Claimed By a Scottish Lord

by Melody Thomas

  Claimed By a Scottish Lord

  Melody Thomas

  To my gal pals past and present who have given me the gift of their knowledge and the treasure of friendship: my daughter, Shari, my mom, Faye Joann. To Marlene Carroll (thank you for all your support). Betsy Bickenbach & Lois Molidor (remember Hawaii ladies). Jeffery McClanahan & Jean Newlin (my critique partners). To my LionHearted ladies (and for the two of our courageous own who lost their lives to cancer these past years).

  Finally, to my Windy City Romance Writer family and those I have known for over ten years: Anita Baker, Elysa Hendricks, Kelle Riley, Chris Foutris, Haley Hughs, Fredericka Meiners, Dyanne Davis, Julie Wachowski, Allie Pleiter, Terri Stone, Debbie Pfeiffer, Denise Swanson, Lyndsay Longford, Cathie Linz, and Susan Elizabeth Phillips. You have all in some way touched my life and made me a better person for it. Thank you so much.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Also by Melody Thomas

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The Borders, Scotland

  Summer 1755

  Rose Lancaster jumped back from the cobbled street barely escaping being run down by the village crier mounted on a shaggy horse.

  ―Hear ye, here ye! The Black Dragon has returned! Lord Roxburghe has come home!‖

  Despite the unusual heat of the day, the streets and narrow alleyways of Castleton were filled with people as if it were an autumn country-fair day. The village‘s younger maidens and children lined the cobbled streets nearer to the square. They carried flowers, now wilted from the uncommon heat. Some had been here for hours.

  Rose stood taller than most surrounding and jostling her. Shading her eyes with a hand, she peered in the direction from where the crier had come. Her height was God‘s gift or curse, depending on the day—and the company. She glimpsed the growing wall of dust approaching the village.

  Since half of the surrounding lands around Castleton lay on the Scottish side of the border, many of the town‘s residents called themselves Scots. But in a place where skirmishes had been fought over stolen sheep and women, religion and politics since before the Roman emperor Hadrian built his infamous wall to separate England from the northern hordes, a man‘s loyalty oft depended upon who was visiting on any given day.

  Not this day.

  For as long as she remembered, she had heard grand stories about the Roxburghe heir, the Borders‘ native son, a former privateer and smuggler. Now, after a thirteen-year absence and the murder of his father, Ruark Kerr, the border lord had come home to procure his place as head of the Kerr clan.

  Though no one knew for certain what had driven him from Scotland those long years ago, everyone seemed to understand and appreciate what brought him back. Shortly after his father‘s death earlier this year, the king‘s warden arrested and imprisoned Roxburghe‘s twelve-year-old half brother. The boy had been languishing in a prison for weeks. Rose had listened all morning to speculation that Roxburghe‘s long-awaited homecoming would bring war down upon the hated English warden, a man Rose also hated since his return to England a year ago.

  But she could not think about the world‘s problems as she set her sights on a way to cross the street. Taking this main road leading through the village square had turned out to be a mistake only amplified as the crowd surged against her. If she did not make it back to the abbey before nightfall, Friar Tucker would return and discover her gone. She disliked deceiving him. Having raised her since she was three, he was dearer than her father.

  Angry for allowing herself to be trapped in the impassable human current, she clasped a collection of books to her chest and continued to shoulder her way through the press of people, feeling like a salmon fighting an upstream current. ―Pardon. I need to squeeze through. Pardon.‖

  A woman‘s voice suddenly stopped her. ―Rose, child. Whatever are you doing in Castleton? What have you there in your arms?‖

  Rose patiently smiled at the aged shopkeeper who was also the village postmaster. Silver sausage ringlets peaked out from beneath the calash of a stiff white bonnet framing her face. Rose bobbed a polite curtsey. ―Good afternoon, Mrs. Graham. I am taking these books to the abbey. Mrs. Simpson found them in her husband‘s collection and loaned them to me.‖

  Mrs. Graham‘s ample bosom rose and pressed against a red apron. ―Och, child. I have never known a person what spent more time with books than you do. You need to find yerself a man and settle down. Now, me Geddes is a strappin‘ lad and will inherit my shop one day.‖

  Geddes Graham was also a malefactor whose loyalty to any cause could be bought for a stipend. Rose peered at the quaint little boutique over the elder‘s shoulder, its bric-a-brac decorating the brightly painted shelves behind the large window recently installed. She wondered sadly how a kind woman like Mrs. Graham could birth a weasel like Geddes. Rose‘s longing for a family was a subject she rarely broached with anyone, but she had bigger dreams than to live out her life with any man she did not love or who did not love her in return.

