The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

  Amanda Scott

  Author’s Introduction

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  The Lairds of the Loch Series

  Other Books by Amanda Scott

  Praise for Amanda Scott

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

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  Author’s Introduction

  When I moved to Warner Books, now Hachette Book Group, USA, and began planning my first two books with my editor there, she said she wanted me to put fairies in them. Harry Potter was taking the world by storm, and her thinking was that adding magic would sell more books. She also said she was sure that I knew everything there was to know about Scottish folklore. I didn’t, but I told her I would do the research and if I could find a grumpy old lady fairy in the folklore—and events in history that might have had some sort of intervention to happen they way they did—I’d do it. I didn’t want to recreate Tinkerbelle.

  By the time I began writing Abducted Heiress I had found Maggie Malloch, a rather cantankerous creature from Border folklore, and a sixteenth-century attack on Eilean Donan Castle in the Highlands by forty galleys full of MacDonald Islesmen, during which three men successfully defended the castle, an event that definitely qualified. I had also discovered the vast difference between Highland folklore with its Celtic, often mischievous, irresponsible, gauzy fairies, and that of the Borders with its down-to-earth household spirits, brownies, and their ilk.

  That led me to create the Secret Clan with its factions of mischievous Highland Merry Folk and their practical Border cousins, the Helping Hands, to provide an added dose of conflict. I still wondered if I could make the wee folk seem plausible, but after talking with a dear friend who was born at Eilean Donan and who speaks with assurance about the castle and its the wee folk (right down to describing where they congregate and how one sees them), I knew that I could.

  Although I write fast, by the time I finished the manuscript, my editor had left the publishing house and I had a new one who’d had nothing to do with planning the book. To say that I was nervous when I turned in the manuscript is to put it mildly, right up to the day she called me and said that the wedding night scene in Abducted Heiress was the funniest one she’d ever read. She also loved Maggie Malloch and her always-well-meaning but utterly hapless son, Brown Claud.

  Those first two books soon became four books, and the wee folk play a “helpful” role in all of them. In fact—and a first for me—the wee folk provide a thread other than general Scottish history that continues through all four books.

  As for the stories, Hidden Heiress is basically what might have happened to Cinderella had she been born in sixteenth-century Scotland; the hero of Highland Bride derives from the masked avenger Zorro with bits of the Scarlet Pimpernel; and, the plot for Reiver’s Bride is based on Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night… as are a few of its characters, including Countess Olivia and Sir Toby. Other wee folk characters throughout include the wily Catriona, her rival Lucy Fittletrot, the villainous Jonah Bonewits, and my favorite: Fergus Fishbait.

  That gentleman floated into being about five o’clock one summer morning, while I was staying in Southern California with the booksellers I sign for at Scottish games. I was alone on their patio with a cup of coffee, a pen, and a notepad, just doodling and scribbling whatever came into my head. Suddenly, up popped Fergus Fishbait, and I had a new member of The Secret Clan.

  The end of the fairies’ tale came to me in much the same way, about halfway through Reiver’s Bride, and surprised me as much as it surprises Brown Claud.

  Days like that are golden. Also golden is the fact that this Secret Clan Omnibus contains all four books at a price that delights my Scottish soul.

  Enjoy, and Suas Alba!

  Abducted Heiress

  Prologue

  Dunsithe Castle, the Scottish Borders, 1527

  When they came for her, she was sleeping. Her dreams were untroubled, for she did not yet clearly understand that her father—the big, laughing, teasing man she adored with all her heart—was gone from her life forever.

  Powerful Adam, Lord Gordon, having against all odds survived the Flodden bloodbath at fourteen, had died at twenty-eight of a knife wound suffered at the hands of a common reiver—and that after he had granted the villain the mercy of branding rather than death. After his death, Gordon’s men had rectified their master’s error, but that had made no difference to Gordon, for by then he was beyond caring, and he did not know what a quandary his dying would create. Things might have been different had he left a male heir, but he had not.

  “Wake up, lassie.” The strange voice was insistent. “Ye mun come wi’ us.”

  Ineffectively, Molly tried to shrug away the big hand that shook her shoulder. She was five years old and sleeping the heavy, deep sleep of an innocent child, so waking was not as easy for her as the man seemed to think it was.

  “For Christ’s sake, just pick her up, Davy.” Another voice, another stranger. “His lordship wants her straightaway, below.”

  “But she’ll need proper clothing,” protested the first.

  “Whisst! D’ye think the wee lass kens where her clothes be kept? Take her up, man. She’s sleepin’ like the dead.”

  Cold air enveloped her when one of them threw back the coverlet, but she was still too sleepy to care, even when he picked her up. He cradled her small body against his broad chest, but hard points jabbed her tender skin through the thin shift she wore as a bed gown, making her squirm to avoid them.

  She blinked groggily. It was dark in the room, but where was her nurse? Her father’s men did not look after children.

  “She’ll be cold,” the man holding her said. “Mayhap I should take along the blanket, too.”

  “His lordship will say what the lass needs,” the other said gruffly.

  She was more awake now and feeling querulous. “Put me down, you,” she muttered. “Who are you? You should not touch me.”

