Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels)

by Catherine Kean, Anna Markland, Elizabeth Rose, Laurel ODonnell, Barbara Devlin, SueEllen Welfonder, Amy Jarecki

  If the thieves thought they could take advantage of the MacDougalls because they were in mourning, they were sorely mistaken. “Did anyone see the backstabbing tinkers?”

  Slapping his reins like he was beating a drum, Angus struggled to keep pace. “Nay.”

  “Six cattle thieved without a sign?” I find that hard to believe. A lot of things hadn’t sat well with Sean since he started diving into the estate’s affairs. And all had not been smooth whilst his father lived either. Small coin and livestock disappeared from the ledgers with a stroke of a pen. With each little adjustment Sean uncovered, his suspicion grew. That he had a traitor in his midst was certain. Who…was yet to be discovered.

  “A rider approaches from the south,” bellowed a sentry at the rear of the retinue.

  Sean held up his hand and slowed his horse. Circling around, Fraser galloped toward them. Of all the MacDougall clansmen, Sean trusted him the most. They had been boyhood friends and Fraser often rode with him when carrying out Highland Enforcer tasks for the Lord of Glenorchy and the king.

  “Another five head missing by the southern border.”

  Sean gaped. “Any sign of the thieves?”

  “No, m’laird.”

  “That makes no sense at all—if the outlaws are holing up in Fearnoch Forest to the west, how are they slipping unseen to the south…and where are they driving my cattle?”

  Angus rode in beside him and pulled up. “The two crimes could be unrelated.”

  Fraser’s horse snorted and stomped its right front. “I reckon someone’s testing your verve—trying to see what they can take from the new chieftain afore they get caught.”

  “They’ll be caught and the risk is nay worth the gain.” Sean looked up and watched a hawk circle overhead. “I’ve plenty of enemies, but only one comes to mind who’d go to so much trouble.” He eyed Angus.

  The older man’s shoulder ticked up. “I do not think Alan MacCoul would stoop so low, besides, he sailed off in his sea galley a fortnight ago.”

  Sean smirked. “I could never trust that bastard.” He raised his voice and eyed all his men. “Where did MacCoul sail after he left Dunollie lands?”

  No one said a word. He dug in his heels and walked his horse along the line of men. “We’ll rid the wood of outlaws, but moreover, I want a scout on MacCoul’s trail.” He spun his horse and started back the other way. Right now there weren’t many men he could trust—or who had the necessary skills to follow a cold trail. “Hell, I’ll find him myself. I’m the best damn tracker in the Highlands.”

  “That you are,” Fraser said.

  “Do you think it wise to leave your lands so soon after you’ve taken up your father’s mantle?” Angus asked. “There are a great many affairs needing your attention.”

  Sean had always trusted his father’s henchman, but presently he questioned the man’s loyalty.

  “MacDougall!” A rider galloped from the direction of Dunollie. “I’ve a missive from the Lord of Lorn.”

  Sean threw up his hands. “Does everyone ken our whereabouts?”

  “I didn’t think it was a secret,” Angus said.

  Sean pointed at the laggard’s sternum. “We need a sober discussion, you and I.” He beckoned the messenger. “Come.”

  Sean took the missive and ran his finger under his uncle’s red-wax seal and read.

  “What is it?” Angus asked.

  “My uncle…ah…has requested a meeting.” He wasn’t about to say where or when—not to Angus and most definitely not in front of all his men when there could be a backstabber about. He needed to learn whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t and fast. Unfortunately, his uncle’s summons changed Sean’s plans.

  He stuffed the missive in his doublet. “Angus, take the men and drive out any outlaws in the wood. Fraser, find out where MacCoul sailed after he left the clan. Better yet, find out where he’s holing up and report back. I want to see you at Dunollie within a fortnight.” He grasped his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. “Do not fail me.”

  “On my way, m’laird.”

  ***

  “Trevor’s galley approaches, sir,” Brus hollered from the cave entrance.

