The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2)
Page 1
Table of Contents
THE GOLDEN ROSE OF SCOTLAND
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Table of Contents
THE GOLDEN ROSE OF SCOTLAND
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
THE GOLDEN ROSE OF SCOTLAND
Book II Of The Ladies Of Lore Series
MARISA DILLON
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE GOLDEN ROSE OF SCOTLAND
Copyright©2017
MARISA DILLON
Cover Design by Syneca Featherstone
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-551-6
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my husband, Jim.
All other heroes pale in comparison.
Acknowledgements
The author thanks:
The professionals: Senior Editor and Publisher Debby Gilbert; author and mentor Terri Valentine; and authors Violetta Rand and Karin Shah, who lit the path to publication.
My family: sons Jamie and Zach, who are my best creations and who support me in so many ways; my parents Alf and Celia Hansen, who took me all over the world as a young girl, influencing my storytelling today; my brother Eric, writer and author; my supportive sister Carina; my Aunt Linda, the ultimate beta reader; and my husband, the best surrogate critique partner ever.
My friends and neighbors: so many to thank who helped me through a very difficult time while this book was written, but particularly Robin Michaels, who provides the best emotional and promotional support; Melissa Johnson, whose counsel is invaluable; Cairo Mama, who is the best dance sister ever; and my advisor Jeff Bruce, whose guidance is essential.
Without all of their support, this book would not exist.
Chapter 1
Berwick-upon-Tweed, England
1486
“Damn the English!” Lady Rosalyn burst out. Swearing caused her trouble, but she refused to curb her tongue if the situation demanded and now was one of those times.
Wrestling against her bound wrists in the stifling dungeon, Rosalyn blinked through the prickling sweat that stung her eyes and seeped through her thin chemise.
“The English? They be damned already,” croaked her unwelcome companion. His cocky reply echoed through the chamber that reeked of stale stench.
Ignoring the prisoner they called Lachlan, she focused on her escape. Raising her wrists, Rosalyn dug her teeth into the knot again. Moistening the heavy twine made it pliable.
“We’re both damned,” he added with aristocratic finality.
Was it his condemning reply or the rope between her teeth that made her choke as she spit out stray bits of twine? Either way, being tied back to back with this criminal, even with a hitching post between them, was causing her proper manners to unravel.
“I will nae have a part of any Englishman’s sentencing. You be damned on your own,” she huffed, twisting her hands back and forth between the ropes. “The chancellor will hear my plea,” Rosalyn shouted, determined to reclaim what had been stolen from her family, no matter the sacrifice.
“A Scot given a fair trial on English soil?” Lachlan scoffed. “An Irishman’s luck you’ll be needing to avoid a hanging.”
Hanging? Nay, she’d find a way. English judge or not, her da had raised a fighting Macpherson, clan loyal, and Fyvie Castle was like family.
Yesterday, with her royal-stamped parchments in hand, she had expected the court proceedings to be uneventful. Even as she’d sailed into the port of this border town between two kingdoms on high spirits and plucky optimism, she’d never expected to be held prisoner. Her treatment proved abhorrent. No solid meals or soft bed had left her wanting to poison someone. And she knew who and how.
“Damn,” she cursed again, seeing no need to apologize to her coarse companion. The light shining in from the t
iny loophole window, like a bright gem set in the middle of an ashen stone wall, signaled the time to defend herself was only moments away.
With her confidence deflating and her fear rising, Rosalyn slumped against the post. A desire for escape, no matter how childish, had given her hope until now.
Accepting the harsh realization, she struggled to find a comfortable position on the floor of the godforsaken dungeon. Yesterday’s memories swirled like a fog except for one: when they lashed the English prisoner to the post between them.
A torch light had woken her when the guard led him into the cell. Dressed in a cloak, a hood covering his head and face, he’d almost stumbled onto her lap in his drunken state. When he caught his balance, he’d said something odd to her. “My brother killed her, not me.” After that, they tied him to the post behind her. She’d caught his name when the guards were leaving, but he’d said nothing more the rest of the night.
As his thrashing started again, Rosalyn’s anger intensified, reminding her this English criminal was strapped to her back.