  ―Thank you, Mrs. Graham.‖ She kissed the woman‘s cheek. ―If I should wed, I could not want for a better mother-in-law than someone like you.‖

  The matron pressed a palm to her cheek and blushed. ―Pish-posh, child.‖ She giggled and pulled a folded missive from her pocket, sealed with a wafer impressed with a cross and a sword, Friar Tucker‘s signet. ―This came for the abbey this morning,‖ she said over the low din. ―Jack has no‘ been by to fetch the mail.‖

  Rose shifted the books in her arms and popped the wax seal. With the abbey‘s prioress nearly blind, Rose managed the daily business and correspondence for Sister Nessa. ―Jack is with me.‖ She skimmed the page.

  Friar Tucker had gone to Redesdale some days ago to attend the funeral of an uncle. Now something of utmost importance took him to Carlisle. He would return by the end of the month. A postscript read that they were not to worry.

  Why would he say that? The very dictate caused apprehension. Why would he go to Carlisle? ―Thank you, Mrs. Graham.‖

  She started to turn when a shout from farther up the road brought the crowd to life.

  As if it were one beast, the throng seemed to awaken and move, dragging Rose forward. Until now, she had kept her fiery hair hidden beneath its purple-and-green plaid wrap that even though it did not complement her simple yellow dress she cherished all the same. It was all she had left of a mother she remembered only in vignettes. Clutching the books in her arms, she struggled to pull her scarf tighter around her shoulders, afraid it would be torn from her and crushed beneath careless feet.

  The ground beneath Rose began to rumble. An overpowering curiosity captured her and caused her to remain and watch the procession through town.

  ―Roxburghe always was a wild one,‖ Mrs. Graham said, clearly relishing the delicious horror of it all, while craning her short neck to see over the crowd. ―We were surprised ‘e didn‘t end up at the bottom of the sea or hanged from the gallows, him leaving the way he did those years ago. Now they say he‘s here to exact revenge on t
he warden for holding Roxburghe‘s brother for ransom. Hereford will start a war over that lad. Roxburghe is no‘ a man to sit back and do anyone‘s bidding.‖ Mrs Graham leaned nearer. ―Lord love us, Rose,‖ she shouted above the growing din. ―Do ye see him yet?‖

  Rose‘s gaze riveted to the summit as two dozen horsemen poured into the crowded marketplace at a full gallop. Briefly silhouetted against a turbulent afternoon sky, neither men nor horses showed any sign of slowing for the eager crowd that suddenly silenced and parted like the great Red Sea.

  ―There he be!‖ a man yelled from the rooftop behind her.

  The earl of Roxburghe, distinguishable by his dark blue jacket, sat atop a red Irish hunter, riding at the head of his men. Even as she found herself holding her breath, watching as he drew nearer, Rose did not know if she should admire the Black Dragon or fear him. But for the first time in her life, her heartbeat quickened at the sight of a man. And unlike the dragons of old made up of only myth and legend, this one was real.

  He was tall with strong shoulders. Unlike most men of his rank, he wore no wig. His hair was nearly black and queued at his nape. A wide leather belt with two ivory-handled pistols tucked inside cinched his jacket but did not hide the patterned crimson-and-hunter-green waistcoat beneath. Unshaven and hatless, his leather trews and spurred boots dulled by dust, he looked like the freebooter some claimed him to be, the same man who‘d made his name and fortune as an infamous privateer—a quintessential predator.

  People living on the borderlands did not readily give their loyalty. But she knew most of Castleton and the surrounding farms would not have survived last winter if not for the extra goods Friar Tucker had got his hands on because of Roxburghe‘s efforts.

  The thunder of horses‘ hooves grew deafening. Then the Roxburghe laird was rumbling past her, followed closely by his armed retainers, the draft of their passing catching her hair and skirts in a whirlwind of dust and debris. Beside Rose, a young woman pressed her palms to her ears against the din and laughed aloud, her voice carried upward like a bright red pennant in the wind. The pandemonium seemed to go on forever, until amid the fading metallic clang of bridles and spurs and the ringing in her ears, someone behind her shouted, ―Godspeed, Ruark.‖ A round of ―ayes‖ followed the pronouncement.

  Lord Roxburghe had not so much as slowed.

  If Rose hadn‘t been so sure she‘d have been trampled to dust, she would have leapt into the street and forced him to stop just so he would at least acknowledge the little girls who carried the flowers for him. But the riders were already passing through the square and moving away from the village before she could catch her breath and still the strange fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

  A hush crawled through the crowd, broken only by an occasional cough as dust settled over them.

  ―Must be in a hurry,‖ the bearded blacksmith behind Rose said.

  ―Would no‘ you be?‖ another shouted from across the street. ―Hereford will pay for taking the laird‘s brother to be sure.‖

  The Honorable Macfayden, Castleton‘s burly mayor, cleared his throat. In his official capacity as village spokesman and advocate of good causes he pronounced, ― ‘Tis good the new Kerr laird has returned. The English warden will have his hands full. Maybe he‘ll be leavin‘ the rest of us alone now.‖

  ―Hear, hear!‖ Enthusiasm mounted and a call to celebrate all future success for the Roxburghe heir rang out.

