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Synopsis
A woman locked in her past and the fierce knight determined to set her free . . . Amanda Scott returns readers to the fourteenth century Scottish Borders, when men battled sword against sword and the hills echoed with the thunder of a thousand hooves. Unfit for marriage? Young, fair, yet mistrustful of men, Amalie Murray harbors a secret--one that could keep her single for life. At the coronation of the King of Scots, she overhears the plotting of a terrifying act...and virtually falls into the arms of Sir Garth Napier. Moved by her plight, Garth knows she now desperately needs protection--especially from her own stubbornness. Their unexpected passion and desire make Garth coax the truth out of Amalie, and make him more determined than ever to keep her safe. For though Amalie may be an "inappropriate bride," she's a woman he would gladly die for.
Release date: August 15, 2008
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 432
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Border Lass
Amanda Scott
PRAISE FOR AMANDA SCOTT’S SCOTTISH ADVENTURES
BORDER WEDDING
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Not only do her characters leap off the pages, the historical events do too. This is more than entertainment and romance; this is historical romance as it was meant to be.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Hearts! A very enjoyable read that is rich in history . . . Ms. Scott’s next book will be another must-read.”
—NightOwlRomance.com
“5 Stars! Amanda Scott has possibly written the best historical in ages! . . . There was not a part of this story that was not enjoyable . . . the best book to come along in a long time.”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“A journey you won’t want to miss! Scott’s gift is her ability to create people you want to know. No matter the conflict or the story line, you’re always drawn to the people. Border Wedding, the first novel in a new trilogy, is no exception. Another winner!”
—FreshFiction.com
“Wonderful . . . full of adventure and history . . . Scott is obviously well-versed on life in the fourteenth century, and she brings her knowledge to the page . . . an excellent story for both the romance reader and the history buff. I’m anxious to read others by Scott in the future.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Don’t miss this beautiful historic tale.”
—BookCoveReviews.com
“A fun, light read . . . Scott’s vivid attention to details makes you feel as if you are indeed visiting Scotland each and every time you pick up her delightful book.”
—ArmchairInterviews.com
“A winner . . . Few authors do medieval romances as consistently excellent as Amanda Scott’s . . . brings to life the late fourteenth century.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Well-written narrative and dialogue . . . exciting plot . . . Border Wedding proves great stories of Scotland don’t only arise out of the Highlands.”
—RomRevToday.com
KING OF STORMS
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel . . . with a lively love story . . . Scott brings the memorable characters from her previous novels together in an exciting adventure romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Passionate and breathtaking . . . Amanda Scott’s King of Storms keeps the tension moving as she continues her powerful saga of the Macleod sisters.”
—NovelTalk.com
“A terrific tale starring two interesting lead characters who fight, fuss, and fall in love . . . Rich in history and romance, fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An engaging tale with well-written characters, and a wonderful plot that will keep readers turning pages . . . Fans of historical romances will be delighted with King of Storms.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Enjoyable . . . moves at a fast pace . . . It was difficult to put the book down.”
—BookLoons.com
“Intrigue and danger . . . Readers will enjoy the adventures and sweet romance.”
—RomRevToday.com
“Enchanting . . . a thrilling adventure . . . a must read . . . King of Storms is a page-turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart. Combine this with a battle of wits, a test of strength, faith, and honor, and you have one great read.”
—FreshFiction.com
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
“An enjoyable book for a quiet evening at home. If you are a fan of historical romance with a touch of suspense, you don’t want to miss this book.”
—LoveRomanceAndMore.com
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—NovelTalk.com
LADY’S CHOICE
“Terrific . . . with an exhilarating climax. Scott is at the top of her game with this deep historical tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enjoyable . . . The premise of Scott’s adventure romance is strong.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A page-turner . . . her characters are a joy to read. Lady’s Choice is sure to delight medieval historical fans.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Plenty of suspense and action and a delightful developing love story . . . Another excellent story from Scott.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
PRINCE OF DANGER
“Phenomenal.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“RITA Award-winning Scott has a flair for colorful, convincing characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Exhilarating . . . fabulous . . . action-packed . . . Fans of fast-paced historical tales . . . will want to read Amanda Scott’s latest.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Amanda Scott is a phenomenal writer . . . I am not sure if perfection can be improved upon, but that is exactly what she has done in her latest offering.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
LORD OF THE ISLES
“Ms. Scott’s diverse, marvelous, unforgettable characters in this intricate plot provide hours of pure pleasure.”
—Rendezvous
“Scott pits her strong characters against one another and fate. She delves into their motivations, bringing insight into them and the thrilling era in which they live.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Amanda Scott writes great tales.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Ms. Scott’s storytelling is amazing . . . a captivating tale of intrigue . . . This is a definite keeper.”
—CoffeeTimeRomance.com
A HIGHLAND PRINCESS
“Fast-moving, exciting, and soaring to heights of excellence, this one is a winner.”
—Rendezvous
“Delightful historical starring two fabulously intelligent lead characters . . . Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Perfect for readers who enjoy romances with a rich sense of history.”
—Booklist
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A marvelously rendered portrait of medieval Scotland, terrific characters, and a dynamic story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
Prologue
Dunfermline Abbey, Scotland, 1389
He had been watching her most of the day.
In such a vast, merry crowd as the one gathered along the snow-covered shore of Loch Fitty, north of Dunfermline Abbey and its nearby royal palace, it was easy for him to watch the lass without drawing attention to himself.
At a rough guess, nearly a thousand people had come to enjoy the festivities preceding a Yuletide wedding in the abbey of the Earl of Douglas’s eldest son to Margaret Stewart, daughter of the heir to Scotland’s throne.
The lass he watched wore a long, hooded cloak of sable-trimmed, claret-colored velvet over a violet-and-black-striped silk skirt and bodice. He noted that a few dark tendrils had escaped the colorful beaded netting that confined her hair. And when she snatched up her skirts to leap out of the way of a snowball, he saw sable-trimmed winter boots that covered her legs to her knees.
