The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  The green glade was as it had always been, peaceful and welcoming. The happy burn gurgled over its stones, and the mirror pool lay in its usual place, gleaming where a stray, mote-laden sunbeam danced on it.

  Catriona drew a long breath, basking in the familiar atmosphere, waiting for the peace she always felt upon entering her bower to wrap its arms around her. But the feeling did not come. A piece of her had been torn away, and she had not known how much she would miss it until it was gone forever.

  Sensing another presence, she whirled hopefully and then sighed when she saw Maggie Malloch.

  “I’d hoped…”

  “I ken fine what ye’d hoped, lass,” Maggie said, albeit without her usual energy. “It speaks well o’ ye, Catriona, but I ha’ nae news about Claud. I do bring ye word from the High Circle though, lass, and ye willna like it.”

  “But I did my part,” Catriona said. “Ye said I did!”

  “Aye, and I thought it were true, but there be them in the Circle what live tae be obstreperous, your own Red Annis and Grogan Capelthwaite tae name but two.”

  “They must ken that I nearly failed Christopher Chisholm then.”

  “Ye did?”

  “Aye, twice, when I left him to seek out Claud. The first time a ship’s mast nearly fell on him, and the second time, the English navy nearly captured his ship.”

  “Well, they ken nowt about such things,” Maggie assured her, “for they said only that since ye chose tae aid Christopher when they’d expected ye tae aid Sir Alex, your task canna be finished until Christopher Chisholm be settled happily back in his ain life, and ye’ll ha’ tae admit he’s by nae means settled there yet.”

  “Aye, that be true,” Catriona said. “But what difference can it make with Claud gone? There canna be peace betwixt the tribes, and even Red Annis and Grogan Capelthwaite must see that that be the fault o’ Jonah Bonewits.”

  “They be little more than henchmen o’ his, and nae friends o’ ours,” Maggie said. “And they do be still trying tae reclaim his place in the Circle for him.”

  “Even after all he has done?”

  “Aye,” Maggie said grimly. “There be nae accounting for politics in the High Circle or anywhere else. As for Jonah himself, nae one kens where he might be.”

  Catriona sighed unhappily and said, “Can no one match the power that dreadful wizard wields?”

  “Aye,” Maggie said. “I can, and ’tis the one thing that makes me hope we might find our Claud again.”

  For the first time since seeing the flames shooting toward her, Catriona felt a twinge of hope. “Then ye dinna think Jonah gave him tae the Host?”

  “Nay, nay, because Claud be Jonah’s son as well as mine,” Maggie said. “ ’Twas ye he wanted tae stop, thinking ye were trying tae aid Sir Alex, and that your failure would mean mine. He be powerful enough tae ha’ protected Claud even at the last minute though, and if he did, there be only one place he might ha’ sent him where I’d no feel his presence.”

  “Where?”

  “Into the mortal world,” Maggie said. “ ’Tis said that when we o’ the Secret Clan pass on, ’tis sometimes into their world.”

  “We’ll never see him again, then.”

  “Och, we may though. Jonah Bonewits kens that soon or late I’ll winkle out the truth, and he must be hopeful that it will be soon, for he’s sought a reckoning between us for ages past. If Claud be in the mortal world, he’ll be where I can find him.”

  “Then why d’ye no confront Jonah now?”

  Maggie stiffened. “Ha’ ye any notion o’ what could happen did the two o’ us be so lost tae all else as tae pit our strength against each other until one o’ the other o’ us is nae more?”

  Catriona shook her head.

  “I dinna ken either, but we’ll likely find out soon enough, the both o’ us.”

  Chapter 23

  Giorsal was waiting for Bab in her bedchamber. “Good evening, my lady,” she said. “You must be relieved that you and Sir Alex are safely home again.”

  “Indeed, yes,” Bab said, but she said little more, deflecting Giorsal’s eager questions simply by saying firmly that they could talk about it all tomorrow.

