Kissing the Countess
Page 29
Book One
by
Susan King
National Bestselling Author
TAMING THE HEIRESS
Reviews & Accolades
"An exquisite and magical Highland romance."
~Booklist, *starred review
"A consummate storyteller."
~Publishers Weekly
"Magic, myth and history blend to perfection.... King is a master storyteller."
~Romantic Times Book Club
Scotland, the Isles, 1850
"We have never met before, Mr. Stewart," Margaret MacNeill replied to his question. Her English had the soft lilt of a Gaelic speaker. She seemed wary. Shy, perhaps.
Dougal noted that she was slim and neatly made beneath her plain garments. Her feet were sand-dusted, her clasped hands smooth and lovely. If she worked with nets and gutted fish, like many Hebridean women, her hands did not show it. Her golden curls were loose, her features beautiful, delicate—yet stubborn.
He felt sure he had seen her before. He would not forget those eyes—luminous, silvery aqua. Frowning, he remembered a moment years ago, when he had shared a storm-lashed cave with a girl of the Isles, both of them stranded for the night. Her eyes had been that same extraordinary blue-green color.
Margaret MacNeill was so much like the girl he had been with that night that he felt a shock of recognition all through his body. Could she indeed be that girl, a few years older now?
If she knew him, she gave no sign. She seemed calm, but he noticed her clasped hands, her quick glance, the clenched toes in the sand.
Uncertain yet, he looked at the girl’s grandfather, Norrie MacNeill, beside her. "Mr. Stewart is the chief of the lighthouse on the rock," Norrie was telling his granddaughter.
"Resident engineer," Dougal said. "I was assigned here by the Northern Lighthouse Commission. We have a grant of permission to build and to maintain a lighthouse here."
"I know, Mr. Stewart," the girl said crisply.
If she did know him, she was not pleased to see him again. He could not blame her. His behavior had been inexcusable, ravishing her—but she had been so willing, sharing the same desire and need for comfort that wild night. He had wanted to find her again, but had not been successful.
He had to speak with her alone, and soon. Clearly he owed her an apology and an explanation. He had acted the fool, and still felt the pang of it in his conscience.
"I saw you and your men cutting into the hard place today," Norrie said, "when I went over the waves to draw in my nets."
"The hard place?" Dougal asked.
"Sgeir Caran," Margaret MacNeill explained. "My grandfather, like many Hebridean fishermen, will not say the rock's name aloud."
"Ah. I will try to respect local traditions while I am here."
"Then do not build your lighthouse on that rock," the girl said tartly. "It is a place of legends to the people of this isle."
"Legends?"
"The hard place belongs to the each-uisge," Norrie said. "The lord of the deep."
"A sea kelpie," the girl explained, "a magical creature who can take the form of a white horse or a man."
"He comes to the rock now and again, seeking a bride," Norrie went on. "If his bride pleases him, he will quiet the storms, summon more fish and bestow good fortune on us. But if he is displeased, he will raise great storms and the fish will flee our waters. His wrath could sink the island."
"Your kelpie is no fellow to cross," Dougal said.
"We try to make sure he is happy," Norrie said.
"We honor the tradition," Norrie’s granddaughter snapped, "even if some do not."
"I beg your pardon, Miss MacNeill?" Dougal inclined his head. She was definitely displeased with him.
The girl only scowled at him and looked away.
"I am thinking you do not have permission to use the beach and harbor. But you still do the work." Norrie sucked at his pipe.
"I have a grant of permission," Dougal said, surprised by his wish to earn the old fisherman's approval.
"The fine lady who owns this island does not like strangers here on Caransay. If we see her we will tell her you are here." Norrie pointed with his pipe toward the rock in the distance. "To please the lady, better find another rock for your light."
"The location is too dangerous," Margaret MacNeill said then. "There are wild storms and high waves out there."
"I know, Miss MacNeill," Dougal answered quietly, looking down at her. "I know that quite well, in fact."
Her gaze caught his, and he saw a flash of blue fire and awareness. And anger. Then she looked away.
Oh aye, he thought. You are the one.