She had drawn his gaze from the first moment he saw her. But had anyone asked why, he’d have had trouble explaining. He might have said that her figure, rosy cheeks, and wide grin reminded him of his mother. But surely, no man felt drawn to a woman because of a slight, doubtless wholly imagined, maternal resemblance. In his view, a man simply responded to an attraction. He did not try to explain it.
Although the lass’s figure was rounder and more buxom than fashion decreed, he thought she looked as if she’d be a cozy armful, the kind of woman with whom a man could find comfort. She was clearly merry and fun-loving, and although many might condemn her present lack of dignity, he did not.
Winter-crisp air or rouge had turned her full lips as red as her cheeks. Her dark eyes sparkled as she laughed, then ducked another snowball that someone had hurled and scooped up one of her own to fling back.
Seeing hers fly straight to its target, he frowned when he recognized a young courtier who had been shamelessly flirting with her an hour earlier.
As experienced as he was himself in the art of dalliance, he had easily read her behavior then as well-practiced but meaningless flirtation. She did not care a rap for the lad but was enjoying herself nonetheless.
The young man’s behavior seemed less playful, mayhap even predatory.
Despite that, the watcher was pleased to see her delight.
When she had arrived midmorning with the princess Isabel Stewart’s party, a wariness in the lass’s demeanor had done more to draw his attention than the simple elegance of her dress. In his twenty-five years, he had trained many dogs and horses, and had stalked deer. He’d spent much time in the woods, too, where he liked to sit quietly for no better reason than to see what he might see.
Such experience had stirred him to think the unruly crowd intimidated her, as a pack of wolves might intimidate a young doe that wandered naïvely into its midst.
He decided that was why he had kept an eye on her and had even begun to feel this odd sense of protectiveness toward her.
Most eyes focused on Princess Isabel, the young, beautiful, but still grieving widow of James, second Earl of Douglas, killed sixteen months before, during the victorious Battle of Otterburn. No one knew all the facts of his death, but the princess suspected murder and never hesitated to say so.
Others dismissed her suspicions as the imaginings of a mind distraught with grief, and the Douglases had hastily remarried her to one of their wealthier vassals. But she refused to live with her new husband, and the watcher doubted that the man wielded any influence over her. The princess had a mind of her own.
He’d never met her, but he had met her younger sister, Gelis, whose husband, Sir William Douglas, Laird of Nithsdale, was a longtime friend. Will was organizing an expedition to Prussia, to join a crusade, and since the Borders had been at peace for over a year, the watcher had decided to go with him, to search for new adventures.
Shifting his gaze from Isabel to scan the rest of her large party, he saw two Douglas knights he knew and his cousin, Sir Walter Scott, who had recently become Laird of Buccleuch.
The watcher’s gaze shifted back to the fascinating lass, whose merriment had changed to wariness again. She looked as if she watched for someone in particular.
When another lady walked up behind her and touched her arm she started, then smiled with relief.
From the strong resemblance between the two, he guessed they were sisters. Then Buccleuch joined them and slipped a possessive arm around the other woman. Such an intimate gesture told the watcher she must be his lady wife.
The watcher moved away then, because Buccleuch would recognize him and might motion him over to introduce him. Much as he would have liked the introduction, he did not want to draw attention to himself just yet.
Even so, he could not resist returning a half hour later to watch her again.
Buccleuch had moved on with his lady, and the lass stood near a roaring fire, chatting with another of Isabel’s ladies. Not far from them, children toasted bannocks and mutton collops at the flames.
Then, abruptly, a well-dressed man strode up to the two, caught the lass by an arm, and swung her to face him.
The watcher moved nearer, frowning.
The lass tried to pull away, but the man held her and put his face close to hers. Clearly berating her, he gave her arm a shake to punctuate his words.
The watcher stepped nearer, hesitant, thinking the man must be a kinsman of hers, one who had right and reason to speak so sharply to her.
But she resisted as if he were ordering her to do something against her will. She was growing angry, perhaps frightened.
The man shook a finger at her.
When she stepped back, he followed, emphasizing his words with his pointing finger, thumping her chest with it as he might an obstinate lad’s.
The watcher’s focus narrowed until he saw only the offensive finger.
A few long strides carried him within reach.
Grabbing the lout by an arm, just as the lout had grabbed her, he swung him and slammed a blow to his jaw powerful enough to send him to the ground and keep him quiet for a few minutes, at least.
Seeing the lass clap both hands to her mouth, looking half astonished and half frightened, he swept off his plumed cap, bowed with a smile, and said lightly, “I trust that churl will trouble you no further, my lady. You should keep clear of such men.”
She avoided his gaze as she murmured unsteadily, “Should I?’
“Aye, and with respect, I’d suggest that you rejoin the princess now and keep near her lest he try to accost you again.”
She looked at him then, revealing a pair of long-lashed, melting hazel-green eyes as she said in a surprisingly low, delightfully musical voice, “You should not have struck him, sir. But I own, it was wonderful to see him bested for once.”
“He looks somewhat familiar, my lady. I’m curious as to his name.”
Dryly, she said, “He is Simon Murray, sir, my elder brother.”
“Is he, indeed? I trust you’ll forgive me then if I don’t linger till he wakens.”
Her lips twitched with amusement, but she nodded.
As he turned away, he saw the princess approaching.
“Who was that?” he heard her ask the lass.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But he laid Simon out with one blow, so I do wonder who he can be.”
Sir Garth Napier smiled as he strode off.
It was always good to leave a woman wondering.
Chapter 1
Scone Abbey, 14 August 1390
Scotland’s long-awaited Coronation Day had come at last, and a vast crowd had gathered to see what they could see. Although it might be hours yet before the ceremony ended and the newly crowned High King of Scots emerged from the abbey kirk, the teeming mass already overflowed the abbey grounds.
Scone Abbey sat on a terrace above the flat vale of the river Tay a few miles north of St. John’s town of Perth. Monastic buildings lay east and west of the kirk, while to its north stood a higher mound of grassy land, known as Moot Hill.
Minutes before, John Stewart, Earl of Carrick and heir to Scotland’s throne, had made his awkward way to the kirk from Abbots’ House, a three-story gray-stone building that stood between the kirk and the eastern monastic buildings. While Carrick prepared for the ceremony, those privileged to witness it would take their places.