  Many of her own questions had been answered, but she still did not know if her husband would react to her recent activities as Alex or as the Fox. As Alex, he was casual and forgiving, apparently caring little about what she did. As the Fox, he was temperamental and far more unpredictable. Recalling at least two instances in which her actions had stirred his fury, however briefly, she rather feared that she had married the Fox’s temper.

  Automatically, she went through her usual bedtime ritual, but her mind was back in the cavern, wondering if he was coming to her yet. She was not a coward, but neither was she a fool. If Alex had been playing a role to fool the Dalcrosses and people of the glens, then most likely the Fox’s personality was the true one, and the Fox had promised to put her across his knee if she put herself in jeopardy again.

  “Surely, he knows that I only did what I had to do,” she murmured.

  “What’s that, my lady?” Giorsal asked. “I didna hear ye.”

  “ ’Tis nothing. I fear I was talking to myself,” Bab said. “Mayhap I am growing to be like my mother.”

  Giorsal laughed. “I warrant ye’ll no talk to the wee folk like she does.”

  “No,” Bab agreed, letting the woman slip her nightdress over her head. “You may brush my hair now, and then I’ll go to bed.”

  “Be Sir Alex no taking ye to his bed, then?”

  “He’ll be along shortly, I expect,” Bab said, sitting on the stool in front of the cheerful little fireplace and holding her hands out to the warmth.

  Giorsal picked up the hairbrush and began to brush Bab’s long hair. Soon its tresses hung in a thick, shining tumble of curls to her waist.

  “Let me finish that, Giorsal.”

  Bab started at hearing his voice. She had not heard the door open and wondered how long he had been watching them.

  Alex smiled when she turned toward him, his expression warm, the look in his eyes sensual. He stepped forward and took the brush from Giorsal’s hand. “You may go now,” he said to her. “I’ll look after your mistress.”

  “Aye, sir. Good night, then.” A moment later, the door shut behind her.

  After a momentary silence, he said, “I’ve had rather a long chat with Hugo.”

  “Have you?” Apprehension stirred icy prickles along her spine.

  “Aye.” He smacked the business end of the hairbrush against his palm.

  “Alex, I—” She started to stand, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her. His grip was hard, insistent. She swallowed, trying to think how best to explain.

  “Don’t get up, sweetheart. I want to brush your hair.” His voice was gentle, but it lacked the Alex-like note of languid indifference that she had hoped to hear.

  His brush strokes were firm, and the rhythm was soothing, but the silence hung heavy between them. She wished he would say something.

  The fire crackled, and a shower of sparks leaped high as a log broke apart and the two atop it shifted.

  “Alex, we…”

  At the same time, he said, “Sweetheart, we…”

  Bab turned to look at him, and as she did, he set the brush on the table against the wall and reached for her, pulling her to her feet.

  For a moment, they looked at each other, and then he pulled her close, holding her tightly against him.

  She sighed. “I was afraid you were really angry.”

  “Nay, lass, how could I be angry with you after deceiving you as I did?”

  She chuckled, her face pressed against his soft doublet. “Easily. I’ve seen how easily. It must have been difficult for you to pretend indifference to my taunts.”

  “Indifference?” He held her a little away so that he could look into her eyes. “Never indifference, my love. If I chose to play the fool…”

  “Oh, never the fool,” she said. “To
be sure, I thought so at first, but you were always so kind to me! I would have had to be the hardest-hearted woman alive to ignore that, and I could not. Why, every time you apologized, I felt guilty, for I knew I had been rude. I warrant Patrick would have slapped me for many of the things I said to you if I’d ever said them to him.”

  “He’d best not try slapping you whilst I’m about,” he said evenly.

  She chuckled. “In truth, he has done so only once or twice in my life, and I’d venture to guess I deserved it when he did. He and my father both were more likely to send me to my bedchamber than to smack me for my misdeeds.”

  “Much more sensible,” Alex murmured, kissing her ear. “Although I would take you to my bedchamber, rather than send you to yours.”

  “There is something I want to tell you,” Bab said.

