The Highlander’s Lady Knight
Madeline Martin
Copyright 2020 © Madeline Martin
THE HIGHLANDER’S LADY KNIGHT © 2020 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.
THE HIGHLANDER’S LADY KNIGHT is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Dar Albert @ Wicked Smart Designs.
Contents
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Madeline Martin
1
Sutherland, Scotland
May 1193
In the year since Cormac Sutherland had become Chieftain of the Sutherland clan, the crops had failed, the weather had turned foul, and his people were dying.
He swept his palm over his jaw and let his hand come to rest against the back of his neck where the muscles were knotted like a sailor’s rope. His da had faced trials to be sure, but not in his first year as chieftain. And not like this.
He stared out the open window at the fields of tender shoots, all buried in an inch of water. The rain continued to fall at a steady rate, guaranteeing that the perpetual flood of water would not be absorbed and would wash out yet another crop. Also guaranteeing that the fragile new plants would likely die. Again.
As if the blight on the prior year’s plants during harvest had not already devastated the clan.
“We could go back to the Rosses.”
Cormac turned to face his twin, Graham. They both had dark, shoulder-length hair, bright green eyes and a height that bespoke of their strong lineage. Graham sat on the corner of Cormac’s oversized desk with his arse settled on a stack of parchment.
“We canna go back to the Rosses.” Cormac wrapped his hand at the back of his neck. “They already gave their excess grain stores to the MacDonalds. I sent a spy out to see how their crops are faring with the constant rain we’ve had. I expect him back shortly.”
Graham shook his head and growled his aggravation. “The Rosses know we canna abide the MacDonalds.”
“The Rosses are the only clan I know who had surplus crops in the last year.” Cormac sighed and dropped his arm back to his side. “We either need more grain or more coin to have it carted in from farther away.”
A knock sounded at the solar door, and Cormac bid them enter. A wiry young man with messy golden blond hair entered—Hamish, the very spy Cormac had just mentioned to Graham. Hamish was average height with an appearance so ordinary that he was immediately forgettable. The lad had a gift of blending into any crowd without ever once being noticed.
“Ye’ve got good news for us, aye?” Graham grinned with eager expectation, flashing the dimple on his right cheek. Cormac had a dimple on the opposite cheek, though it seldom made an appearance.
Cormac threw Graham a dark look, though in truth, he wished he could possess a similar optimism. Mayhap that might have been possible several months ago before the rain washed out their crops and almost all of their hope.
“I have news,” Hamish said with obvious hesitation. “Their land doesna appear to be affected by the rains. No’ like ours. But I dinna think they’re likely to offer it to us.”
“The MacDonalds?” Cormac surmised.
“Worse.” Hamish grimaced. “The English.”
“The English?” Graham echoed Cormac’s disbelief.
“’Tis what is said around the towns.” Hamish shrugged. “Apparently Laird Ross’s eldest sons have been promised to the daughters of English nobles. ’Tis said they'd inherit no’ only lands at the border, but also considerable wealth.”
Cormac considered what this might mean in relation to the number of grain stores. A wet chill blew in from the open window, spitting flecks of rain against Cormac’s forearms where he’d pushed up his sleeves.
Hamish shifted his weight. “There’s to be a jousting tournament in England. ‘Tis where the unions are to take place.”
“The daughters of English nobles, eh?” Graham’s eyes twinkled in a way Cormac didn’t like. “Where is this jousting tournament?”
Cormac frowned at his brother, but Hamish didn’t appear to notice. “At the Rose Citadel, which they said is a days ride from the border.”
“Daughters of English nobles with land near the border and considerable wealth,” Graham repeated what Hamish had said and lifted his brows at Cormac.
Cormac eyed his brother warily. “I dinna like how ye’re saying that.”
“We could use considerable wealth,” Graham said. “And the land on the border is far enough away to most likely no’ be flooded like the lands here. Mayhap they’d have extra food.”
Cormac grunted.
“We’re fine-looking men.” Graham gave his most charming smile and winked.
Cormac groaned aloud, already following where Graham’s thoughts were heading. “Ye’re no’ going to the tournament to woo another man’s lass.”
Graham shot his brother a wounded look. “Nay, of course I’m no’.” He rubbed his hands together with apparent anticipation. “We both are.”
“Hamish, ye may take yer leave.” Cormac crossed his arms over his chest, regarding his brother. “Nay.”
“Think of it, Cormac.” Graham hopped off the table and spread his hands wide. “If we both go, it’ll double the chances of wooing at least one.”
Cormac bristled. “I wouldna pin yer hopes on me.”
“Maybe the lasses like grumpy men, eh?” Graham tilted his head in thought. “They are English after all.”
