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Synopsis
Lady Sibylla Cavers is ripe for marriage, yet she's rejected the first three suitors her father brought. When one of these suitors, the dashing Lord Simon Murray, rescues both Lady Sibylla and the small child she was trying to pull from the churning River Tweed, Sibylla begins to see Lord Simon in a new light. As he cares for her and the child until both are recovered from their near-deaths, she finds admirable - even lovable - qualities in Lord Simon. But political intrigue surrounding the powerful governor of Scotland will throw obstacles in the path if Simon's and Sibylla's budding love. Simon will fight for his inherited estate, while Sibylla will use all of her wits to protect their future together.
Release date: January 23, 2009
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 436
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Border Moonlight
Amanda Scott
PRAISE FOR AMANDA SCOTT’S SCOTTISH ADVENTURES
BORDER LASS
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Readers will be thrilled . . . a tautly written, deeply emotional love story steeped in the rich history of the Borders. Scott’s use of real events and people enables her to subtly move readers into the characters’ mindsets, which greatly enriches the story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots . . . Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of medieval Scotland. She combines a passionate love story with a detailed understanding of those dangerous times . . . a fascinating story. I highly recommend Border Lass.”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“Scott excels at creating memorable characters . . . A good read.”
—FreshFiction.com
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
St. Giles Kirk, Edinburgh, 1386
“No.”
The young bride’s single decisive word silenced the rustling of the noble wedding guests’ movements and whispers.
The priest, having just asked the stout, elegantly dressed groom if he would take fourteen-year-old Lady Sibylla Cavers as his wife, now shifted his gaze to her.
“My daughter,” he said sternly, “I was asking his lordship if he would take you as his wife. Prithee, keep silent until I address you.”
The wedding guests saw only her slender back and thus could not read her expression. But her very posture expressed her indignation.
Her hip-long, wavy auburn hair glinted golden in the glow of the cressets on the arcade separating the new south aisle from the nave. That aisle, as most of Edinburgh knew, owed its existence to the generosity of the bride’s father, Sir Malcolm Cavers, Lord of Akermoor.
The groom—nearer Sir Malcolm’s age than Sibylla’s— turned to gape at her. His jowls were aquiver. His thick lower lip protruded.
Ignoring him, she faced the priest. “It cannot matter how Lord Galston answers you, Father,” she said as firmly and clearly as before. “I do have the right to refuse him, do I not? My godfather said I do.”
“A good daughter obeys the commands of her father,” the priest declared.
“I am a good daughter, but I don’t want Lord Galston for my husband. The Douglas, my godfather, said I need not have him. Was he wrong?”
The priest stared at her, his heavy frown making most of the spectators glad he had not directed it at them.
They held their communal breath, fearful of missing a word.
Heads turned toward Sir Malcolm. He stood at the foot of the chancel steps, his grim profile visible to nearly everyone save the bridal couple.
His face flamed red and his jaw jutted forward.
The priest looked at him. The bride did not.
“My lord,” the priest said. “You know the answer to her ladyship’s question. What would you have me do?”
Grimacing, Sir Malcolm shook his head. “Ye can do nowt,” he muttered.
The lady Sibylla turned, gathered her skirts in a graceful, swooping gesture, and descended the chancel steps. Head high, acknowledging no one, she turned toward the south aisle.
As the congregation watched in stunned silence, she walked with dignity far beyond her tender years outside into Edinburgh’s High Street.
Selkirk, Allhallows’ Day, 1387
As fifteen-year-old Sibylla Cavers walked beside her father toward the altar of the wee kirk, she saw that he had invited few guests. But she could scarcely blame him after what had happened the first time he’d arranged for her to marry.
With the banns mysteriously omitted this time, just two lay brothers and a few curious citizens were in the kirk that drizzly November day to view the sacred rite and help alleviate the damp chill. Shivering, Sibylla studied the handsome young man who awaited her with the priest at the altar.
She had never met the bridegroom before. But, as her father had promised, this one did seem a better choice for her than the aged Lord Galston. For one thing, this man was only six years older than she was, surely a better match for her than any rotund graybeard.