  “Hush, lass,” growled the man who carried her. “Ye’re tae do as ye’re bid.”

  His curt command silenced her, but it did not ease her annoyance. She was not accustomed to rudeness.

  The stranger was carrying her down the torchlit, wheel stairway, into the great hall. It was cold there, too, for although several torches burned in their holders on the arras-draped walls, the hall fire had burned down to embers. She shivered. She should not be here.

  “Here be the Maid, m’lord,” the man carrying her said.

  “Put her down.”

  That voice was one she recognized. It was her uncle, the Earl of Angus.

  More disoriented than ever, because Angus rarely visited them, she watched him, trying to gauge his mood, as the man who held her set her on her bare feet.

  Then, seeing her mother in the shadows near the great fireplace, and being a well-trained child, she curtsied hastily and said, “Good evening, Uncle.”

  Though she stood on a carpet, her feet were cold, and she knew that her mother would condemn her untidy appearance and the fact that she had come downstairs in her bed gown. Nonetheless, her gaze fixed itself on her uncle.

  Angus was a handsome, fair-haired man in his late thirties, but his penetrating
blue eyes were as cold as the hall, and they stared unwinkingly at her. When he did not respond to her greeting, apprehension stirred within her.

  His expression was stern and his voice grim when at last he snapped, “Where the devil are your clothes?”

  Swallowing hard past a sudden ache in her throat, and trying to ignore the tears welling in her eyes, she said, “N-no one fetched them to me.” She did not dare even glance at her mother.

  To her surprise, Lady Gordon said tartly, “Pray, Archie, what did you expect? The child is not yet six years old. Truly, sir, I do not know why you are bent on this dreadful course, for she is far too young to be taken from her home.”

  Molly tensed and rubbed one cold foot against the other, but she did not protest. Although she was young, she knew better than to complain. Her mother was as unpredictable as Uncle Archie and would not thank her for voicing an opinion.

  The earl regarded her mother with disfavor. “You will not set yourself in opposition to me, Eleanor,” he said. “You will do what is best for your family, and I will determine what that must be. I have a new husband in mind for you, and although he is willing to take a woman born on the wrong side of the blanket if she is my sister, he is not a man I can allow to control the Maid of Dunsithe or her present heir. I shall control their destiny myself.”

  “You cannot take Bessie, too,” Lady Gordon protested. “She’s but a bairn.”

  “Of course, I will take her. Children die, madam, and if Mary dies, her sister becomes Maid of Dunsithe and inherits all of this.”

  Had he been anyone else, Molly would have told him quite firmly that she did not like to be called Mary. Her father had always called her Molly.

  “You do not care one whit about my daughters,” Lady Gordon said resentfully. “You care only about controlling Dunsithe and its wealth, just as you have controlled the King’s grace these past years. I am Mary’s mother. Surely, I am the one best suited to look after her and to tend to my late husband’s property as well.”

  “Don’t be daft,” he retorted. “Dunsithe is a Border stronghold and requires a strong man to control it. The King has granted me a writ of wardship and marriage for Mary, so you will do exactly as I bid you, or you will soon find yourself in sad straits indeed.”

  He paused, watching her, but the child was not surprised when her mother questioned him no further. No one argued with a man when he spoke in that tone.

  “That’s better,” Angus said. “Take the lass and see her warmly dressed. And see to the bairn, too.”

  “What of their nurse?”

  “Keep her here. I’ll provide them with nurses I can trust at Tantallon. Now, go, for I’ve other matters to attend to before I can depart.”

  Without another word, Lady Gordon snatched up her daughter, and Molly pressed her lips tightly together to keep from crying out at such rough handling. As she was carried up the twisting stairway, she heard her mother mutter, “Other matters, indeed. He wants only the fortune and control of Dunsithe’s heiress.”

  Upstairs, Lady Gordon shouted for her woman, and when that worthy appeared, said angrily, “We’re to dress her to travel, Sarah, so tell their nurse to give you warm clothing for Mary and to dress Elizabeth warmly, too, and to pack more for them to take with them. They go with Angus.”

  Tears sprang to Molly’s eyes at the thought of going away with her grim uncle.

  “His lordship be takin’ both o’ the wee lassies then?”

  “Aye, he is,” Lady Gordon said, “and I am to marry someone else of his choosing, if you please. Molly is an heiress now, after all, and my esteemed brother does not consider me worthy to look after her. He wants Elizabeth, too, in case Molly should die. By rights, that fortune should be mine to control until Molly is grown, but I am to have naught but what Angus and my soon-to-be husband choose to allow me. Poor Molly will doubtless be married off soon, too.”

  “Och, but she be gey young for marriage!”

  “A girl with a fortune like hers is never too young to marry,” Lady Gordon said tartly. “Angus will use her and her fortune to serve his own interest.”

  “He willna let her go if Dunsithe’s treasure goes with her, I’m thinkin’.”

  “No, but the course of history seldom runs smoothly, Sarah, and young King Jamie does not like my brother. For all that his grace must answer to him now, in time, Jamie will win free, and when he does, Angus will no longer wield the great power he wields now. What if something happens to Molly? What if someone should contest her claim?”