“With all due respect, sir, ’tis a fair idea.”
Cormac turned to find Hamish still standing by the door. How in God’s teeth did the man stay so invisible?
“’Tis a terrible idea,” Cormac countered.
Graham squared his jaw, as he often did when he’d stubbornly lodged his thoughts on a wild scheme. “Why?”
Cormac rattled through his thoughts, hating his inability to find a good reason. Aye, the lasses were promised to other men, and they might not want Cormac or Graham. Aye, it was wrong to try to steal a man’s betrothed.
But it was far more wrong to let his clan starve.
Graham braced his palm against the wet window ledge and peered out to the rain-laden crops below. “Staying here willna fix this, Cormac.”
“I know,” Cormac muttered.
“And two of ye will have double the chance,” Hamish piped up.
Cormac glared at him. “Take yer leave.” This time Cormac didn’t take his eyes from the man until the spy grudgingly slipped out and let the door close behind him.
“Ye know I’m right.” Gr
aham put a hand to Cormac’s shoulder. “Ye just dinna like it.”
Cormac heaved a great sigh of defeat. His brother was indeed correct on both accounts. It was the only viable plan on the horizon, and Cormac had spent countless hours puzzling how to save his clan with no real solution.
He closed the shutters and snapped them into place, abruptly cutting off the wind sweeping into the room and placing them in a darkness that took some getting used to. The meager candle on the desk glowed orange gold.
Cormac would do anything to spare his people another hungry winter. Even…flirt…possibly dance…with a woman who might care for another man.
Shite.
Then he thought of his childhood friend, Blair Sutherland, who had recently starved to death in an effort to feed his child. And of Ines Sutherland, whose sacrifice to others had also come at the cost of her life. And Ewan and Gregor as well as their mum. The list went on to include over two dozen of his people who had died from lack of food.
Cormac clenched his hand into a fist. His people looked to him to save them. He owed it to them, and to those who had died, to try to save them by any means possible. He steeled himself against the guilty stab of his morals. No matter what it took, no matter who he had to kill or rob or woo, he would ensure not one more Sutherland starved to death.
Westmorland, England
The vial of poison rested hot against Lady Isolde Maxwell’s palm.
She entered the solar and her brother, Gilbert Maxwell, Earl of Easton, lifted his head. “What do you want?”
They both shared the delicate appearance inherited from their late mother with slight figures, fair skin and sculpted cheekbones. But when Gilbert scowled as he did now, he resembled their father whose disposition had been equally as sour.
Isolde lifted her chin in silent refusal to be cowed by his usually foul demeanor. “You know why I’m here.”
“Not this again.” He pressed his hands to the smooth tabletop and regarded her with the impatient exasperation one does to a small child who fails at comprehension. “You are going to wed Brodie Ross of the Ross clan at Baron de la Rose’s tournament this coming sennight.” Gilbert had a slightly high pitch to his voice for a man, and when he spoke with such snideness, it took on a shrill tone.
“I do not wish to,” Isolde replied, unwavering.
“But you will.” Gilbert smiled coldly at her. “You haven’t a choice.”
“We don’t need an alliance with the Ross clan.” Isolde glanced around the opulent solar, which had become even more finely decorated after their miserly father’s death. “We have a noble title, a good name and wealth enough to afford a comfortable life.”
More than comfortable, in truth. Their life bordered on ostentatious now. The solar was only one example. The plain walls had been fitted with carved whorls and flowers along the tops of the walls and the fireplace, then painted with vivid color and gilt, so it practically glowed in the firelight. Gilbert had the great desk polished to a high shine and had commissioned several more pieces of furniture to be built, including two chairs before the hearth.
It was more than they needed. Especially when so many others had so little.
“You know why this must happen.” Gilbert’s statement took on a nasal condescension. “Your tattered reputation has need of salvaging.”
Anger licked at her patience and heat simmered through her veins. “I did nothing wrong.”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “If allowing a man liberties with your person and then refusing them marriage is not wrong, dear sister, I am uncertain what is.”
She squeezed the vial in her hand. “I told you I was tricked.”
“I know what you said.” He steepled his long, slender fingers together. “And I know what I saw.”
Isolde pressed her lips together. There was no use in arguing how she’d been found with Brodie in the hall, his body pinning her against the wall, her skirts pushed up to her thighs. Her cheeks burned now to even think of how exposed she’d been, how easily she’d been fooled. She’d been disgustingly naive.
Never again would she allow herself to be misled.
“You saw what he wanted you to,” Isolde countered. “He feigned confusion as to where the Great Hall was located, bade me lead him there and then he pushed me against the stonework and hefted up my skirt so it would appear that…” Her words caught in her throat. She couldn’t even speak of something so vile.