The kirk being modestly appointed and small for its ilk, only royal family members, their attendants, and higher-ranking nobility could go inside. Even so, the crowd was enormous. Nearly everyone who was anyone had come, as well as many hundreds of lesser estate or none at all.
Carrick’s passage had occasioned much comment. He was thin, stooped, and pale, looked much older than his fifty years, and thanks to a kick from a horse years before, he walked with a limp. Worse, he was a man of peace and a scholar with no interest in politics. Put plainly, he was not what Scots expected their High King to be. They wanted their kings to be warriors who strode boldly and ruled decisively.
Carrick was unlikely to do either.
Movement near the largest of the eastern monastic buildings diverted the crowd’s attention as a group of six splendidly attired young noblewomen emerged.
Cheers erupted when people recognized the princess Isabel Stewart, one of the few popular members of the royal family. Her late husband, James, second Earl of Douglas, had been Scotland’s finest warrior, a great hero, and a man of enormous popularity. His death two years before, while leading a victorious Scottish army against a much larger English force at Otterburn, had shocked the entire country—hence the wild reaction to his tragically widowed countess.
Everyone knew she still grieved his loss and believed that murder, rather than fair battle, had taken him. That belief had strengthened with the undeniable murder in faraway Danzig of Will Douglas of Nithsdale, her sister Gelis’s husband.
Not only had Will been almost as beloved a hero as the second earl, but two sudden deaths by violence of popular Douglases had also raised more suspicions than those of their princess wives. Yet few men dared voice the growing suspicion that someone was efficiently eliminating any threat the royal Stewarts might face from the more powerful Douglases, or from anyone else for that matter.
The crowd had been watching for Isabel, because word had spread that the new sovereign and his wife were staying in Abbots’ House, and lesser members of his family in the eastern monastic buildings. The Austen Canons who normally inhabited those Spartan quarters, and the Abbot of Scone, had moved in with their brethren in the western buildings for the duration of the coronation activities.
Although Scone Abbey was of great importance to the country, it was not as grand as Dunfermline in Fife or Scone’s sister house, Dundrennan, in the Borders. But Scone had served as capital of the ancient Pictish kingdom, and therein lay its importance to the Scottish people and the reason their coronations took place there.
The princess Isabel and her five ladies walked two by two. Isabel walked with seventeen-year-old Lady Amalie Murray, whose neatly coiffed raven tresses, hazel-green eyes, and buxom figure provided a pleasing contrast to the princess’s fair, slender, blue-eyed beauty. Their gowns contrasted well, too, Isabel in pale primrose yellow satin trimmed with ermine, and the lady Amalie in leaf-green and pink silk with wide embroidered bands of edging. Isabel waved occasionally to the cheering crowd, but the other ladies paid them scant heed, chatting instead among themselves.
“ ’Tis a strange business, this, Isabel,” the lady Amalie said as her gaze moved warily over the raucous crowd. “When we arrived two days ago, all was fun and feasting. Then yesterday we attended a state funeral—although his grace, your father, has been dead now for a full three months. Then, more feasting after the funeral, and now, on the third day, we are finally to crown the new King of Scots.”
“In fact, ’tis my brother Fife who crowns him,” Isabel said with familiar bitterness. “As we have seen, all must be as Fife ordains. Even the name the new King must take is Fife’s own Sunday name of Robert. Thus, John Stewart, Earl of Carrick, is to become Robert the Third, because Fife declares that we cannot have a king named John without reminding people that John Balliol tried to steal the crown, even though that event happened years ago. If Carrick were to remain John, Fife says, he would have to be John the Second, which would give too much import to the usurper Balliol. Fife says that would undermine the line of Robert the Bruce.”
“But to make such decisions is the Earl of Fife’s duty, is it not?” Amalie said, still searching the crowd. “He is now Governor of the Realm, after all.”
“Aye, so he still calls himself,” Isabel said. “The truth is that his grace, my father, appointed Fife Governor because Father believed himself too old and infirm to rule properly. But in May, when he died, Fife’s right to the position of Governor died with him. Sithee, he held it only at the King’s pleasure.”
“When others said as much, Fife insisted that the right remained with him until we buried the old King and crowned a new one,” Amalie reminded her. “Moreover, besides being Earl of Fife, he is also Earl of Menteith. So the right to act as coroner today is reserved to him by tradition, is it not?”
“Nay, that is but the way he chooses to interpret that tradition. The right to act as coroner lies with his wife’s family, the MacDuffs, not with the earldom he assumed by marrying her. A MacDuff has placed the crown on the head of every new King of Scots since ancient times—until today.”
That Fife’s version differed from others’ did not surprise Amalie. He was not, in her experience, a man whose word one accepted without corroboration. Nearly everyone she knew distrusted him, save her brother Simon.
Simon admired Fife and had served him loyally for nearly eight years while, in effect, Fife had ruled Scotland. With the King less and less able to rule and Carrick uninterested, Fife had steadily acquired more and more power.
Isabel was frowning, which made her look older than her twenty-four years. With her fair hair and flawless skin, she was strikingly beautiful. But she had once been merry, forthright, and carefree. Since her beloved first husband’s death, she had lost much of the vivacity that had set her apart from other beautiful noblewomen.
As their party passed Abbots’ House to approach the kirk entrance, Amalie’s searching gaze lit at last on an older couple near the stone steps to the kirk porch.
“Faith, Isabel, my parents are waiting for me,” she muttered as she slowed to let the princess walk ahead of her.
A pair of stalwart knights preceded them, and because Amalie had been watching for her parents, she was sure that neither Sir Iagan nor Lady Murray had yet seen her. But they could not miss her if she walked up the steps right past them, as she would have to do to enter the kirk with Isabel.
“You cannot avoid them much longer,” Isabel said over her shoulder with one of her rare smiles. “They mean you no harm, after all.”
“I fear they may have found a husband for me,” Amalie said. “I’ve told them I don’t want one, but now that Buccleuch has succeeded to his father’s title and estates, I’m sure my mother will have persuaded my father that he can make an advantageous alliance for me just as he did for Meg. Faith, but Simon said as much eight months ago at Yuletide. He said that being good-sister to a man as powerful as Buccleuch will make up for all my faults. I’ve avoided seeing any of my family again until now only because, since then, you have rarely stayed anywhere longer than a fortnight.”
