by Susan King
After a moment, she got to her feet and stepped forward, but her foot caught a lance leaned against the wall, and she stumbled.
As she put a hand down to get up again, her fingers slipped into a crack between loose planks in the wooden floor. Something was underneath the board, she was certain of it.
She tugged on the board, pulled hard, and lifted an end of the plank, shifting it aside. The chimney house had been constructed over the pitched roof of the tower, and the wooden floor was a mere platform. Underneath the planks was empty space. Mairi reached into the blackness.
Not so empty, after all. Her hand closed on thick, coarse cloth, and she felt, inside that, something bulky and hard. She found a loose corner of the cloth and tugged.
Then she heard footsteps and looked up to see Rowan entering the little room. Mairi stood, moving toward him, and he held out his arms. She went into that safe, strong, enclosing circle, leaning her head against his chest.
Rowan held her, his lips against her hair, her brow, his hands steady on her back. She tilted her head and found his lips, kissed him, wrapped her arms around his neck.
Thunder sounded again, followed by lightning. Rowan looked down at her in the flickering whiteness.
"Mairi, Simon is—"
"I know," she whispered. "Come here." She took his hand and pulled him toward the open section of the floor, and knelt. He bent one knee and reached down, pulling the cloth aside.
"God have mercy," he said in a low voice. "This must be all of it. There's another sack beneath this one." He dug his fingers down, and Mairi heard a cool chinking sound.
Lightning poured its brilliance into the room as Rowan spilled a fortune in shining gold out of his hand. Then he tucked the coins back inside the sack.
"The English queen will get her Spanish gold after all," he said, looking at Mairi.
"And this will clear all of you of any charges."
"It should," he said. He took her hands and pulled her toward him, enveloped her in his embrace.
The thunder quieted and rain pattered the roof of the chimney house as Rowan held her. Mairi listened to the rhythms of the rain and the beat of his heart, and felt contentment warm her despite all that had happened earlier.
"Simon feared these storms meant the end of the world esd upon us," she murmured. "And the world ended—for him—just as he dreaded it would."
"Aye so." Rowan brushed a tousle of hair away from her forehead. "But you and I, my lass," he whispered, "our world is just beginning."
Mairi turned her face upward, smiling, closing her eyes as she felt his lips warm over her own. "It is," she murmured against his mouth. "Here and now."
Epilogue
"Be content, be content,
Be content wi me lady;
Now ye are my wedded wife
Until the day ye die, lady."
—"Rob Roy"
Rowan rested a hand on the cold, smooth stone of the medieval tomb sculpture, and looked at the lady's serene carved face. Like this lady, Maggie, too, was gone—yet he had never taken his farewell of her. He had come here now, meaning to release her as honorably as he could.
Not long ago, he had confronted Alec here, over this tomb. Filled with anger and hurt, he had discovered, after all, no betrayal. Rather, two people had loved him and his son, and had done their best to protect them. Now, drawing a breath, he felt humbled. Finally, he could let go what had haunted him.
Suddenly in the small, dark crypt, slender streams of sunlight sliced through the cracks in the masonry. The crypt, with its broken walls and dark shadows, would soon be rebuilt, as would all of Lincraig Castle. He had hired workmen to construct a new tower in the barnekin yard using the old stones.
The English queen had decided to reward him and Alec and Iain, too, for finding the missing Spanish gold—and for uncovering, through interrogating Clem Elliot, a chain of Scottish spies plotting with Spain against England. Elizabeth had sent Rowan a sum of gold that was enough to rebuild Lincraig and keep the Blackdrummond Scotts comfortable for a long time. Alec and Iain had a goodly sum each, as well.
He left the crypt, glancing back at the silent tombs of the Lincraig Scotts. He would respect their memory by repairing the crypt carefully, without changing its design or disturbing their tombs.
Ascending the stairs, he crossed the chapel in shafts of sunlight and walked through the ruins and out into the yard. The spring breeze ruffled his hair and shirtsleeves and the sun warmed his brow.
Mairi waited for him, holding his son's hand in hers. She smiled, coming toward him. Jamie toddled past her, stopping to pick up a rock and put it down, then choosing another. Mairi glanced at him, then turned toward Rowan.
She glided forward easily, as graceful as clouds skimming the breeze. Her gown blew softly around her, and she placed a hand on the gentle swell of her abdomen, where their child was nurtured within.
Rowan held out his hand to her, loving the way the breeze and the sunlight turned her cheeks soft pink, loving the drape of the dark, silken braid over her shoulder, loving the way her eyes shone like silver, as if her very soul was illuminated there. She had offered him more in life than he ever dreamed possible.
And he would always feel a sense of wonder when he saw her. He would always be grateful for the privilege of such love, as long as he lived. Longer.
"Jamie and I were discussing the building plans while you were in the chapel," she said, laughing. "He is choosing the stones, as you can see."
Jamie held up a rock to show Rowan, who admired it, and then caught it deftly when it was flung toward him.
"Iain and Alec came by, and had a letter for me," she said, indicating two other horses tethered beside Valentine and Peg. "They've gone over there to look at the far corner tower, since you have all been talking about the design of the new tower."