The dark-tawny hair beneath his plumed blue velvet cap was neatly trimmed. His expensively clad figure boasted broad shoulders, slim hips, and legs both powerful- looking and shapely in their dark hose. His eyes seemed a bit fierce under jutting eyebrows darker than his hair, but fierce eyes did not scare Sibylla. At first glance, she thought him intriguing.
She had enjoyed a few mild flirtations, and was growing used to men of every age—including her brother Hugh’s friends—making clear their approval of her beauty. So she waited for that familiar look to appear on the face of her intended.
He continued to regard her without any change of expression other than what seemed to be a touch of chilly impatience.
Aware that she had inherited her mother’s generous wedding portion on that lady’s unfortunate demise ten years before, Sibylla eyed the young man more intently as she offered him a warm smile.
He remained coldly somber.
At the chancel steps, her father moved away after declaring himself willing to give her in marriage. With easy grace, she went up the steps, stopped nearer her bridegroom than the priest had indicated, and said confidingly, “You might at least smile, sir. You look as if you are attending a funeral.”
Instead, he glanced irritably at the priest. That worthy said, “My lady, you should look at me and not speak except to repeat your vows.”
Ignoring him, Sibylla smiled again at her intended. “My father told me you were all eagerness, sir,” she said. “But you never came to visit me, and now you do not return my smile. In troth, I begin to doubt his word.”
“This discourse is unseemly, Father,” the groom said. “Pray, proceed.”
“Nay, then, do not, Father,” Sibylla said. “I will have none of him.”
As she turned away, her erstwhile bridegroom said testily, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” she said. “You do not want me, and I do not want you.”
“By heaven, no one humiliates me like this!” he exclaimed.
Without word or pause, Sibylla picked up her skirts and left the kirk.
The words he shouted at her then rang in her ears for days afterward:
“I’ll never forgive you, you impudent snip! You will rue this day!”
Akermoor Castle, Lothian, April 1388
After each of her two aborted weddings, Sibylla had faced her furious father and endured his rebukes. She knew she deserved them, if only for disappointing him, and had felt profound relief that his reaction had not been more violent.
On both occasions, after he had roared at her, she had tried to explain her reasons. But Lord Galston’s having been too old for her and his successor too coldly arrogant had not impressed Sir Malcolm.
The third time, she recognized her error sooner. The ceremony was to take place at Akermoor, so she simply sent a message downstairs to the priest and did not show herself. Accordingly, she expected Sir Malcolm’s wrath to engulf her.
“What manner of complaint can ye have this time?” he demanded. “In sooth, ye said Thomas Colville suited ye fine.”
“I had seen him only at court with companies of people,” Sibylla replied. “Thomas seemed charming then and kind. But since he has been here at Akermoor, I have found not one thing about which we can talk.”
“Ye’ll talk enough after ye’re married!”
“He leers at the maidservants, sir, and cares only for his own wishes,” she said. Fearing that Sir Malcolm would see nothing amiss in that either, she added, “He also complained unceasingly that Hugh was not here to bear him company.”
“Any man prefers the company of other men,” her father retorted. “His wife is meant to look after his home and his bairns, no to demand his constant attention. Moreover, if ye meant to refuse him, ye should have said as much before now.”
“I did, sir. You did not listen. Apparently, that, too, is the nature of men.”
“I’ll stand nae more of your sauce!” he roared. “Your sister Alice will soon need a husband, and although I’d a mind to see ye wedded afore her, ye’ve had your chance, Sibylla—three of them! I’ll do nae more for ye. Ye’ll always have your home here, but ye’ll look after Alice till she weds and then ye’ll look after yourself and me. So look now at your future, ye foolish lass, and weep for it!”
But Sibylla did not weep.
Instead, as usual, she took matters into her own capable hands.
Chapter 1
Scottish Borders, 21 April 1391
The child’s scream shattered the morning stillness.
Whipping her head toward the sound, which had come from a short distance away near the river Tweed, nineteen-year-old Lady Sibylla Cavers reined in the dapple-gray gelding she rode. Pushing back the sable-lined hood of her long, dark-green wool cloak, she listened, frowning, her eyes narrowed. For the first time since leaving Sweethope Hill House that morning, she wished she had brought her groom, but as the land from Sweethope Hill to the river belonged to the estate, she had not.