“You’ve few faults that I can see,” Isabel said. “I’ve told you myself that I know of more than one eligible young man who’d welcome you as his bride.”
“Well, I don’t want a young man or any other sort,” Amalie said. Isabel had been kind enough to provide a sanctuary when she had needed one. But Isabel did not know all there was to know about her, and Amalie did not intend to tell her.
Instead, she said, “I’d like to slip away for a short time if you will permit it. I’ll rejoin you as soon as they go inside.” When Isabel looked about to protest, she added, “I shan’t be long, truly. Now that Carrick has gone in, they won’t stay outside much longer, because my mother will not want to end up at the back of the kirk.”
“Very well, but don’t let them see you,” Isabel said. “I’d not be amazed if your mother stopped me and demanded to know where I’d sent you.”
Amalie shook her head, letting her amusement show. Although Lady Murray was a controlling woman, she would never behave so improperly as to demand anything of the princess. But Amalie understood why Isabel had suggested she might.
Despite the princess’s own sorrows, she paid close heed to the members of her household and could always make a worried or unhappy one smile.
Peeping between the brawny pair that led their party, Amalie saw her mother still looking about. Perhaps, she thought, Lady Murray was only trying to spot one of her other offspring or Buccleuch, but she could not make herself believe it.
Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch would be with other powerful barons invited to take part in the ceremony. Lady Murray would know that Meg was not there, due to advanced pregnancy, and that Simon was probably with Fife. Nor would her ladyship be looking for her younger son, Tom. She was looking for Amalie.
Shrubbery and tall beech trees surrounded Abbots’ House, and Amalie snatched the first opportunity to slip behind a wide tree trunk. She meant to wait there until the coast was clear, but as she looked nervously about, she saw Tom Murray striding straight toward her with some of his friends.
Although he had not seen her, if she stayed where she was he soon would. Her overskirt and gloves were green and might blend in, but her tunic was pink and boasted wide bands of green trim embroidered with gold and silver thread.
Quickly wending her way through shrubbery and along a gravel path, she came to the steps of Abbots’ House and saw that the front door stood ajar.
Aware that Carrick and his party were staying there, she was sure that some servants must still be inside. But she suspected that if she went around the side of the building, she would look more furtive than if she just walked in.
However, if she went boldly up the steps with her back to the crowd, a chance observer might easily mistake her for one of Carrick’s many sisters. Should anyone challenge her, she could just say she was looking for Isabel or one of the other princesses—not Gelis. Like Meg, Gelis was pregnant and had not come.
Having thus decided her course, Amalie hurried up the steps. Once through the open doorway, she closed the door just enough to conceal herself from view.
The dim entry hall was no more than a spacious anteroom with a stairway at her right to a railed gallery above. Doubtless, service areas lay beyond a door she could discern in the dark corner under the stairs. The walls ahead and to her left revealed three other doors, all shut.
As she hesitated, uncertain where to go and unable to know if any nearby room was unoccupied, heavy footsteps approaching the stair-corner door made the decision for her. Snatching up her skirts, she ran silently up the stairs, hoping to find a window from which she might see if her parents had entered the kirk.
At the landing, she saw that the gallery continued around two more sides of the stairwell, providing access to several more closed doors. Window embrasures at each end of the landing provided light, but neither one would overlook the kirk.
Opposite her, another, narrower flight of stairs led up to the next floor. She would have to open one of two doors on that side to find a suitable window, and when she did, she would be in view of anyone coming down those stairs.
As she considered her choice, to her shock, she heard a male voice inside the room to her left. Something about the voice seemed familiar.
Stepping nearer, she put an ear close to the door and heard a second voice say with perfect clarity, “In troth, if we give him sufficient cause, he is likely enough to cooperate, but one cannot trust the man from one moment to the next. ’Twould suit me better not to have to concern myself with him at all.”
“Sakes, sir,” the first voice muttered. “Is it murder you seek?”
Amalie leaned closer.
“I did not say—”
Without the slightest warning, a large, gloved hand clapped tight across her mouth and nose as a strong arm swept her off her feet and away from the door.
Terrified and disoriented, she could not see her captor’s face, but his grip was like a vise clamping her against a hard, muscular body. Her struggles did no good as he strode around the gallery, bearing her as if she were a featherweight and moving as silently as he had when he’d crept up behind her.
She kicked and squirmed until she realized that if she drew attention, she might find herself in worse trouble. Since she suspected that one of the voices might have been Simon’s, and since Simon was not a man who would look kindly on a sister secretly listening to a private conversation—especially one about murder—she decided that, for the present, she might be safer where she was.
Still, she had no way to know if the man who had caught her was friend or foe. Judging by the ease with which he carried her, he might be as large and strong as Jock’s Wee Tammy, her huge and therefore misnamed friend at Scott’s Hall who often served as Buccleuch’s squire, as well as captain of his fighting tail.
It occurred to her, too, that to have been creeping about Abbots’ House as he had, the man had to be either Carrick’s own attendant on watch for intruders, or an intruder himself. As she was telling herself she hoped he was the latter, she realized that such an intruder might well throttle her to ensure her silence.
Why, she wondered, had she darted into the house at all? How could she do such a silly thing just to avoid a confrontation with her mother? Then a vision of that formidable dame appeared, and she knew she would do it again in an instant.
To her astonishment, her captor headed right to the second flight of stairs and then up the stairs themselves.
She tried to pull her face far enough away from his hand to draw a deep breath, but he only pressed harder. Wondering what he would do if she bit him, she tried kicking again, hit one silk-shod foot against a bruisingly hard wooden railing, and remembered she did not want to attract attention.
Shock and terror had eased to worry and annoyance that now were shifting back to fear, so she told herself sternly that, whoever he was, he would not dare to harm her. Even if he did not know who her father was or that her good-brother was the powerful Scott of Buccleuch, he would have to be daft to harm a member of a royal household at Scone Abbey on Coronation Day.