What was his crime? Stealing? Murder? The unpleasant musing made her queasy. She dare not ask, for he’d probably tell her the sordid details just to torture her.
“What have the English done to earn your tongue-lashing?” the prisoner asked, breaking the silence once more. He’d been out cold most of night and had done little but moan until her damning outburst moments ago.
“How can I stop your English tongue from wagging?”
Lachlan chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “If only I wasn’t bound, my lady,” he began, but his retort was interrupted by a scraping sound just outside the cell. A guard appeared at the barred door. Letting himself in, he plodded toward them dragging a gimp leg.
Rosalyn shuddered when he stood over her, his one eye covered by a black patch, but she didn’t divert her gaze even when he withdrew a dagger. Instead, she fought against her fear and the urge to scream. If she’d just inhaled her last breath, it wouldn’t be as a coward.
With a few quick swipes of his weapon, the guard cut through the ropes that bound them together to the post, then hauled the Englishman to his feet. “Your time, Lord Lachlan,” the guard grunted.
As the released prisoner stood, his hands still bound, he ignored the soldier and gazed down at her instead.
Rosalyn smothered her surprise. Lachlan was not the scruffy ruffian she’d expected, but a distinguished nobleman dressed in a chestnut silk cloak that complemented his meticulous goatee. His snobbish confidence complemented his sleek, black hair and wicked widow’s peak.
“I had a dream about a beautiful lass with long, auburn locks and eyes like warm honey. You do not disappoint.”
Ignoring the guard’s disapproving glare, the prisoner knelt beside her.
“What are you doing?” she gasped as he leaned toward her.
“Answering your first question,” Lachlan said crisply, then he reached his bound hands over her head and secured them behind her neck. The prisoner tossed her a sly grin before his lips made their assault and he crushed her to his chest. Using equal parts speed and agility, his tongue tunneled its way in to claim her mouth as if he’d been appointed its new ruler. Even if she wanted to fight him off, she couldn’t.
“Your time,” the slow-witted guard shouted again, hauling Lachlan off her.
Once he got his footing, Lachlan held her gaze and crinkled one eye into a mischievous wink. “Enjoyed your English tongue-lashing, did you now?”
Rosalyn pursed her lips. They tingled, slightly swollen from the stranger’s rough kisses. Not sure whether to lash out with a diatribe of why that was wrong, or to thank him, she gawked up at him instead, her mind as numb as her mouth.
Just when she thought she’d be left behind, the guard’s blade ripped through the ropes around her chest that bound her to the post. “Your time, woman,” he grunted and dragged to her feet.
As she stretched her arms forward for the other ropes to be cut, the guard’s dulled gaze lingered on her bosom.
Beast.
Rosalyn clenched her bound hands to her chest.
The guard grunted again, then pointed to the hallway outside the cell.
She gave the officer a warning stare as she passed him and fell in step with Lachlan. The soldier’s bad leg made a scraping sound behind her as he prodded the two of them down the dim hallway with his dagger drawn, eventually driving them out of the prisoner’s tower and into the blindingly bright courtyard.
Squinting into the sunlight, Rosalyn was grateful to be free of the dungeon. Sucking in gulps of fresh air, she followed the limping guardsman as he now led them on the short jaunt across the lower bailey and into the great hall of Berwick Castle.
Filled with dread and fighting a rising panic, Rosalyn walked behind the gimping guard, slowly making her way toward the Chancery Court bench in the grand and well appointment hall filled with quarrelsome, noisy English.
The damning evidence had caught up with her again.
With her father gone, and the clan riotous, the Lord Chancellor would need to understand her motives were for self-preservation.
As she passed the front row of commoners, who’d come to watch for nothing but sport, an unsavory peasant to her right grabbed her arm, dragging her off her path. “Follow my advice and I’ll save you,” he promised in a harsh whisper.
Startled, Rosalyn spun around, her hand reaching for the dagger at her boot. But the trusted knife wasn’t there waiting for her. Stripped of her dirk and her dignity at the arrest, Rosalyn realized she’d have to use words as a weapon instead.