Taming the Heiress
The Scottish Laird Series
Book One
by
Susan King
~
To purchase
Taming the Heiress
from your favorite eBook Retailer,
visit Susan King's eBook Discovery Author Page
www.ebookdiscovery.com/SusanKing
~
Discover more with
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Page forward for an excerpt from
THE STONE MAIDEN
The Celtic Nights Series
Book One
Excerpt from
The Stone Maiden
The Celtic Nights Series
Book One
by
Susan King
National Bestselling Author
THE STONE MAIDEN
Reviews & Accolades
"King—whose research into the territory and time period is evident—strongly draws readers into the plot and her characters' lives."
~Publishers Weekly
"Exhilarating... Demonstrates why fans and critics cherish her novels."
~Affaire de Coeur
"Filled with excitement. Susan King shows why she is considered by fans and critics to be one of the monarchs of the sub-genre."
~Midwest Book Reviews
"A strong heroine [and] an honorable man... this story brought a tear to my eye. Every part blends seamlessly... I could feel the mist and smell the heather."
~LaurieLikesBooks.com
Scotland, The Highlands, 1170
Sebastien scanned the shadows in the old church out of habit, though he knew no danger existed here. He was simply waiting, silent yet wary, as was his duty as a king's guard, while the visiting Highland girl explored the abbey. Pray saints she would hurry. He had other things to do than stand here. Yet at the same time, he sensed she needed a little peace here, and he would allow her that.
The place seemed to glow, he thought, glancing around its familiar interior. Perhaps its luminosity came from the afternoon light—or perhaps the girl created it, he had the sudden thought, like a flame inside a lantern.
She was indeed a flame, for earlier in audience with the king, she had stirred him to temper when he preferred cool control. In scarcely an hour's time, she had ignited in him fascination, lust, envy, anger, and frustration. Now she roused something else in him—a protective urge. Odd, he thought.
She had wandered off and disappeared among the huge columns in the dim old church for a long while, so he crossed the nave out of curiosity. Rounding past one of the wide columns, he stopped in astonishment.
Alainna MacLaren had stepped up from the floor to perch on the narrow edge of a column base, toes balanced, chest and torso pressed against the pillar, one arm hugging the column. The other hand stretched toward the groove of a carved chevron as if she sought a hold.
"Do you mean to climb all the way up, my lady?" he asked.
She gasped, her foot caught in the train of her gown, and she tilted, arms flailing. He lunged forward so that she tipped neatly into the cradle of his arms.
"Ach," she said breathlessly, looping an arm around his neck. She was long-limbed but not heavy, her body firm through layered fabrics. She was strong, too, for she squirmed so that he nearly dropped her.
"Let me go, sirrah!" she insisted.
"First tell me what happened. Did you turn your ankle? Were you startled by a mouse?" He turned, holding her, looking around. "Shall I vanquish the little beast for you?"
"Spare me your chivalry and your poor jest. You only surprised me, and I fell. Set me down!"
"So be it." He let her go and she stood.
"Your Gaelic is good for a Norman knight," she said, for they were both speaking quietly and quickly in that tongue. "It is surprising."
"I have been a guard here in King William's court for long enough that I took time to learn the language. That way," he said, "I know what is going on around me. It is to my advantage."
"I suppose I should be careful what I say then," she said, brushing at her skirts. She glanced up at the column.
"At least be careful what you do. Why were you trying to climb that column like a squirrel in a tree?"
She did not seem amused. A blush spread beneath her translucent skin, her sapphire eyes darkened, her brows lowered. Sebastien felt as if he watched a gathering storm.
He rather liked storms. "If you want to continue," he drawled, "I could boost you up on my shoulders."
She opened her mouth to reply, then laughed reluctantly. The sound echoed like bells. He chuckled, though it felt strangely dry and rusty. He did not laugh often, he realized.
"I was trying to see my cousin's mark, up there." She pointed.
He looked up. "Mark?"
"Mason's mark," she said. "A symbol engraved in the stone. When a mason dresses a block or makes a carving, he cuts his mark. They are paid according to the work they sign. That one is my cousin's mark."
The vision in his left eye was not as sharp as it once had been, but he did see a distinct symbol cut into one of the stones above their heads. He nodded.