Slightly reassured, she began to relax just as they reached a tall, heavy, ornately carved door.
Breath tickled her ear as a deep voice murmured, “I’m going to take my hand from your mouth to open this door. If you make a sound, you may endanger both our lives. Nod if you agree to keep silent.”
She nodded, telling herself she would scream Abbots’ House to rubble if she wanted to, that no one could expect her to keep her word under such circumstances.
But when he took his hand away and continued to hold her off her feet with one arm as easily as he had with tw
BORDER WEDDING
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Not only do her characters leap off the pages, the historical events do too. This is more than entertainment and romance; this is historical romance as it was meant to be.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Hearts! A very enjoyable read that is rich in history . . . Ms. Scott’s next book will be another must-read.”
—NightOwlRomance.com
“5 Stars! Amanda Scott has possibly written the best historical in ages! . . . There was not a part of this story that was not enjoyable . . . the best book to come along in a long time.”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“A journey you won’t want to miss! Scott’s gift is her ability to create people you want to know. No matter the conflict or the story line, you’re always drawn to the people. Border Wedding, the first novel in a new trilogy, is no exception. Another winner!”
—FreshFiction.com
“Wonderful . . . full of adventure and history . . . Scott is obviously well-versed on life in the fourteenth century, and she brings her knowledge to the page . . . an excellent story for both the romance reader and the history buff. I’m anxious to read others by Scott in the future.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Don’t miss this beautiful historic tale.”
—BookCoveReviews.com
“A fun, light read . . . Scott’s vivid attention to details makes you feel as if you are indeed visiting Scotland each and every time you pick up her delightful book.”
—ArmchairInterviews.com
“A winner . . . Few authors do medieval romances as consistently excellent as Amanda Scott’s . . . brings to life the late fourteenth century.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Well-written narrative and dialogue . . . exciting plot . . . Border Wedding proves great stories of Scotland don’t only arise out of the Highlands.”
—RomRevToday.com
KING OF STORMS
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel . . . with a lively love story . . . Scott brings the memorable characters from her previous novels together in an exciting adventure romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Passionate and breathtaking . . . Amanda Scott’s King of Storms keeps the tension moving as she continues her powerful saga of the Macleod sisters.”
—NovelTalk.com
“A terrific tale starring two interesting lead characters who fight, fuss, and fall in love . . . Rich in history and romance, fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An engaging tale with well-written characters, and a wonderful plot that will keep readers turning pages . . . Fans of historical romances will be delighted with King of Storms.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Enjoyable . . . moves at a fast pace . . . It was difficult to put the book down.”
—BookLoons.com
“Intrigue and danger . . . Readers will enjoy the adventures and sweet romance.”
—RomRevToday.com
“Enchanting . . . a thrilling adventure . . . a must read . . . King of Storms is a page-turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart. Combine this with a battle of wits, a test of strength, faith, and honor, and you have one great read.”
—FreshFiction.com
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
“An enjoyable book for a quiet evening at home. If you are a fan of historical romance with a touch of suspense, you don’t want to miss this book.”
—LoveRomanceAndMore.com
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—NovelTalk.com
LADY’S CHOICE
“Terrific . . . with an exhilarating climax. Scott is at the top of her game with this deep historical tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enjoyable . . . The premise of Scott’s adventure romance is strong.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A page-turner . . . her characters are a joy to read. Lady’s Choice is sure to delight medieval historical fans.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Plenty of suspense and action and a delightful developing love story . . . Another excellent story from Scott.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
PRINCE OF DANGER
“Phenomenal.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“RITA Award-winning Scott has a flair for colorful, convincing characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Exhilarating . . . fabulous . . . action-packed . . . Fans of fast-paced historical tales . . . will want to read Amanda Scott’s latest.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Amanda Scott is a phenomenal writer . . . I am not sure if perfection can be improved upon, but that is exactly what she has done in her latest offering.”
—RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
LORD OF THE ISLES
“Ms. Scott’s diverse, marvelous, unforgettable characters in this intricate plot provide hours of pure pleasure.”
—Rendezvous
“Scott pits her strong characters against one another and fate. She delves into their motivations, bringing insight into them and the thrilling era in which they live.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Amanda Scott writes great tales.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Ms. Scott’s storytelling is amazing . . . a captivating tale of intrigue . . . This is a definite keeper.”
—CoffeeTimeRomance.com
A HIGHLAND PRINCESS
“Fast-moving, exciting, and soaring to heights of excellence, this one is a winner.”
—Rendezvous
“Delightful historical starring two fabulously intelligent lead characters . . . Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Perfect for readers who enjoy romances with a rich sense of history.”
—Booklist
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A marvelously rendered portrait of medieval Scotland, terrific characters, and a dynamic story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
Prologue
Dunfermline Abbey, Scotland, 1389
He had been watching her most of the day.
In such a vast, merry crowd as the one gathered along the snow-covered shore of Loch Fitty, north of Dunfermline Abbey and its nearby royal palace, it was easy for him to watch the lass without drawing attention to himself.
At a rough guess, nearly a thousand people had come to enjoy the festivities preceding a Yuletide wedding in the abbey of the Earl of Douglas’s eldest son to Margaret Stewart, daughter of the heir to Scotland’s throne.
The lass he watched wore a long, hooded cloak of sable-trimmed, claret-colored velvet over a violet-and-black-striped silk skirt and bodice. He noted that a few dark tendrils had escaped the colorful beaded netting that confined her hair. And when she snatched up her skirts to leap out of the way of a snowball, he saw sable-trimmed winter boots that covered her legs to her knees.
She had drawn his gaze from the first moment he saw her. But had anyone asked why, he’d have had trouble explaining. He might have said that her figure, rosy cheeks, and wide grin reminded him of his mother. But surely, no man felt drawn to a woman because of a slight, doubtless wholly imagined, maternal resemblance. In his view, a man simply responded to an attraction. He did not try to explain it.
Although the lass’s figure was rounder and more buxom than fashion decreed, he thought she looked as if she’d be a cozy armful, the kind of woman with whom a man could find comfort. She was clearly merry and fun-loving, and although many might condemn her present lack of dignity, he did not.