  With two more rutting thrusts, Alan ground his teeth with a grunt and finished swiving the whore he had shoved up against the cave’s wall. Pulling up his trews, he shook himself off, revived at the relief of tension the quick hump had brought.

  He expected good news. Hiding out on this God-forsaken island didn’t suit him. The damp made his bones ache and his temperament border on the verge of tyrannical—not that intimidation was a problem. It was a tactic he used even when he wasn’t feeling like an ogre.

  Brus caught the mooring rope while the galley ran aground on the beach.

  Followed by his men, Trevor hopped over the side, a daft grin spread across his face.

  “Well?” Alan asked, leaving the whore in a tousled heap.

  “Easier than taking a Sunday stroll with my ma,” Trevor boasted.

  “Out with it, man. I want details.”

  “Two bands thieved cattle. One to the west and the other to the south—exactly as you said.” He dug in his purse. “I sold the beasts to a transport headed to Glasgow—Eleven marks, one for each head, less payment for me and the men.”

  Alan snatched the coin and counted it. Trevor had taken the agreed quarter. He didn’t like that his men had taken their share first—but if he challenged the brigands with coin in their pockets, their loyalty would wane. “Did you see any trouble?”

  “Nay—could thieve the laird’s cattle every day, I’d reckon.”

  Alan was no fool. “If you tried tomorrow, you’d be caught for certain.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The alarm’s raised by now. It will not be half as easy next time—besides how much torture could any one of your men take if caught?” Alan adjusted his crotch. “We shall lay low for a time—travel to visit our allies in the Lowlands where we do not have to hide in a cave.”

  The men nodded in agreement.

  “Walter,” Alan hollered over his shoulder.

  The smithy stepped out from the cave’s shadows. “Aye?”

  “While we’re away I want you to fashion irons for a man.”

  “You mean you’re not taking me with you?”

  “You heard me.”

  The blacksmith knuckled his head and glanced at the woman Alan had just discarded. “You’ll leave the whore?”

  “Very well.”

  “All right, then, but I’ll need measurements.”

  Alan gestured to his body. “My size, but a hand taller.”

  Walter shook his head. “Tis nay that easy—”

  “Just see it done. I’ll hear no more from naysayers.” Alan turned to Trevor and Brus. “We sail at dawn.”

  ***

  Propped up with pillows, Gyllis closed her eyes and yielded to the monk’s gentle ministrations. She’d been in the cell at Ardchattan Priory for a month now and, though the sickness had passed, the paralysis still plagued her. Even her breathing had become shallow and labored. She closed her eyes. Dark thoughts of a life as a cripple blackened her mind. She’d be a burden to her family—or to the priory unless by some miracle, God saw fit to give her the strength to walk again.

  “I’ll wager things are not as comfortable here for you as they are at Kilchurn Castle,” Brother Wesley said in his ever-soothing voice. He had a sallow complexion with grey eyes, black hair, and his front teeth were large and crooked. It was difficult not to stare at them on the rare occasion he smiled.

  How different and ever so mundane things were cloistered behind the priory walls. Nothing exciting ever happened—she never heard a voice raised or the clanging of swords when the guard sparred as she’d heard daily at Kilchurn Castle. The dangers of the world seemed a hundred miles away.

  Gyllis glanced at the stark walls with a single wooden cross nailed above her head—aside from the bed, the only piece of furniture was a wooden stool
. Brother Wesley looked at her expectantly.

  “Aye, my chamber is five times the size of this cell,” she answered. “And the bed is far softer than this cot.” Indeed, she’d prefer to be home now.

  He pressed the heel of his hand into her thigh and rubbed with a circular motion. Had he not taken an oath of celibacy, Gyllis could never have permitted him to care for her. “With God’s grace, we shall have you up in no time. I’m sure you are anxious to return to your kin.”

  “If I could spring from this bed this moment, I would.”

  “You must take one thing at a time. ’Tis a long process to recover from a disease like paralysis.” He patted her leg then resituated her skirts. “Let us see how your arms are faring today.”