  “More confessions, lass? You should know that I’ve about reached my limit of forgiveness. I do understand that instinct that led you to fling yourself between Dalcross’s knife and me and even the need to go riding all over the glens in search of support for me, but—”

  “I had an armed escort and your pistol, Alex. This is about a dream I had, the one about my wedding in the fairy glen. I still do not understand how I could have stayed asleep and dreaming at such a time, but it must have been some sort of brainstorm, because I was marrying you in the dream, too, only you were the Fox.”

  “I suspect I may know how that happened,” he said. “I’ll explain it another time, though, and tell you something of my own strange experience. Presently though, I think you should sleep.”

  “No, my love, I want to show you what else happened in that dream, but first you have to take off your clothes and come to bed.”

  Interest leaped into his eyes. “Faith,” he said in his Alex drawl, “this begins to intrigue me.”

  “I thought it might,” she said demurely.

  “I warrant you had no clothes on in that dream either,” he murmured, grinning as he pulled her bedgown off over her head and stood gazing raptly at her.

  In minutes, his own clothing was off, and he carried her to the bed, where before they slept she showed him all she had learned in her wedding dream.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed The Secret Clan: Highland Bride. If you recognized bits of the Black Fox, it is because I used elements of legendary heroes such as the Scarlet Pimpernel, Zorro, and others in creating him, but I hope you will agree that he managed to develop an identity all his own.

  As always, I know that there are those of you out there who would make fine editors because you question every detail. In an attempt to answer some of the questions most likely to pop into your heads, let me just say first that Kit’s journey from Rome to Dumbarton, although aided by Catriona nearly all the way, nonetheless took place in a plausible amount of time for the period.

  According to Denis Rixon (The West Highland Galley, Edinburgh 1998), a medieval ship traveled at approximately two miles per hour in a light breeze, four to five miles per hour in a fresh breeze, and seven miles per hour in a strong breeze. The journey from Rome to Dumbarton is approximately 2500 miles. A Highland galley’s speed was generally at the top end of this and was even greater for short distances, so the journey from Dumbarton to the Highlands is also plausible.

  As for the Fox’s sword and swordplay, by 1530 gentlemen commonly wore swords as part of their everyday dress, and many carried a dirk as well. Most swords were still of the thrusting variety, with slender long blades and an elaborate cage of slender bars or a cup to protect the swordsman’s hand (the basket hilt).

  The art of fencing was still new in 1541, but for gentlemen, rapiers had become more fashionable than broadswords, and Italian fencing masters had begun setting up shop in major cities throughout Europe. For more information on the history and various manners of swordplay, I highly recommend Arms in Action: Vol. 3, The Sword (VHS Documentary, Cat. No. AAE-40463, ©1998 A&E Television Networks: The History Channel). The superiority of French swordplay over Italian no longer stirs controversy, but it certainly did in the sixteenth century.

  Once again, I want to express my heartfelt thanks to Pam Hessey and also to Charlie Kaiser, both of the California Hawking Club, for taking me hunting with the ever spectacular Cowboy, Mojo, and Modoc, so that I could see for myself how hawks hunt in the field. It was a grand day and one I’ll long remember. Any errors or omissions in the hawking scenes are all my own, as usual.

  Many thanks also to my agent, Aaron Priest, and to his wonderful assistant Lucy Childs, and to my editors, Beth de Guzman and Karen Kosztolnyik. Your efforts and support are always greatly appreciated.

  As for Kit Chisholm and Maggie Malloch, you will meet both again when Kit returns to his father’s home after his year-long absence to find that everyone believes he must be dead and the lass to whom he was engaged is about to marry someone else. Moreover, that someone is the uncle who believes he has inherited Kit’s fortune and estates, and he intends to keep them and the girl if he can. Look for The Secret Clan: The Reiver’s Bride at your favorite bookstore in September 2003. In the meantime, slàinte mhath!

  Sincerely,

  website: http://home.att.net/~amandascott

  Reiver’s Bride

  Prologue

  The Scottish Borders, Ellyson Towers, July 1541

  Lady Anne Ellyson gazed despairingly at her dying father, the third Earl of Armadale, as he struggled weakly to raise himself in his bed. The bedchamber was stuffy, too warm, and redolent with myriad odors of a sickroom. She gestured to the earl’s wiry manservant to help him.