Winter-crisp air or rouge had turned her full lips as red as her cheeks. Her dark eyes sparkled as she laughed, then ducked another snowball that someone had hurled and scooped up one of her own to fling back.
Seeing hers fly straight to its target, he frowned when he recognized a young courtier who had been shamelessly flirting with her an hour earlier.
As experienced as he was himself in the art of dalliance, he had easily read her behavior then as well-practiced but meaningless flirtation. She did not care a rap for the lad but was enjoying herself nonetheless.
The young man’s behavior seemed less playful, mayhap even predatory.
Despite that, the watcher was pleased to see her delight.
When she had arrived midmorning with the princess Isabel Stewart’s party, a wariness in the lass’s demeanor had done more to draw his attention than the simple elegance of her dress. In his twenty-five years, he had trained many dogs and horses, and had stalked deer. He’d spent much time in the woods, too, where he liked to sit quietly for no better reason than to see what he might see.
Such experience had stirred him to think the unruly crowd intimidated her, as a pack of wolves might intimidate a young doe that wandered naïvely into its midst.
He decided that was why he had kept an eye on her and had even begun to feel this odd sense of protectiveness toward her.
Most eyes focused on Princess Isabel, the young, beautiful, but still grieving widow of James, second Earl of Douglas, killed sixteen months before, during the victorious Battle of Otterburn. No one knew all the facts of his death, but the princess suspected murder and never hesitated to say so.
Others dismissed her suspicions as the imaginings of a mind distraught with grief, and the Douglases had hastily remarried her to one of their wealthier vassals. But she refused to live with her new husband, and the watcher doubted that the man wielded any influence over her. The princess had a mind of her own.
He’d never met her, but he had met her younger sister, Gelis, whose husband, Sir William Douglas, Laird of Nithsdale, was a longtime friend. Will was organizing an expedition to Prussia, to join a crusade, and since the Borders had been at peace for over a year, the watcher had decided to go with him, to search for new adventures.
Shifting his gaze from Isabel to scan the rest of her large party, he saw two Douglas knights he knew and his cousin, Sir Walter Scott, who had recently become Laird of Buccleuch.
The watcher’s gaze shifted back to the fascinating lass, whose merriment had changed to wariness again. She looked as if she watched for someone in particular.
When another lady walked up behind her and touched her arm she started, then smiled with relief.
From the strong resemblance between the two, he guessed they were sisters. Then Buccleuch joined them and slipped a possessive arm around the other woman. Such an intimate gesture told the watcher she must be his lady wife.
The watcher moved away then, because Buccleuch would recognize him and might motion him over to introduce him. Much as he would have liked the introduction, he did not want to draw attention to himself just yet.
Even so, he could not resist returning a half hour later to watch her again.
Buccleuch had moved on with his lady, and the lass stood near a roaring fire, chatting with another of Isabel’s ladies. Not far from them, children toasted bannocks and mutton collops at the flames.
Then, abruptly, a well-dressed man strode up to the two, caught the lass by an arm, and swung her to face him.
The watcher moved nearer, frowning.
The lass tried to pull away, but the man held her and put his face close to hers. Clearly berating her, he gave her arm a shake to punctuate his words.
The watcher stepped nearer, hesitant, thinking the man must be a kinsman of hers, one who had right and reason to speak so sharply to her.
But she resisted as if he were ordering her to do something against her will. She was growing angry, perhaps frightened.
The man shook a finger at her.
When she stepped back, he followed, emphasizing his words with his pointing finger, thumping her chest with it as he might an obstinate lad’s.
The watcher’s focus narrowed until he saw only the offensive finger.
A few long strides carried him within reach.
Grabbing the lout by an arm, just as the lout had grabbed her, he swung him and slammed a blow to his jaw powerful enough to send him to the ground and keep him quiet for a few minutes, at least.
Seeing the lass clap both hands to her mouth, looking half astonished and half frightened, he swept off his plumed cap, bowed with a smile, and said lightly, “I trust that churl will trouble you no further, my lady. You should keep clear of such men.”
She avoided his gaze as she murmured unsteadily, “Should I?’
“Aye, and with respect, I’d suggest that you rejoin the princess now and keep near her lest he try to accost you again.”
She looked at him then, revealing a pair of long-lashed, melting hazel-green eyes as she said in a surprisingly low, delightfully musical voice, “You should not have struck him, sir. But I own, it was wonderful to see him bested for once.”
“He looks somewhat familiar, my lady. I’m curious as to his name.”
Dryly, she said, “He is Simon Murray, sir, my elder brother.”
“Is he, indeed? I trust you’ll forgive me then if I don’t linger till he wakens.”
Her lips twitched with amusement, but she nodded.
As he turned away, he saw the princess approaching.
“Who was that?” he heard her ask the lass.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But he laid Simon out with one blow, so I do wonder who he can be.”
Sir Garth Napier smiled as he strode off.
It was always good to leave a woman wondering.
Chapter 1
Scone Abbey, 14 August 1390
Scotland’s long-awaited Coronation Day had come at last, and a vast crowd had gathered to see what they could see. Although it might be hours yet before the ceremony ended and the newly crowned High King of Scots emerged from the abbey kirk, the teeming mass already overflowed the abbey grounds.
Scone Abbey sat on a terrace above the flat vale of the river Tay a few miles north of St. John’s town of Perth. Monastic buildings lay east and west of the kirk, while to its north stood a higher mound of grassy land, known as Moot Hill.
Minutes before, John Stewart, Earl of Carrick and heir to Scotland’s throne, had made his awkward way to the kirk from Abbots’ House, a three-story gray-stone building that stood between the kirk and the eastern monastic buildings. While Carrick prepared for the ceremony, those privileged to witness it would take their places.
The kirk being modestly appointed and small for its ilk, only royal family members, their attendants, and higher-ranking nobility could go inside. Even so, the crowd was enormous. Nearly everyone who was anyone had come, as well as many hundreds of lesser estate or none at all.
Carrick’s passage had occasioned much comment. He was thin, stooped, and pale, looked much older than his fifty years, and thanks to a kick from a horse years before, he walked with a limp. Worse, he was a man of peace and a scholar with no interest in politics. Put plainly, he was not what Scots expected their High King to be. They wanted their kings to be warriors who strode boldly and ruled decisively.