  “But who would do such a thing?”

  “Oh, think, woman!” Lady Gordon said impatiently. “Such things happen whenever men desire aught that belongs to someone else. It would require only that someone declare her an imposter or suggest some other deceit or conspiracy afoot.”

  “But ye’ll set matters straight if they do, madam. Ye’re her mother, after all.”

  “Aye, but I’ll not be surprised if Angus forbids me any contact with her. This abduction—for it is no less than that—does not mean he believes that he is better suited to raise her. He simply does not want me to control Dunsithe and her wealth. Now go and fetch her clothing, or they’ll come and take her without it.”

  The woman hurried away, and the child was left alone with her mother.

  “Molly, listen to me,” Lady Gordon said. “You are going away with your uncle Archie, and you must be a good girl. Obey him always, for he is very stern.”

  “But I don’t want to go away,” Molly said, fighting tears again. “I live here, and I don’t like Uncle Archie.”

  “You must go, so you can look after Bessie.”

  “But why cannot we both stay here with you?”

  “Because you can’t, that’s all.”

  Her tears spilled over, and hastily she wiped them away. Only babies cried.

  The door opened, and both child and mother turned to see the tirewoman enter with Molly’s clothing. Sarah looked distraught.

  “What is it?” Lady Gordon demanded. “What’s amiss?”

  “Men came and took the bairn, my lady! They just walked into the nursery and snatched Elizabeth from her cradle.”

  “Faith, what can he be thinking?”

  Sarah had tears in her eyes, and seeing them, Molly began to tremble. Tears trickled down her cheeks again, unheeded now.

  Sarah began deftly to dress her as she said sadly to Lady Gordon, “Why would the earl take one as small as wee Bess, my lady?”

  “Because if anything should happen to Molly, Bessie will become the Maid of Dunsithe, and he means to maintain control of the Maid’s fortune. Indeed,” she added thoughtfully, “I would not put it past Angus to create his own heiress if both of the girls should die. If he were to keep them secluded and shift them about from one of his castles to another, who would know the difference? ’Tis likely that as the years pass even I would fail to recognize the true Maid of Dunsithe.”

  “Surely, that could never happen!”

  “We cannot let it happen,” Lady Gordon said grimly. “I can do nothing about Bess if Angus has already taken her, but I will know Molly, one way or another.” Reaching for the ring of keys on her belt, she removed one of the smaller ones and handed it to Sarah. “Stir up the fire and heat this red-hot. I mean to see that no one will ever have cause to doubt the identity of the true Maid of Dunsithe.”

  “Mistress, ye’ll no hurt the wee lassie!”

  “Hold your tongue, woman, and do as I bid you. I’ll go and hurry Nurse with their clothing, but I’ll be right back. Molly,” she added sharply, “you stop your weeping if you don’t want to feel my hand when I return.”

  Her tummy clenched, her breathing came too fast, and her hands felt prickly, but dashing an arm across her eyes to wipe her tears away, the child watched silently as the tire-woman stirred up the fire.

  Sarah put another log on and blew expertly on the embers to encourage more flames. When the fire was burning lustily, she slipped the little key onto the end of the
poker and held it right in the heart of the flames. By the time Lady Gordon returned, the key was red-hot.

  “Find me something to hold it with then bare her chest for me,” she ordered. “I’ll do the rest myself.”

  Only then did Molly realize her exact intent. Screaming, she tried to free herself from Sarah’s grip. Though she was tiny, it took both of them to hold her.

  Chapter 1

  The Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1539

  Outside the little thatched cottage, wind blew and sleet-filled rain pelted down from a lightning-lashed black sky. The rain pattered noisily against the straw thatch, and thunder rolled after each bolt of lightning, but the crofters inside the cottage were used to such sounds. The single, crowded little room beneath the thatch was quiet except for the noise of the storm, the rhythmic whir of a spinning wheel, the crackling and sizzling of the peat fire in the center of the hard-packed dirt floor, and the voice of the long-bearded old man sitting in the place of honor.

  “Years ago,” he said, “my father did tell me about a woman who were in a great hurry to ha’ her wool spun and made into cloth.”

  Pausing to shoot a twinkling look at the woman seated at the spinning wheel, he drank thirstily from his mug. Then, cradling the mug in his lap between two gnarled, liver-spotted hands, he went on in a more ominous tone. “One nicht,” he said, “against advice, she made a wish for someone to help her, and next day six or seven fairy women in long green robes appeared at her house, all chanting magical words that only they could understand. Taking up her wool-cards and spinning wheel, they set to work, and by midday, the cloth were on the loom. When they finished, they asked her for more work, but she had nae more spinning or weaving to do, and she began to wonder how she would get them out o’ her house.”

  Seventeen-year-old Molly Gordon sat on her cloak on the dirt floor near a corner of the room, leaning contentedly against the wall. Arms hugging her knees, she listened to the familiar tale, contented and filled with a rare sense of almost fitting in, belonging, if only for a short time. She knew everyone in the room well, as well as the family that had raised her, and she cared for them deeply.