  Her fingers twitched and she closed her eyes. Clamping her teeth and scrunching her face with effort, she forced herself to lift them from the bed. Sucking in a gasp, the worthless limbs dropped back down. She glared at Brother Wesley. “They’re useless.”

  He lifted her hand and held it in his palm, offering a serene smile as if he had not a care. “You raised them twice as far as yesterday. I am impressed with your progress.”

  If only Gyllis could share in his subdued exuberance. If Brother Wesley were to raise one of his thick eyebrows, it would be an untoward display of emotion. “I most certainly am not pleased. Do you have any idea how miserable it is to lie on this cot hour upon hour unable to move?” And now she’d begun to suffer from bed sores.

  “It must be very monotonous indeed.”

  “’Tis unbearable.”

  The monk frowned. “I shall continue to pray for you, Miss Gyllis.”

  That’s all she’d heard since arriving at this miserable priory. “Praying? What good will that do? I cannot even feed myself—and the indignity of being changed like a bairn.” She turned her face toward the wall and groaned.

  “I am sorry—I shall continue to try to help, though my efforts have not met with your satisfaction.”

  Gyllis cringed. She’d just insulted the kindest, gentlest person she’d ever met. Devil’s bones, this illness turned her into a curmudgeon. “Apologies, I did not mean to imply your ministrations have not been met with my sincerest gratitude.” She took in a deep breath and willed the air to fill her limbs right through her fingers. With her exhale, her hands rose at least six inches. She chuckled and glanced at Brother Wesley.

  “Praise be to God, Miss Gyllis.” He stood and clapped his palms together. “I do believe the Lord’s strength just showed the greatness of its power right through the tips of your fingers.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Let me try again.” She closed her eyes. Please, please, please. Once more her hands rose from the bed. They trembled a bit, but she’d done it. No matter how small the win, it was something. She splayed her fingers. Without telling Brother Wesley, she tried to wiggle her toes. Possibly the toes on the right foot moved. She couldn’t be certain.

  The door opened and John stepped inside, holding a lute and a parcel. He grimaced at Brother Wesley and bowed his head. “Have I interrupted you?”

  “I was just finishing.” The monk straightened and smiled. “Miss Gyllis lifted her arms further than ever before.”

  John smiled. “Very good news.”

  “Indeed.” Wesley bowed. “I should prepare for vespers.”

  “I shall be in the nave shortly.” John sat on the stool beside her bed. “Mother sent a few things.”

  Gyllis eyed the lute in his hands, her spirits again sinking. “I doubt I’ll ever have the wherewithal to play that again.”

  The cell was so small, he simply leaned back to place the instrument in the corner across from the bed. “We’ll keep it here until you are ready.” He reached inside the satchel and pulled out a book. “You might start with this first. We can prop you up and I’ll wager you’ll be able to turn the pages since you can raise your arms a bit.”

  Gyllis squinted at the title. The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle & other Romantic Tales. “My heavens, ’tis not the Holy Bible?”

  John smoothed his palm over the leather binding—with light dun hair, her brother posed a handsome man. “I suppose Mother thought you’d prefer something lighter, though I’d be more than happy to replace this with a Bible from my own library.”

  Gyllis’s fingers twitched, if only she could snatch the book from his hands and cradle it to her chest. She may never find romance for herself, but she certainly could live it through the text on the page. She’d read The Legend of King Arthur over and over until she could recite lengthy passages. “Please, can I start now?”

  “Very well.” He glanced around the tiny cell. “Perhaps you’ll be able to read if I rest it in your lap.” He opened the book to the first page then lifted Gyllis’s arms and placed them across her lap.

  Instantly she was transported by the mystical knight, Sir Gromer Somer Joure as he challenged King Arthur to discover what women desire most. Anxious to turn the page, her fingers twitched, her arm moved spasmodically and knocked the book from its perch.

  John slid it back in place, but kept it open to the page she’d already read.

  Grinding her teeth, Gyllis concentrated, focusing on the simple task of turning the page. When at last her feeble hand grasped the velum, her motion jerked, and the cursed book clattered to the stone floor. A cry caught in her throat. “Bless it, I am completely useless.”