"I just wanted to see it. Touch it," Alainna said.
Sebastien nodded thoughtfully. Then he picked up the cloth and charcoal she had set down on the floor earlier. Reaching up to the mason's mark presented no challenge when he propped a foot on the plinth and stretched his arm up. He smoothed the cloth over the carving and rubbed the charcoal over it to obtain an impression. Then he stepped down and handed her the cloth.
"A remembrance of your cousin," he said.
Her gaze was wide, sincere. "My thanks, sir knight. You must be very devoted to your own kin to know why this means so much to me."
"I... value family," he said vaguely. He glanced at the cloth and saw that she had made some small sketches on it with the charcoal. "These are good. You are quite an imagier."
"I had some training from my cousin. Let me show you his work." She strolled with him, pointing out acanthus carvings and panels of interlaced vines. "See those flowers there? Malcolm always curled and fluted his leaves like that, to make the edges thin and delicate. These are clearly his work."
He listened, admiring the fine work she showed him, though he glanced more at the girl than the carvings. Her voice was soft and soothing, the sight of her like a balm to his weary spirit. As they neared the arched doors, she turned to him.
"My foster brother is waiting for me outside."
Sebastien felt a wrench within, like dismay. He simply held the door open for her. She glided past, the top of her head just at the level of his shoulder, though she was tall for a woman.
Outside he saw the girl's foster brother, Giric MacGregor, riding toward them, leading a second horse by the reins. Both mounts were the sturdy garrons common to the Highlands, smaller and shaggier than Norman horses.
Sebastien turned. "Farewell, Alainna of Kinlochan. We will not meet again."
She looked startled. "Why so?"
"I plan to leave Scotland soon."
Her cheeks colored pink. "Oh! A thousand blessings on you, then, and may God make smooth the path before you," she said quickly in Gaelic. "May the faeries protect you."
He smiled, familiar with the poetry of Gaelic greetings and farewells. "May you be safe from every harm, and may the angels bless you," he murmured in return.
She whirled and ran toward Giric, who assisted her into the saddle. Taking the reins, she glanced back.
Sebastien raised a hand in salute as they left. Then he took the path leading toward the king's tower. But he could not resist an urge to look back.
Alainna swiveled to look back at him just as he glanced toward her. Then they both turned away. He headed down the sloped path, surrounded by trees and birdsong, and found himself listening for distant hoofbeats, as if the sound was a thread linking him to her for a while longer.
He felt as if something remarkable had happened, but he could not define it. The Highland girl had entered his day like sunlight falling over shadows. In her absence, the world seemed somehow duller, colder.
Then he remembered why she had come to the king's court—to request that the king find her a husband, a capable warrior and protector for her small clan—but the hapless fellow must take her clan's name, for she was the last of her line of chiefs. Sebastien huffed; what man would sacrifice his name?
But a twinge of jealousy rippled through him at the thought of her marrying a man, whether Celtic or Norman, who might agree to her conditions. Frowning, not sure why he should care at all, he walked on.
The Stone Maiden
The Celtic Nights Series
Book One
by
Susan King
~
To purchase
The Stone Maiden
from your favorite eBook Retailer,
visit Susan King's eBook Discovery Author Page
www.ebookdiscovery.com/SusanKing
~
Discover more with
eBookDiscovery.com
Susan King is the bestselling, award-winning author of 22 historical novels and novellas praised for historical accuracy, master storytelling and lyricism.
As Susan King and Sarah Gabriel, she has written several historical romances for Penguin Putnam and Avon; as Susan Fraser King, she writes historical fiction, including Lady Macbeth: A Novel, and Queen Hereafter: A Novel of Margaret of Scotland, from Random House.
A former college lecturer and founding member of the popular Word Wenches blog, Susan holds graduate degrees in art history and lives in Maryland with her family.
Learn more about Susan's books at www.susanfraserking.com, www.susankingbooks.com and www.wordwenches.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
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
Epilogue
A Note from the Publisher
Author's Note
Excerpt from TAMING THE HEIRESS (The Scottish Lairds, Book 1)
THE STONE MAIDEN
Meet the Author