by Amanda Scott
“4½ stars! The last of the Scottish Knights trilogy is Scott’s reward to her fans. The exquisite, yet subtle portrayal of her characters, coupled with their budding romance, hastens the reader’s emotional involvement with the novel. Excellent melding of historical events and people into the sensuous love story greatly enhances an excellent read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With multiple dangers, intrigues to unravel, daring rescues, and a growing attraction between Jake and Alyson, Highland Lover offers hours of enjoyment.”
—RomRevtoday.com
“A rollicking tale… will grab your attention from the very beginning… Ms. Scott’s unique storytelling ability brings history to life right before your eyes… Adventure on the high seas, passion, treachery, pirates, danger, visions, suspense, history, humor, and romance run rampant in this exciting, swashbuckling tale. If you are looking for a great Scottish romance, look no further than Amanda Scott!”
—RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“The latest Scottish Knights romance is a wonderful early fifteenth century swashbuckling adventure. As always with an Amanda Scott historical, real events are critical elements in the exciting storyline. With a superb twist to add to the fun, readers will appreciate this super saga.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
HIGHLAND HERO
“4½ stars! Scott’s story is a tautly written, fast-paced tale of political intrigue and treachery that’s beautifully interwoven with history. Strong characters with deep emotions and a high degree of sensuality make this a story to relish.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[A] well-written and a really enjoyable read. It’s one of my favorite types of historical—it’s set in medieval times and interwoven with actual historical figures. Without a doubt, Amanda Scott knows her history… If you enjoy a rich historical romance set in the Highlands, this is a book to savor.”
—NightOwlRomance.com
“[A] gifted author… a fast-paced, passion-filled historical romance that kept me so engrossed I stayed up all night to finish it. The settings are so realistic that the story is brought to life right before your eyes…”
—RomanceJunkiesReview.com
HIGHLAND MASTER
“Scott, known and respected for her Scottish tales, has once again written a gripping romance that seamlessly interweaves history, a complex plot, and strong characters with deep emotions and a high degree of sensuality.”
—RT Reviews
“Ms. Scott is a master of the Scottish romance. Her heroes are strong men with an admirable honor code. Her heroines are strong-willed… This was an entertaining romance with enjoyable characters. Recommended.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Deliciously sexy… a rare treat of a read… Highland Master is an entertaining adventure for lovers of historical romance.”
—RomanceJunkies.com
“Hot… There’s plenty of action and adventure… Amanda Scott has an excellent command of the history of medieval Scotland—she knows her clan battles and border wars, and she’s not afraid to use detail to add realism to her story.”
—All About Romance
TEMPTED BY A WARRIOR
“4½ stars! Top Pick! Scott demonstrates her incredible skills by crafting an exciting story replete with adventure and realistic, passionate characters who reach out and grab you… Historical romance doesn’t get much better than this!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Captivates the reader from the first page… Another brilliant story filled with romance and intrigue that will leave readers thrilled until the very end.”
—SingleTitles.com
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
“Readers fascinated with history… will love Ms. Scott’s newest tale… 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.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Scott creates a lovely, complex cast.”
—Publishers Weekly
Lady Muriella MacFarlan has sworn she’ll never submit to a husband.
Rugged warrior Robert MacAulay has vowed never to take a wife.
But when a twist of fate unites the two against a common enemy, they will discover a passion that will change their futures forever…
Turn this page for a preview of
The Warrior’s Bride.
Chapter 1
Tùr Meiloach, Scottish Highlands, 1426
The boy stood perfectly still as he scanned the high granite cliffs to the east and the barren rocky slopes below them for signs of the deer he had been stalking since dawn. Standing as he was at the edge of the woods, he knew that his dust-brown tunic and cap blended with the woodland foliage, making him invisible to man or beast above, had there been any moving creatures to see.
He saw no movement on the slope, only five or six hawks circling above.
His quarry had vanished without making a sound.
Bow in hand, his quiverful of arrows slung over one still-thin shoulder, the boy reminded himself to be patient. The deer had come this way.
Behind him, stretching westward to the Loch of the Long Boats, lay his master, the laird’s, land of Tùr Meiloach and the tower of that name where the laird’s family lived. The name meant a wee tower guarded by giants, but the boy did not think the tower wee at all. It was five stories tall and large enough to need two stairways. However, if real giants did guard it, perhaps they considered it wee.
Not that he had ever seen any giants, for he had not. But the lady Muriella MacFarlan told stories about them, and if she said they were real, it must be so. Forbye, others told similar tales about Tùr Meiloach’s land—many, many such tales. Even the laird said that the land was sacred and protected its own.
A distant, barely discernible rattle of stones drew the boy’s attention upward to the northeast again, to movement in a scree-filled declivity there. It was not his deer scrambling up the slope, though. Deer did not dress themselves in pink kirtles.
“What the deevil be that pawky lass up tae now?” he muttered, unconsciously echoing a frequent question of his favorite person at Tùr Meiloach.