  “I’ll fetch it.” He retrieved the book and again set it on her lap.

  Gyllis shook her head. “No. What use is it if I cannot turn the pages myself?” She looked at the ceiling and wailed. She couldn’t even clench her miserable fists. “My God, why has this happened to me? What did I do to deserve a life in purgatory?”

  John placed his hand on her arm. “There, there. You mustn’t fret.”

  “But I can do nothing without help.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “It would have been better if God had taken my life than to have left me paralyzed with no prospects of recovery.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve made progress.”

  “D-do you honestly believe that, John?” Uncontrollable sobs racked her body. It had been ages and ages since she fell ill—and she hated every moment of her confinement. “I am the most worthless lass who ever lived. I cannot even hold a miserable book. I’ll never walk again. I’ll never be courted by a dashing knight. I’ll never bear children.” She wiped her miserable nose on her shoulder because she couldn’t—possibly never would be able to—use a worthless kerchief. “I am nothing.”

  A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Ardchattan Priory, but he was looking forward to the prospect of seeing John Campbell, the prior. After the untimely death of John and Duncan’s father, the younger son had left the Highland Enforcers to become a priest. Sean hated to see him go. He was a fine knight and a better friend.

  He raised the blackened iron knocker on the cloister gate and rapped it twice.

  Not long and a monk slid open the viewing panel. “Yes?”

  “Sean MacDougall here, Chieftain of Dunollie. I’ve come to meet the Lord of Lorn, has he arrived as of yet?”

  “Afraid not.” The monk moved to shut the screen.

  Sean thrust the hilt of his dirk into the opening before it closed. “Then perhaps I may have a word with the prior. John Campbell and I were boyhood friends.”

  A single eye peered through the gap. “I shall inquire if he is able to receive visitors.”

  The monk slid the panel closed. To Sean’s surprise, the hinges on the big black gate creaked. When the door opened, the monk gestured to a bench in the cloister, walled on one side, hedged by a row of trimmed holly on the other. “Wait here.”

  Sean sat as directed. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, folded his arms, whistled a tune and then he stood. Not one to be idle, he paced. Behind the hedge someone chuckled. A woman’s voice.

  He peered over the shrubbery b
ut saw no one. Only a few steps from the courtyard entrance, he walked to the break in the hedge and peeked around. A woman wrapped in blankets sat on a bench directly opposite from where Sean had been sitting. She wore a plain white veil atop her head and was looking down—in fact she was reading.

  The book must have been interesting because her shoulders shook as if she might be laughing. If only he could see the joy upon her face, he’d enjoy a good laugh himself.

  The woman’s hands trembled and she slowly reached to turn the page—as if she were very old—though her fine-boned hands appeared smooth and ageless. Her shoulders tensed as she struggled to grasp the vellum. Sean cringed at her effort.

  What illness afflicts the lass?

  When she finally had the page turned, the blasted thing flipped back the other way.

  “Argh.” The agony in her voice clawed at Sean’s heart.

  He strode forward and plucked the book from her fingers. “Please. Allow me.”

  The woman gasped as if she’d been accosted.

  Sean glanced at her face and froze. In that instant, his heart stopped, his mouth dried and his stomach plummeted to his toes.

  He knew her. Cared for her. But something was terribly wrong. In that moment, she appeared so vexed and more so, stricken by horror. Christ, she was so skeletally thin, but he could never mistake the pair of mossy green eyes encircled by rings of navy blue.

  He swallowed. “Gyllis?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

  She quickly averted her face. “Go away.”

  “It is you.” Sean knelt beside her. “My God, what happened?”

  Her shoulders tensed and she moved a trembling hand to block her face, seemingly afraid of catching a disease from him.

  He wanted to place his palm upon her shoulder, but stopped himself by clutching the book tighter. “You’re so frail and thin.” He cast his mind back. “Yet a mere two months have passed since Beltane…”

  “Please, return my book and leave me be.”

  Why was she being so despondent? They were friends—more than friends, for the love of God. “Will you not look at me—tell me what ails you?”