  ―To the Boar‘s Inn, men!‖ The battle cry sounded.

  Restored to their previous vigor, the crowd began to disperse. But watching the townspeople lumber away, Rose felt only disappointment that their returning hero had lacked the courtesy to acknowledge those lining the streets to pay him homage.

  ―His lordship is bound to pass near Hope Abbey to get to the river crossing,‖ Mrs. Graham said from beside her, peering at the sky. ―If it rains, he may seek shelter.‖

  Startled at the unpleasant notion, Rose lifted her gaze to the darker clouds roiling on the horizon. ‘Twas not uncommon that travelers stopped at Hope Abbey for food and rest. With Friar Tucker absent and Rose away from the abbey, Sister Nessa would panic.

  Rose bid Mrs. Graham farewell and escaped down a backstreet that followed the turnip fields to the stable. Viewing the open road beyond, relieved to see only remnants of a lingering dust cloud where the Black Dragon had been, Rose was confident that he would be across the river by the time the storm broke.

  “ ’Tis a strained tendon.‖ Ruark rubbed his palm gingerly along the stallion‘s foreleg.

  ―This horse is not traveling farther or I risk permanently damaging him.‖

  His ship‘s former second in command, Bryce Colum, knelt beside him. ―A week or two at least,‖ he concurred. ―Bloody hell.‖

  Ruark peered up at the sky. Amber tinged the red sky just in front of the storm that had been following them for the five miles since leaving the village. The wind in the trees had picked up considerably in the last fifteen minutes. ―Hope Abbey is just beyond the woods,‖ Ruark said.

  ―They have a stable. I know the prior.‖

  Most of his men sat around eating while talking in low tones. The pace he had driven them these days had allowed little time for food or rest. Like him, each of them had a lawless quality about him. He looked back over the road they‘d just traveled, then scanned the surrounding area. ―Take all but four men and go north to Stonehaven. Leave one of the packhorses,‖ he said.

  Colum rose. He was not as tall as Ruark. With Ruark standing five inches over six feet, few men were. ―Hereford‘s men are probably watching the road,‖ Colum said. I will remain with the stallion. He‘s a fine horse—‖

  ―Worth killing for? I want anyone watching this road to see this pack crossing the bridge. No purpose will be served if the warden‘s men learn any of us has been here. Give me your jacket.‖

  Colum ran an impatient hand through his hair. He slipped out of his jacket and took Ruark‘s. ―You would leave that stallion to Hereford‘s men?‖

  The question triggered an arched brow and the barest hint of a grin. ―I am disappointed in your lack of faith in me,‖ Ruark said, as he shoved his arms into the sleeves of Colum‘s jacket, testing the fit. ―There is nothing Hereford can take from me that I will not eventually reclaim. But I would rather lose a horse than give our good warden a reason to hang you as well. Besides, I have another reason to stay. Take the men and go now. I will be a day behind you.‖

  Colum ordered all but four men to mount and ride. Amid the near silent commotion, another man approached carrying coffee. ―Here ye be,‖ McBain said. ―Thought ye might enjoy a refresher even on a blistering day like this.‖

  ―Thank you.‖ Ruark took a swallow of the coffee and smiled inwardly for it was blacker than hell, the way no one but McBain could brew it. Powerful and unforgiving. The way Ruark had come to appreciate the world since his years at sea had driven the softness from his life.

  He fixed his eyes on the rolling hills. McBain followed his gaze, scrubbing his hand across his bewhiskered face. ―It‘s been a long time. A bluidy long time.‖

  ―Not long enough,‖ Ruark said, reflecting McBain‘s reservations aloud.

  ―Do ye think there‘s truth to the rumor that Hereford‘s daughter is alive?‖

  ―Aye, maybe,‖ Ruark said as he motioned for the remaining men to mount and drank the last of the coffee.

  Ruark had not been home in almost thirteen years and he had no idea whom he could trust. But Friar Tucker was one of the few men he knew was not in Hereford‘s deep pockets. Ruark never understood the source of Tucker‘s bitter sentiments against Lord Hereford, but he hoped they would serve to ally Ruark and Tucker now against a common foe. If anyone knew the truth of the gossip, ‘twould be Tucker.

  ―If there is a daughter,‖ Ruark said, ―I doubt Tucker would appreciate what I have in mind for the girl.‖

  He had never used another man‘s family to exact retribution, finding the practice repulsive. But watchin
g Colum and the men disappear over the rise, he found himself dwelling on his father‘s second son. Jamie was a half brother Ruark had never met and knew not, except by the packet of letters he had found awaiting him one year when he had brought the Black Dragon into Workington for a refitting. The lad had been only nine at the time and had introduced himself through the writings. For the first time since Ruark had left Scotland, a member of his family had attempted to communicate with him. Ruark had spent that evening reading the letters and every six months afterward for three years, he had sailed into Workington just for those letters.