Sir Magnus Galbraith-MacFarlan, husband to the lady Muriella’s eldest sister, the lady Andrena, enjoyed the godlike traits of immense size—nearly large enough to qualify as one of Tùr Meiloach’s guardian giants—a heroic repute for great deeds, and the equally godlike habit of swift retribution to ill-doers, large or small. Sir Mag was a warrior exactly like the boy hoped to be, if his shoulders ever grew any muscle and he grew a bit taller… well, more than a bit, then.
“She has nae good cause tae be there,” he told himself. “What’s more, the laird tellt her she were never tae venture near yon pass. I heard him m’self.”
Just as he was about to leave the shelter of the woods to follow her, his peripheral vision caught more movement above but southward, to his right. A man, a stranger, stepped briefly into sight from behind one boulder and vanished behind another one the size of a small cottage. Despite the loose scree that the lad could see up there, the man made no sound. Nor did the gray wolflike dog that followed him.
Alarmed now, because strangers were rarities on Tùr Meiloach land—most offlanders respecting tales they had heard of its ground opening to swallow whole armies and such—the boy hesitated where he stood. He had seen strange things occur himself, but the land held no terrors for him. He belonged.
Looking northward again, toward the lady Muriella—for the figure in pink was certai
nly she—the boy stiffened, his alarm surging to fear. Another figure had appeared above her and was slinking from boulder to boulder toward her.
Although she seemed unaware of both men, it occurred to the boy that she might have slipped out to meet one or the other of them. Some lassies did that sort of thing now and now, he knew.
He soon dismissed that thought, though, because even he knew that Lady Muriella had little use for men. She cared only for her storytelling and assured anyone who would listen that she would one day be a seanachie, charged with passing the tales of Scotland’s history and folklore on to future generations. Most of the seanachies he had seen were men, but her ladyship said she would be one, and he believed her.
The man above her now was much closer to her than the one to the south. Moreover the chap above her was behaving in a way that suggested he had even less business showing himself on that part of the ridge than her ladyship did.
Frowning, eyeing the man with distrust while making his way toward them, the boy realized that the man’s plaid was familiar. So, too, were his dark hair and the arrogant way he stood now, feet spread and his hands on his hips, watching her ladyship, as much as daring her to look up and see him.
All of these traits were familiar to the boy.
“That be the wicked Dougal,” he murmured, walking faster. He took only a few steps, though, before he realized the futility of haste. Her ladyship was too far away for him to do aught if Dougal meant mischief to her, as likely he did.
Thinking fast, he put two fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. When she looked back and he was sure she had seen him, he shifted the strung bow to his forearm, cupped his mouth with both hands, and, spacing his words, shouted, “Lady Murie… the laird… wants ye! He says… come… straightaway!”
She hesitated, and the man above her stepped out of sight again.
Looking southward, the boy saw that the stranger stood in plain sight now, looking right at him. He was a big chap, not as big as Sir Mag, to be sure, but big enough to make the boy wonder again if he was friend or foe. He wore no plaid, just leather breeks, boots, and a leather jack over a tan shirt. The boy saw that the man carried a bow and had a sword in its sling across his back, so he might be a warrior, or posing as one. The boy was something of a cynic about such things. He had seen much in his thirteen and a half years.
Looking back toward Lady Muriella, he saw that she looked displeased, but at least she was coming toward him.
The man above her was still there, too, for he was moving again. But Dougal—if it was indeed he—was heading toward the pass, and the hawks were circling lower as if to urge him on his way. So that was all right.
The boy strode to meet her ladyship and saw as they drew closer together that he had underestimated the extent of her displeasure.
He tugged off his knitted cap, freeing his unruly red hair.
“What are you doing up here, Pluff?” Lady Muriella demanded as soon as she was near enough to do so without shouting. “You should be minding the dogs and helping MacNur with the beasts.”
“I did me chores earlier, m’lady. I saw deer tracks again and thought I’d bring home some venison. Did ye no see the man above ye in yon rocks?”
“I suspected that someone was up there, because of the hawks. Who is it?”
“In troth, there was two o’ them,” Pluff said. “One o’ them were just yonder,” he added, pointing to where he had last seen the stranger. “But the one up above ye, ’less I be mistaken, were that villain Dougal MacPharlain.”
“How would you know Dougal MacPharlain?” she asked.
“I seen him last year when he come here wi’ all his impertinence tae beg for the lady Lina’s hand on the same day she married Sir Ian,” Pluff said. “I’d seen Dougal afore then, too, though, now and now,” he added glibly.
“Had you? Well, Dougal MacPharlain has no business to be on our side of the pass, and so I would have told him had he dared to approach me.”
Pluff opened his mouth to remind her that Dougal was no gentleman but remembered in time that it was not his place to be reminding her of anything.
She said, “Why does the laird want me? Do you know?”