Her stomach writhed at the memory. He’d shoved her so hard that she’d smacked the back of her head on the whitewashed stones. She’d been too surprised to fight him off. By then, it was too late. Footsteps were headed in their direction, and his rough, callused hands were pushing up her skirt.
He hadn’t actually touched her, thanks be to God. But the evidence of her naked leg, along with their improper proximity, had been enough to condemn her.
Her brother issued a flat smile. “Is that all, Isolde?”
The ire in Isolde’s body made her blood as hot as boiling oil. “You told Mother you would look after me.”
“Aye, but she’s dead now.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I made the promise before realizing you were such a slattern.”
Isolde jerked back as though she’d been slapped. Indeed, she had been struck—deep in her chest and by the person who should care most for her in this world.
“I want you to cancel the arrangement for my union and instead fight Brodie to defend my honor.” By some miracle, she was able to keep a quaver from her voice.
Gilbert cast his eyes to the ceiling with impatience. “Nay. We leave for the Rose Citadel in the morning.”
All at once, she was glad she had found the courage to seek out the healer and procure the small vial. The potion wouldn’t be enough to kill him. Isolde did not want him dead.
She did, however, need him to be unable to travel.
A night violently evacuating his bowels, and possibly the following day as well would leave him weak and in need of rest. Or so she’d been promised.
“Very well,” Isolde said. “I’ll be prepared.”
It seemed like compliance, but in truth, they were the words she’d told her maid, Matilda, to listen for.
Gilbert did not notice that Isolde spoke slightly louder; he was simply eager for her acquiescence. His irritation melted away, and once more, he was her beautiful brother with a face that reminded her so fondly of her mother that it made her heart ache.
The door opened and Matilda entered with a flagon of wine and two chalices.
“I asked you to bring that a while ago,” Isolde scolded. Though she and Matilda had planned the exchange, Isolde still loathed speaking so poorly to her trusted lady’s maid.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Matilda lowered her head in chastisement with such conviction that it made Isolde’s chest squeeze.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from apologizing to her maid. “Leave the wine. I’ll pour it.”
“Aye, my lady.” Matilda set the wine on a table across the room where Isolde would have to put her back to Gilbert to pour. With that, the maid bobbed a curtsey and quit the room.
“I apologize for the delay.” Isolde indicated the flagon of wine. “Would you care for some wine before I go?”
Gilbert’s gaze drifted to the table, and he licked his lips. “Aye.”
His response had been expected. Gilbert never could resist the lure of wine. Just like their father. It turned him into the same man the late earl had been as well: impatient and ill-tempered.
Isolde faced the table and first poured herself a measure, then swiftly dumped the contents of the vial into the flagon. It was such a small amount, it made almost no sound as it married into the fine wine and the pale brown extract blended into the rich red without issue. She pretended to almost drop the flagon in an effort to churn the liquid together.
“You should have let your maid do it,” Gilbert muttered.
“’Tis fine.” Isolde splashed a hefty amount of wine into his gobl
et and carried both over to his desk, handing him the one with poison.
“To our mother.” Isolde lifted her chalice.
“To our mother,” Gilbert echoed. “And your impending nuptials.”
Any regret Isolde may have harbored for what she was doing dissipated at that moment. She drank from her chalice as her brother swallowed down his wine with his usual zeal. No doubt it was nearly empty.
She watched his face carefully, fearing he might notice the sharp aftertaste of the purgative.
Gilbert drained his chalice without issue and got to his feet. “I’ve arranged for your belongings to be packed while we are at the tournament.”
“Have you?” Isolde asked in a pleasant tone. After all, he would realize the futility of his plans within the hour. Perhaps sooner.
He fetched the flagon from the table and poured another helping. “Within a fortnight, you will be part of the Ross clan, dear sister, and we will have a strong ally in Scotland.”
“Why do we need an ally in Scotland?” Isolde pulled her gaze from the wine in her brother’s hand. The more he talked, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more he talked.
And the sooner he’d consumed it all…
Gilbert scoffed at her as if she were too lacking to understand the reason. “The reason for an alliance with the Rosses is nothing for you to concern yourself over.” He tilted the goblet back, as well as his head, while his neck flexed in a greedy swallow. His stare flicked to her goblet, and she knew he feared she might request more wine.
He had played right into her hands, predictably merciless against his vice.
She set her goblet on the edge of the desk. “I shall leave you to the rest of the wine.” She smiled sweetly. “I want to ensure I have rested well before we travel to the Rose Citadel on the morrow.”
The Highlander's Lady Knight (Midsummer Knights Book 2) Page 1