Carrick was unlikely to do either.
Movement near the largest of the eastern monastic buildings diverted the crowd’s attention as a group of six splendidly attired young noblewomen emerged.
Cheers erupted when people recognized the princess Isabel Stewart, one of the few popular members of the royal family. Her late husband, James, second Earl of Douglas, had been Scotland’s finest warrior, a great hero, and a man of enormous popularity. His death two years before, while leading a victorious Scottish army against a much larger English force at Otterburn, had shocked the entire country—hence the wild reaction to his tragically widowed countess.
Everyone knew she still grieved his loss and believed that murder, rather than fair battle, had taken him. That belief had strengthened with the undeniable murder in faraway Danzig of Will Douglas of Nithsdale, her sister Gelis’s husband.
Not only had Will been almost as beloved a hero as the second earl, but two sudden deaths by violence of popular Douglases had also raised more suspicions than those of their princess wives. Yet few men dared voice the growing suspicion that someone was efficiently eliminating any threat the royal Stewarts might face from the more powerful Douglases, or from anyone else for that matter.
The crowd had been watching for Isabel, because word had spread that the new sovereign and his wife were staying in Abbots’ House, and lesser members of his family in the eastern monastic buildings. The Austen Canons who normally inhabited those Spartan quarters, and the Abbot of Scone, had moved in with their brethren in the western buildings for the duration of the coronation activities.
Although Scone Abbey was of great importance to the country, it was not as grand as Dunfermline in Fife or Scone’s sister house, Dundrennan, in the Borders. But Scone had served as capital of the ancient Pictish kingdom, and therein lay its importance to the Scottish people and the reason their coronations took place there.
The princess Isabel and her five ladies walked two by two. Isabel walked with seventeen-year-old Lady Amalie Murray, whose neatly coiffed raven tresses, hazel-green eyes, and buxom figure provided a pleasing contrast to the princess’s fair, slender, blue-eyed beauty. Their gowns contrasted well, too, Isabel in pale primrose yellow satin trimmed with ermine, and the lady Amalie in leaf-green and pink silk with wide embroidered bands of edging. Isabel waved occasionally to the cheering crowd, but the other ladies paid them scant heed, chatting instead among themselves.
“ ’Tis a strange business, this, Isabel,” the lady Amalie said as her gaze moved warily over the raucous crowd. “When we arrived two days ago, all was fun and feasting. Then yesterday we attended a state funeral—although his grace, your father, has been dead now for a full three months. Then, more feasting after the funeral, and now, on the third day, we are finally to crown the new King of Scots.”
“In fact, ’tis my brother Fife who crowns him,” Isabel said with familiar bitterness. “As we have seen, all must be as Fife ordains. Even the name the new King must take is Fife’s own Sunday name of Robert. Thus, John Stewart, Earl of Carrick, is to become Robert the Third, because Fife declares that we cannot have a king named John without reminding people that John Balliol tried to steal the crown, even though that event happened years ago. If Carrick were to remain John, Fife says, he would have to be John the Second, which would give too much import to the usurper Balliol. Fife says that would undermine the line of Robert the Bruce.”
“But to make such decisions is the Earl of Fife’s duty, is it not?” Amalie said, still searching the crowd. “He is now Governor of the Realm, after all.”
“Aye, so he still calls himself,” Isabel said. “The truth is that his grace, my father, appointed Fife Governor because Father believed himself too old and infirm to rule properly. But in May, when he died, Fife’s right to the position of Governor died with him. Sithee, he held it only at the King’s pleasure.”
“When others said as much, Fife insisted that the right remained with him until we buried the old King and crowned a new one,” Amalie reminded her. “Moreover, besides being Earl of Fife, he is also Earl of Menteith. So the right to act as coroner today is reserved to him by tradition, is it not?”
“Nay, that is but the way he chooses to interpret that tradition. The right to act as coroner lies with his wife’s family, the MacDuffs, not with the earldom he assumed by marrying her. A MacDuff has placed the crown on the head of every new King of Scots since ancient times—until today.”
That Fife’s version differed from others’ did not surprise Amalie. He was not, in her experience, a man whose word one accepted without corroboration. Nearly everyone she knew distrusted him, save her brother Simon.
Simon admired Fife and had served him loyally for nearly eight years while, in effect, Fife had ruled Scotland. With the King less and less able to rule and Carrick uninterested, Fife had steadily acquired more and more power.
Isabel was frowning, which made her look older than her twenty-four years. With her fair hair and flawless skin, she was strikingly beautiful. But she had once been merry, forthright, and carefree. Since her beloved first husband’s death, she had lost much of the vivacity that had set her apart from other beautiful noblewomen.
As their party passed Abbots’ House to approach the kirk entrance, Amalie’s searching gaze lit at last on an older couple near the stone steps to the kirk porch.
“Faith, Isabel, my parents are waiting for me,” she muttered as she slowed to let the princess walk ahead of her.
A pair of stalwart knights preceded them, and because Amalie had been watching for her parents, she was sure that neither Sir Iagan nor Lady Murray had yet seen her. But they could not miss her if she walked up the steps right past them, as she would have to do to enter the kirk with Isabel.
“You cannot avoid them much longer,” Isabel said over her shoulder with one of her rare smiles. “They mean you no harm, after all.”
“I fear they may have found a husband for me,” Amalie said. “I’ve told them I don’t want one, but now that Buccleuch has succeeded to his father’s title and estates, I’m sure my mother will have persuaded my father that he can make an advantageous alliance for me just as he did for Meg. Faith, but Simon said as much eight months ago at Yuletide. He said that being good-sister to a man as powerful as Buccleuch will make up for all my faults. I’ve avoided seeing any of my family again until now only because, since then, you have rarely stayed anywhere longer than a fortnight.”
“You’ve few faults that I can see,” Isabel said. “I’ve told you myself that I know of more than one eligible young man who’d welcome you as his bride.”
“Well, I don’t want a young man or any other sort,” Amalie said. Isabel had been kind enough to provide a sanctuary when she had needed one. But Isabel did not know all there was to know about her, and Amalie did not intend to tell her.