Much as Pluff would have liked to make up a story to tell her, he knew that if he did, he would soon find himself in the suds. So, bracing himself, he said, “I only said that tae turn ye away from that Dougal. Ye’ll recall that he took the lady Lina captive none so long ago, wi’ your friend the lady Lizzie Galbraith. I didna want that tae happen tae ye. He’s a gey wicked chappie, is Dougal.”
“He may be, aye, but I can take care of myself,” her ladyship said tartly. “And if my father does not want me, I have things to do.”
“Ye’ll no be a-going back tae that pass, will ye?” Pluff demanded daringly.
That his words instantly infuriated her was obvious to one of Pluff’s experience, but before she could voice her fury, a deep male voice behind them startled them both by saying firmly, “She will not.”
Muriella whirled to face the man who had spoken and stopped with her mouth agape when she saw him standing in the forest shadows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked as darkly tanned as if he had spent his life out of doors.
She could see that his hair was thick, shoulder length, wavy, and the light brown of walnut shells. His features were barely discernible under the shadowy trees, but there was something familiar about him even so. Frowning, she said, “I know you, do I not?”
“We have met, aye,” he said evenly.
Her memory was excellent. Most people thought it was infallible, because she never forgot what anyone told her. But if her memory had a weakness, it was for faces. She could accurately draw those that interested her and people she knew well, but she did not remember every person she had seen or met.
His voice—liquid smooth, deeply vibrant, and musical to the ear—plucked a memory chord. As if he knew she was studying him, he stepped into the sunlight, where his hair turned from walnut brown to golden brown with sunny highlights.
However, when he stepped even closer, his eyes drew her attention, because in the stronger light, she saw that they were the soft green of forest ferns wherever the sun touched them. They were set deep beneath dark brown, slightly arched eyebrows, and their lids boasted long, thick, black lashes. They were, in fact, extraordinary enough to fill the gap in her memory.
Her first impulse was to tell him that she remembered exactly who he was. But, realizing from his silence that he did not mean to identify himself, although courtesy demanded that he do so, a second, more mischievous impulse stirred to see what he would do if she prodded him a bit.
Accordingly, she said lightly, “I do not know why you should think you have the right to make decisions for me when you stand uninvited on my father’s land. Men have died for trespassing so.”
“My business here is none of yours, lass. I spoke only to prevent you from making the grave mistake of confronting Dougal MacPharlain. Not,” he added dryly, “that I think he would have lingered much longer after seeing me.”
“He saw you?”
“Aye, sure, for I let him see me whilst you descended to speak to this lad. Not until I saw that Dougal was hastily departing did I come down here myself.”
“I doubt that Dougal took fright merely from seeing another man on that hillside,” she said, cocking her head to watch for his reaction to that statement.
He revealed no reaction at all. However, he easily held her gaze as he said, “Mayhap he does not. But I’d wager he was merely indulging his curiosity and would have ventured no farther down that slope had your presence not enticed him to do so.” Gently, he added, “Do you often engage strangers in conversation, lass?”
“I would remind you that you inflicted your presence upon us,” she said. “Sakes, you spoke to us first, so I did not begin this conversation.”
The green eyes narrowed, and Muriella was just congratulating herself on getting a rise from him when Pluff sai
d, “What did ye do wi’ your dog, sir?”
The green eyes held hers for a moment longer before the man turned to him and said, “She is yonder, lad. Would you like to meet her?”
“Aye, sure, if she’s friendly.”
“She is whatever I tell her to be,” the man said, giving a snap of his fingers.
To Muriella’s astonishment, an animal that looked more like a wolf than a dog emerged from the shrubbery and moved gracefully to stand before the man.
“Coo,” Pluff said. “Are ye sure she’s just a dog, sir?”
“I’m sure,” the man said. “I cannot speak so surely of her ancestors, though.”
“What d’ye call her?”
“Scàthach.”
Muriella’s eyebrows rose. “You named a dog descended from wolves after the most famous of the Celtic warrior queens?”
His lips twitched as if he were suppressing a smile. “I’d forgotten that you are the one interested in history and fairy tales.”
“The one?” Muriella fought down her irritation. He made her sound like some oddity of nature.
Rob MacAulay easily conquered his amusement. The Lady Muriella had matured in the year since he had last seen her and was more beautiful than ever, even with her fine flaxen hair in untidy loose plaits and her skirts kilted up to reveal that her shapely lower legs and bare feet were mud-spattered. He had not recognized her when he had first seen her that morning and had followed her only because he thought it reckless for any young lass to be wandering alone on such unpredictable terrain.
In truth, she would make some man an enviable wife one day. If he had the slightest inclination to assume the burden of a wife, he might be interested himself, although she would present a challenge for any man who tried to domesticate her. It was no business of his, though. The only thing that concerned him was that she was either unaware of the danger she had been in or dangerously indifferent to it.
Speaking as evenly as he had from the start, he said, “I seem to have offended you. That was not my intent. People do speak of the MacFarlan sisters, though, and when they mention you, they talk of your fine memory and your love of folklore and tales of Scotland’s heroes. Forbye, since you have such a good memory, I suspect that you remember me quite well, do you not?”