  Slight of build as Anne was, and standing beside her father’s huge bed, she felt smaller and more vulnerable than usual. She wore an old robe over her nightshift and had slipped her feet into fur-lined mules when her woman had wakened her. Her auburn hair hung untidily down her back, and her gray eyes were somber. Her throat felt tight, and as she watched the earl, her stomach clenched with fear.

  “Pillow,” Armadale muttered.

  Without argument but with visible disapproval, his manservant helped him shift his wasted upper body forward and shoved a plump pillow behind him.

  “He tires easily, my lady,” the man said with a speaking look.

  Wearily, but in a stronger voice than before, the earl said, “Go away, John. I would be private with her ladyship.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Turning, he said quietly, “I’ll be just outside, Lady Anne.”

  She nodded, her attention fixed on the glowering figure in the bed.

  It was four o’clock in the morning, and although she had left him asleep only two hours before, he seemed to have lost even more weight, strength, and color in the meantime. His usually ruddy complexion was gray, his eyelids drooping. The pale blue eyes behind them, however, still showed much of their usual spark.

  Armadale, like most men of the Scottish Borders, was a man of less than middle height but one born to the saddle and possessed of a strong sense of independence. Until the previous fortnight, he had enjoyed a healthy, muscular body and a vigorous life. His formidable power had derived not only from his rank and his energy but also from his domineering spirit and legendary temper. Now all that lingered of that power and spirit was the grim look he bestowed upon his sole surviving child as the door shut behind his servant.

  Anne automatically braced herself, but his first words made it clear that what anger he felt was not directed at her.

  “I’ve failed you, lass. By God’s feet, I have.”

  Shocked to hear him admit such a thing, she felt unfamiliar sympathy stir as she said, “You have not done any such thing, sir. Moreover, you should not distress yourself by fretting about such matters but should try instead to go back to sleep. I warrant you will feel much better after you rest.”

  “Faith, but I’m sped, like your mother and two small sisters afore me. And I’ll rest soon enough. Whether I’ll feel better when I do must depend upon the Almighty and where He sends me. I’ve not much hope of heave
n, for I’ve not led a pious life, but I can’t mend that now, either. The good thing is, wherever I go, I’m bound to find most of the men I’ve dealt with over the years who passed on before me. We’re all much of a muchness, after all, whichever side we’ve served.”

  Hastily crossing herself, Anne said, “You must not talk like that!”

  A glimmer of a smile touched his dry, cracked lips. “God kens me through and through, Anne-lassie. What I say or how I say it won’t vex Him now.”

  “Still—”

  “Hush, lass. I’ve no time or strength left for fratching. Indeed, I do not know where I’ve found the strength to talk, for I swear I could barely open my mouth afore now to sip water when it were offered me. Still I mean to make the most of it, for there be things you should know before I leave you alone in this world.”

  “I can learn what I must from your man of affairs in Hawick,” she insisted. “He knows your wishes, does he not?”

  “Aye, Scott kens my mind on most subjects. On some there be nowt I can do in any event, with your brother gone as he is.”

  He fell silent, his eyes taking on the faraway look Anne had seen so often since the day nearly a year before when the terrible news had reached them that Sir Andrew Ellyson had fallen in a brief but fatal skirmish after troops of England’s Henry VIII had crossed the line near Carter Bar to harass the Scots.

  The earl had withdrawn from his family then, in mind if not in body, and the passion he had previously displayed for his lands and his people had diminished noticeably. He had not shirked his duties, but with Andrew dead, the fire inside his lordship had nearly died, too.

  A few lingering embers had glowed briefly upon learning two months before that his countess was once again with child, but that glimmer of hope had died six weeks afterward with her ladyship and the wee seedling bairn inside her.

  The fever that had swept through the Borders, particularly Roxburghshire, was fearsome, wiping out whole families and decimating villages. But its strength had waned, and they had thought the worst over when it struck Ellyson Towers.