Instead, she said, “I’d like to slip away for a short time if you will permit it. I’ll rejoin you as soon as they go inside.” When Isabel looked about to protest, she added, “I shan’t be long, truly. Now that Carrick has gone in, they won’t stay outside much longer, because my mother will not want to end up at the back of the kirk.”
“Very well, but don’t let them see you,” Isabel said. “I’d not be amazed if your mother stopped me and demanded to know where I’d sent you.”
Amalie shook her head, letting her amusement show. Although Lady Murray was a controlling woman, she would never behave so improperly as to demand anything of the princess. But Amalie understood why Isabel had suggested she might.
Despite the princess’s own sorrows, she paid close heed to the members of her household and could always make a worried or unhappy one smile.
Peeping between the brawny pair that led their party, Amalie saw her mother still looking about. Perhaps, she thought, Lady Murray was only trying to spot one of her other offspring or Buccleuch, but she could not make herself believe it.
Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch would be with other powerful barons invited to take part in the ceremony. Lady Murray would know that Meg was not there, due to advanced pregnancy, and that Simon was probably with Fife. Nor would her ladyship be looking for her younger son, Tom. She was looking for Amalie.
Shrubbery and tall beech trees surrounded Abbots’ House, and Amalie snatched the first opportunity to slip behind a wide tree trunk. She meant to wait there until the coast was clear, but as she looked nervously about, she saw Tom Murray striding straight toward her with some of his friends.
Although he had not seen her, if she stayed where she was he soon would. Her overskirt and gloves were green and might blend in, but her tunic was pink and boasted wide bands of green trim embroidered with gold and silver thread.
Quickly wending her way through shrubbery and along a gravel path, she came to the steps of Abbots’ House and saw that the front door stood ajar.
Aware that Carrick and his party were staying there, she was sure that some servants must still be inside. But she suspected that if she went around the side of the building, she would look more furtive than if she just walked in.
However, if she went boldly up the steps with her back to the crowd, a chance observer might easily mistake her for one of Carrick’s many sisters. Should anyone challenge her, she could just say she was looking for Isabel or one of the other princesses—not Gelis. Like Meg, Gelis was pregnant and had not come.
Having thus decided her course, Amalie hurried up the steps. Once through the open doorway, she closed the door just enough to conceal herself from view.
The dim entry hall was no more than a spacious anteroom with a stairway at her right to a railed gallery above. Doubtless, service areas lay beyond a door she could discern in the dark corner under the stairs. The walls ahead and to her left revealed three other doors, all shut.
As she hesitated, uncertain where to go and unable to know if any nearby room was unoccupied, heavy footsteps approaching the stair-corner door made the decision for her. Snatching up her skirts, she ran silently up the stairs, hoping to find a window from which she might see if her parents had entered the kirk.
At the landing, she saw that the gallery continued around two more sides of the stairwell, providing access to several more closed doors. Window embrasures at each end of the landing provided light, but neither one would overlook the kirk.
Opposite her, another, narrower flight of stairs led up to the next floor. She would have to open one of two doors on that side to find a suitable window, and when she did, she would be in view of anyone coming down those stairs.
As she considered her choice, to her shock, she heard a male voice inside the room to her left. Something about the voice seemed familiar.
Stepping nearer, she put an ear close to the door and heard a second voice say with perfect clarity, “In troth, if we give him sufficient cause, he is likely enough to cooperate, but one cannot trust the man from one moment to the next. ’Twould suit me better not to have to concern myself with him at all.”
“Sakes, sir,” the first voice muttered. “Is it murder you seek?”
Amalie leaned closer.
“I did not say—”
Without the slightest warning, a large, gloved hand clapped tight across her mouth and nose as a strong arm swept her off her feet and away from the door.
Terrified and disoriented, she could not see her captor’s face, but his grip was like a vise clamping her against a hard, muscular body. Her struggles did no good as he strode around the gallery, bearing her as if she were a featherweight and moving as silently as he had when he’d crept up behind her.
She kicked and squirmed until she realized that if she drew attention, she might find herself in worse trouble. Since she suspected that one of the voices might have been Simon’s, and since Simon was not a man who would look kindly on a sister secretly listening to a private conversation—especially one about murder—she decided that, for the present, she might be safer where she was.
Still, she had no way to know if the man who had caught her was friend or foe. Judging by the ease with which he carried her, he might be as large and strong as Jock’s Wee Tammy, her huge and therefore misnamed friend at Scott’s Hall who often served as Buccleuch’s squire, as well as captain of his fighting tail.
It occurred to her, too, that to have been creeping about Abbots’ House as he had, the man had to be either Carrick’s own attendant on watch for intruders, or an intruder himself. As she was telling herself she hoped he was the latter, she realized that such an intruder might well throttle her to ensure her silence.
Why, she wondered, had she darted into the house at all? How could she do such a silly thing just to avoid a confrontation with her mother? Then a vision of that formidable dame appeared, and she knew she would do it again in an instant.
To her astonishment, her captor headed right to the second flight of stairs and then up the stairs themselves.
She tried to pull her face far enough away from his hand to draw a deep breath, but he only pressed harder. Wondering what he would do if she bit him, she tried kicking again, hit one silk-shod foot against a bruisingly hard wooden railing, and remembered she did not want to attract attention.
Shock and terror had eased to worry and annoyance that now were shifting back to fear, so she told herself sternly that, whoever he was, he would not dare to harm her. Even if he did not know who her father was or that her good-brother was the powerful Scott of Buccleuch, he would have to be daft to harm a member of a royal household at Scone Abbey on Coronation Day.
Slightly reassured, she began to relax just as they reached a tall, heavy, ornately carved door.
Breath tickled her ear as a deep voice murmured, “I’m going to take my hand from your mouth to open this door. If you make a sound, you may endanger both our lives. Nod if you agree to keep silent.”
She nodded, telling herself she would scream Abbots’ House to rubble if she wanted to, that no one could expect her to keep her word under such circumstances.
But when he took his hand away and continued to hold her off her feet with one arm as easily as he had with tw
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