"Ah. And your letter?" he asked. "Who is it from?"
"My parents are coming home from Denmark!" She smiled. "My father finally received my letter—along with the second one telling him that Iain is fine—and he and my mother will be arriving in Leith harbor early next month. I want to meet them in Edinburgh if we can. Iain and Jennet and Robin will come too."
He smiled, cupping her cheek. "Of course we must go," he said. "I need to go to Edinburgh soon, as well. The council will be expecting a further report."
"Since you turned down the warden's post they offered, will they ask you to serve somewhere else?" she asked.
"For now, I'm content to be Archie Pringle's deputy in the Middle March. I've been gone from Blackdrummond too long. I want to spend time there with my family while we rebuild Lincraig. Someday I'll be ready for a warden's post."
She nodded. He put his arm around her and felt her arm at his waist, and their steps fell into a gentle rhythm. Their bodies always fit together, he thought, whether they walked, rested, or made love, as if they had been formed in harmony.
Although he knew they were each too strong willed by nature to ever become docile and dull together, the conflict that had once existed between them had taught them a good deal about each other, and about themselves. Now they shared a deep bond of love and acceptance at the core of their marriage.
"Alec has decided to take a position in Liddesdale as deputy to one of your cousins," she said, stirring him out of his thoughts.
He nodded. "I know. He'll be leaving soon."
"Jamie will miss him," she said softly.
"Da, my da," Jamie said, and threw another stone.
"Alec wants Jamie to spend time with us so that he'll become less devoted to him, I think," she said.
"Jamie will never lose his devotion to Alec," he said.
"Nor should he." They moved through the yard while Jamie ran circles around them, searching for stones. Rowan glanced around, noticing that the Lincraig hill was green now, but the strip of the road he could see was still a dry brown ribbon.
"I first saw you from that hill," Mairi said, looking in the same direction. "Through that fierc
e storm—and I wondered then if you were the man my brother had seen in that vision."
He pulled her closer. "And I first saw you inside the black stone," he said.
"Stone," Jamie echoed, and picked one up from the ground.
"What will you do with the black mirror?" she asked.
"Keep it put away. We may never learn where it came from, or why it has the power that it has."
"Iain thinks the Spaniards got it in the New World," she said. "He's heard of a similar kind of vision stone from our brother Conor, who sails the Spanish Main. But the man who used it to smuggle the document to Simon—the Spaniard who bribed him and invited him to what he thought would be Paradise—may or may not have known its power. You and I certainly discovered that part of it."
"Wherever it came from, lass," Rowan said, "the stone led me to you. That is all I need to know about it."
She leaned closer and he kissed the sweet silk of her hair. Jamie ran over to them and held up an empty hand. "Roon!"
"Aye, lad?" Rowan took the tiny hand in his, and felt Jamie squeeze his fingers. He pulled Mairi close with his other hand, caressing the gentle thickening at her waist.
He looked toward the dazzling sunlight that filled the spring sky, and knew that he held in his hands all that had ever been missing in his life, and his heart was full.
The End
Want more from Susan King?
Page forward for a special Author's Note
followed by an excerpt from
THE HEATHER MOON
The Border Rogues Series
Book Three
Dear Reader,
Writing historical fiction about the Scottish Border reivers is a little like writing a western. The two societies had much in common, from cattle theft to nests of outlaws to posses and lynchings. The Scottish Borderers were often bold, notorious, brash, violent, noble, and even comical. I have tried to convey some of that, and thoroughly enjoyed my foray into their territory. For information on reiving, truce days, Leges Marchiarum, and so on, I am indebted to many fine research sources, none more so than George MacDonald Fraser's fascinating study of the Borderers, The Steel Bonnets: The Story of the Anglo-Scottish Border Reivers.
As in The Raven's Wish, I used verses from old Scottish ballads to head the chapters and echo some aspect of the story. The most reliable source for this form of Scottish poetry is Francis James Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, published in five volumes from 1882 to 1898, and can be found online or in reprint editions.
I hope you enjoyed The Raven's Moon. Please look for my other books in e-books and in print—I write historical romance as Susan King and as Sarah Gabriel, and mainstream historical fiction as Susan Fraser King.
To learn more about my books or to contact me, please visit www.susanfraserking.com or www.susankingbooks.com. I am also a founding member of the Word Wenches blog group, the longest running romance author blog on the web. You can find us at www.wordwenches.com.
Happy Reading!
Susan
Page forward for an excerpt from
THE HEATHER MOON
The Border Rogues Series
Book Three
Excerpt from
The Heather Moon
The Border Rogues Series
Book Three
by
Susan King
National Bestselling Author
THE HEATHER MOON
Reviews & Accolades
Nominated for Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award, Best Medieval
"A brilliantly woven tale of history and romance, as lush as a tapestry."
~Romance Fiction Forum
"Overflows with a masterful command of history. A must for fans of Scottish romances."
~Kathe Robin, Romantic Times
"King is a master storyteller."
~RT Book Reviews
July 1543
Her eyes were a cool, delicate green even in torchlight—but her gaze was hot and furious. If her gloved hands and booted ankles had not been bound, William Scott thought, she might have thrown herself at him in a rage.