“After my money or my bed? I need the likes of you like a noose about my neck.” She spat on the offender and yanked her arm free. Following back in step behind Lachlan and the guard, she came to stop in front of the bench.
“Hear ye, hear ye, the court now calls Rosalyn Macpherson and Lord Lachlan de Leverton,” the bailiff announced. “Stand before the court.”
Rosalyn felt her knees go weak and she grasped Lachlan’s arm. He was an unlikely savior, but perhaps her only chance of avoiding a devastating verdict. She flashed him a weak grin when he put his arm around her waist and hoisted her fully upright. Brushing stray strands of hair away from her eyes, she reached up on tipped toes to whisper in his ear, “Docha gum bi thu mo dhochas-mhain.” You may be my only hope.
Now that they were front and center, the chancellor began. “Yesterday in this court during separate hearings, Lord Lachlan de Leverton and Rosalyn Macpherson both laid claim to Fyvie Castle in Aberdeen, with papers signed by James III, the King of Scots.”
Rosalyn gasped. This was why she was back in court? This Englishman had challenged her claim?
Furious, Rosalyn turned and grabbed Lachlan’s cloak. The prospect of losing Fyvie sickened her. Tossing reason aside, she shouted, “The land of my clan will nae be taken again!” Crumpling his silk fabric into her clenched fists, she tried to shake him. “Only when my body is cold and the last shovel of Scottish earth strikes my coffin, will I release Fyvie.”
“Order. Order. Order.” The pounding noise coming from the chancellor’s gavel finally broke through her rant and she released Lachlan.
Lord de Leverton smoothed the crumpled edges of his garment, then leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Let me speak to the judge for you.”
She nodded weakly in agreement and glanced at the floor while she struggled to regain her composure. Hysterics wouldn’t save her as she’d learned from past digressions. Damn her emotions. They were her enemy, not Lachlan.
“Your Honor,” Lachlan began, but he paused as if searching for the right words.
Waiting for the silence to be filled, Rosalyn glanced up, only to meet the scrutiny of the bespectacled justice, who peered down at her with a smirk, making her wonder if he’d toss her back into the dungeon.
“This woman is guilty of forgery,” Lachlan announced.
“Guilty!” Rosalyn shouted and almost fell to her knees at Lachlan’s lie. If she could throttle him now she would.
“Yes, your Honor.” Lachlan turned toward her and winked. “You heard the plea of guilty from her lips just now,” he said, giving her a reassuring look before he turned his attention back the judge. “However, I must ask that you be lenient with her. An orphan from birth, abandoned by her husband, the woman has taken to stealing from the rich, even though she knew, in God’s eyes, it was wrong.”
“My husband abandoned me?” Rosalyn whispered in disbelief. Her head was spinning. What diatribe of lies was this? What was his plan?
“Your Honor, she’s without a moral compass,” Lachlan continued. “She has no man in her life to tell her right from wrong.”
The judge eyed her up and down. “I see, and what do you propose?”
“I pay her forgery fine and become her guardian.”
Sounds of shocked reactions bounced off the tapestry-covered walls, while whispers tossed between jurors faster than fresh gossip among old maids. The Lord Chancellor gave a reprimanding glance to the jury as he hammered his gavel, his desk serving as barrier from the people, like a castle’s iron portcullis gate guards its king.
When the chancellor’s actions didn’t quiet the crowd, the court bailiff slammed the bottom of his lance hard against the wooden floors.
Finally, the twittering and shocked, loud voices faded to hush whispers as the judge commanded the room once more.
“Granting guardianship to you would be condemning the lass to a fate worse than debtor’s prison,” the justice replied, his voice booming through the hall.
Rosalyn was mortified. Neither verdict, prison nor guardianship, was acceptable. Her mind whirled, desperately seeking another plea. Could she blame someone else for the forgery?
After a long pause, the judge addressed her. “Lady Macpherson.” He leaned forward, sobering. “The evidence here today demands a higher court and a jury of your peers.” At those words, the great hall went silent. “A claim of Scottish land disputed between a clanswoman and an Englishman cannot be decided in an English court. King James would have my head if word reached him that I’d levied a judgement under such circumstances, or determined which papers were forgeries.”