpose. I could never finish so great a task in time.’”
The traveler took a step closer as the voice went on, creaking now with age, “‘Och, but I could spin it all for ye, aye,’ the old woman said.”
“Gey good o’ the auld crone!” cried several childish voices, as if they had many times heard the story and exclaimed always at the same place.
The traveler smiled, recognizing the tale from his own childhood. He moved nearer, trying to muffle the sounds that his boots made on the pebbles of the path.
He saw the speaker then, seated on the stone floor of the scullery with her back to him. Six fascinated children of various ages sat in a semicircle before her.
Beyond, in the dim, vaulted kitchen, the traveler discerned bustling movement and heard sounds indicative of preparations for the midday meal.
The storyteller went on in a soft, clear voice—doubtless her own, “So the maiden ran to fetch her lint and laid it in her new friend’s hand. Then she asked the old woman for her name and where she should call that evening for the spun yarn.”
One child, a dark lad of perhaps eight or nine, looked right at the traveler.
The man put a finger to his lips.
Although the boy obediently kept silent, he continued to stare.
The storyteller continued, “But the maiden received no reply, for the old woman had vanished from where she stood. The lassie looked long for her until at last she became so tired that she lay down to rest.”
Three of the children eyed him now as a fourth, the smallest lass—blue-eyed with curly auburn hair—piped up, “Aye, and when she awoke, it was gey dark!”
“So it was, Tippy,” the storyteller agreed. “The evening star was shining down, and as the maiden watched the moon rise, a rough voice startled her from—”
“Who is he?” the same small lassie demanded, pointing at the traveler.
The storyteller, turning, started and winced as she saw him. She began awkwardly to get to her feet, saying, “Good sakes, wherever did you spring from?”
He noted first that she had black hair and light blue eyes, and was stunningly beautiful, with delicate features, rosy cheeks, and plump, creamy breasts, their softness rising above the low neckline of her loose, blue kirtle. As she straightened, he saw with a surge of unexpected disappointment that she was heavy with child.
“Forgive me for interrupting you, mistress,” he said. “They told me at the stable that I should come this way as it was quicker, and none would mind. But if you will bid someone take me to Old Jardine, I shall leave you to finish your tale.”
“This is a good place to stop for a time,” she said, raising a hand to the short veil she wore over her long, shiny, thick plaits, as if to be sure the veil was properly in place. “I can easily finish the story later.”
To a chorus of indignant protests, she replied firmly, “Nay, then, you must all go now to Cook and ask how you can help him. Davy, you and Kate take care to see that the wee ones know what they must do.”
“Aye, we will,” the largest of the three lassies said. The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy who had first noted the stranger nodded his agreement, still eyeing him.
As the children scrambled to obey her, the young woman turned her lovely eyes to the stranger again, adding, “Surely, someone must have told you that Jardine of Applegarth lies on his deathbed and refuses to see anyone.”
“He will see me,” the traveler said confidently, noting that the dark rims of her irises made them look transparent, as if one might see right through to her thoughts.
“Mercy, why should he see you? Have you no respect for a dying man?”
“I doubt that the old fustilugs is really dying. But he will see me nevertheless, because he sent for me. Sithee, I am his heir.”
Instead of the hasty apology he had every right to expect from a servant who had spoken so pertly to him, she stiffened, saying, “You must have taken that notion from a tale of the same sort that I’ve just been telling the bairns.”
His temper stirring, he said, “Mind your tongue, lass, lest—”
“Why should I? Do you dislike being told you are wrong?” she asked. “For so you are if you claim to be heir to Old Jardine’s estates.”
Do
ubt stirred. No servant of the old man’s would dare speak so boldly.
Despite their kinship, he barely knew Jardine. But if even half of what he had heard about the contentious old scoundrel was true, Jardine’s minions would tread lightly and with great care—especially when speaking to another nobleman.
“Who are you, lass?” he asked.
She gently touched her belly. “I am his heir’s mother, or mayhap his heir’s wife. Whichever it may be,” she added, squaring her shoulders and giving him look for look, “I can tell you without hesitation that you are not his heir.”
Stunned, he realized that Old Jardine’s lie came as no surprise to him. He had suspected some deception but only in that he doubted the old man was really dying. Ruthlessly stifling the unexpected anger that leaped in response to her near disdain, he said, “I expect, then, that you must be Will Jardine’s wife.”
“Aye, of course, I am—or his widow,” she added. “But who are you?”
“Kirkhill,” he said.
She frowned. “Should I know you? Is that all anyone ever calls you?”
“People call me several different things. Some call me Seyton of Kirkhill. But most folks hereabouts know me as Kirkhill. My family has lived in upper Annandale for two centuries. However, as I am Will’s cousin, you and I are clearly kin by marriage, so you may call me Richard if you like, or Dickon.”