Of the men gathered in the dungeon cell watching the girl, William stood closest. He advanced toward her while his English host—her captor—stayed cautiously near the door and his guardsmen.
She watched William warily, her nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, breath heaving beneath her leather doublet. Despite male clothing and the agile strength of her resistance, none of them would have mistaken her for a lad. She was clearly female, with well-shaped curves beneath doublet, breeches, and high boots.
Besides, William thought wryly as he took a step forward, only a woman could cast a glare that would make armed men hesitate.
She reminded him of a cornered wildcat: lithe, tawny, eyes blazing. Yet he saw a flicker of fear in her gaze. He remembered all too well what it was like to be confined, bound, and watched like a mummer's animal. Though he had been a lad at the time, the day of his own capture—the day of his father's hanging—burned clear in his memory.
He edged a bit closer. "Be calm, lass," he murmured.
Her glance darted from him to the others, sparking like green fire. She looked down at the man who lay collapsed at her feet. Large, blond, bearded, and considerably older than the girl, he seemed barely conscious. Blood seeped from a wound on his brow. The girl stood over him like a fierce guardian.
William advanced steadily, palm out. "Calm, lass, we only want to talk to you."
She shuffled back, keeping her balance despite her bound ankles. Tendrils of long, dark hair spilled over her eyes. She shook back the silken veil and glared at him.
"Take care, man. She will attack," Jasper Musgrave warned behind him. "I know her. A savage—half Border Scot, half gypsy. A wild girl, that one. They say no man will wed her, though her Scottish father bribes and begs men to be her suitors."
William saw understanding and a flash of hurt in the girl's eyes at the words. "She's no savage," he said over his shoulder. "Look how she defends herself and her companion. She thinks we mean them harm."
"And so we do!" Musgrave laughed harshly, shifting his great bulk a step or two closer. "She and her father and the rest of their comrades took my horses."
"That's her father?" William had seen the prisoners only moments ago, when Jasper Musgrave had led him down here the dungeon in this English castle. Though it was past midnight, he and Musgrave had sat late by the fire drinking Spanish sherry and negotiating a complex matter of couched bribery and cautious acceptance. The good, mellow sherry had not made up for the sour discussion.
Musgrave's men had then informed their lord that they had captured two Scottish reivers who had stolen some horses. The rest of the thieves had fled, but two were now imprisoned in Musgrave's dungeon. William had been asked to witness their interrogation, as Musgrave's guest and a member of a reiving surname himself.
"Aye, father and daughter," Musgrave was saying. "Border scum from the Scottish side. They and their kin have plagued me for years. My land lies south of his land, with six miles between our towers. Now I'll see them hanged for their mischief at last." He gestured toward the man collapsed on the floor. "Fortunate for us he took a sore hurt. Otherwise Archie Armstrong would have got away again."
"Armstrong!" William glanced at him. "Of what place?"
"Merton Rigg," Musgrave said. "Half Merton, some call it, because the tower sits directly on the—"
"Directly on the Border line, in the area called the Debatable Land," William said quickly. "Merton sits half in Scotland and half in England, since the house was built before the current border was shifted. I know of it."
"Well, the English part of that land is mine," Musgrave muttered. "The case has been in the Session courts for years. No judge will settle the boundaries, since it would entail a change in the national borders." He peered at William. "You know Armstrong of Merton Rigg?"
"My father rode with him, long ago."
"Your father! A notorious scoundrel
. You had the favor of your King James once, but he's dead and gone, leaving his kingdom to an infant heiress. You have no king's favor now, William Scott, and you're a rogue yourself." Musgrave folded his hands over his belly. "But you are just the rogue we need—a canny Scot with ties to the crown, yet sense enough to join our cause."
"Aye, sense enough," William muttered bitterly. He noticed that the girl was listening, eyes keen, breath heaving. He glanced at her father, a brawny heap on the earthen floor, blood smeared over the man's face and head.
Despite the wound, and the pale whiskers, William recognized Archie's once-reddish head and strong features. Archie Armstrong had been his father's close comrade, a huge, blond, jovial man. William had been a boy when Armstrong's two sons had been hanged, but he remembered his own father's distress over the incident. Archie's daughter was younger than her brothers, William realized, and years younger than his own thirty years.
As Musgrave murmured to the guards behind him, William suddenly recalled something further about Archie Armstrong. An image sprang to mind with a near-physical shock.
He remembered seeing Archie Armstrong on the day of his father's death. William had ridden through a glen, his horse led by the men who took him prisoner that day, a captive of the Scottish crown. He had looked up to see Archie on horseback on the crest of a hill, watching the party ride past. Archie had lifted a hand in salute to William.
A dark-haired child sat in Archie's lap that day. She had waved to William. He remembered waving back. And he recalled, too, how desperately he had wanted to break free and ride to the refuge and care of his father's friend.
Now he stared at Archie's daughter. This wild half-gypsy girl must have been the little girl he had seen that day. Her solemn salute, and her father's, had meant everything to him once, a shining memory of honor and safety that he had treasured as a boy, a captive of the crown for years.