She often rode alone, and having but recently recovered from an illness that had kept her in bed for a fortnight, she had wanted to savor her freedom.
The scream came again and seemed closer.
Spurring the gray, Sibylla rode toward the river until she saw through a break in the trees lining its bank a tiny, splashing figure a quarter mile to the west. Caught in the river’s powerful, sweeping spring flow, it moved steadily toward her.
Without hesitation, Sibylla wheeled her mount eastward and urged it to a gallop, hoping it could outrun the river to the next ford. With hood bobbing and long, thick, red-gold plaits flying, she listened for more screams to tell her the child was still alive and help her estimate how fast the river was carrying it along.
Her sense of urgency increasing with every hoofbeat, she leaned low along the gelding’s neck and urged it to go faster.
The ford was not far, if it still was a ford. She knew only what she had gleaned about the Tweed during the princess Isabel Stewart’s eight-month residence at Sweethope. But her experience with other rivers warned her that even trustworthy fords that had remained so for years could vanish in a heavy spate, and tended to do so just when one most urgently needed to cross to the other side.
At present, the Tweed was a thick, muddy brown color and moved swiftly, carrying branches, twigs, and larger items in its grip. Some distance to the east, she saw a long, half-submerged log that had snagged near the opposite shore just short of where the river bent southward. Branches with enough clinging dry leaves to look like spiky plumes shot off the log in all directions, making it easy to see. Other objects swept past it though, as the child would if she could not intercept it.
The ford lay just ahead now with sunlight gleaming on water-filled ruts of the worn track approaching it. Although the river was higher than usual, hoofprints in the mud indicated that, not long before, horses had crossed there.
Reining the gray to a trot and turning in fear that she would see nothing but churning water, she observed with profound relief that the child still splashed, albeit with less energy than before. Its strength was rapidly waning.
At best, she would have only one chance to save it. Reaching the ford, she urged the gray into the water. The horse was reluctant, but she was an experienced horsewoman.
She knew it was strong and reliable. Forcing it into the swift flow, wishing again that she had brought her groom, she discovered only when the gray was in nearly to its withers that the water was deeper than she had expected.
Nevertheless, the horse obeyed, leaning into the river’s flow to steady itself.
Keeping firm control of it, she fixed her eyes on the child, urging the gelding forward until the child was splashing directly toward them.
When the little one was near enough, Sibylla resisted trying to grab one of the thin, flailing arms with her gloved hand. She grabbed clothing instead, praying the cloth would not tear as the water fought to rip the terrified child from her grip. The river thrust hard against the horse, eddying angrily around the already skittish beast.
The child proved shockingly heavy and awkward to hold. Just as she thought she had a firm grip, the gelding shifted a foreleg eastward.
The combination of the child’s waterlogged weight and the river’s mighty flow pulled the little one under the horse’s neck and forced Sibylla to lean sharply to retain her grip. Before she knew what was happening, she was in the icy water.
Long practice compelled her to hold on to the reins. The startled horse, already struggling to return to firm ground, jerked its head up, nearly yanking the reins free. Sibylla’s skirts and heavy cloak threatened to sink her, and the combined forces of the river and the child’s weight dragged her eastward with a strength impossible to resist. Worse, the child had caught hold of her arm and, shrieking in its terror, tried to climb right up her.
Sibylla let go of the reins and, submerging, used her left hand to release the clasp at the neck of her cloak as she tried desperately to keep the child’s head above her, out of the water, and find footing beneath her. The water filled her boots and thrust one off. She kicked the other one away.
Although her feet had briefly touched bottom as she kicked toward the surface and the cloak’s weight vanished as the river swept it away, she could find only water under her now. Whatever had remained of the ford was behind them.
Pulse pounding, trying not to swallow the cold, muddy water churning around them, Sibylla fought to breathe and to keep them both afloat. But the river, determined to keep them, swept them inexorably toward the sea.
Simon Murray, Laird of Elishaw, returning from Kelso with his usual, modest tail of six armed men, had forded the Tweed sometime earlier on his way south to Elishaw. Having also heard the screaming child, he had turned back at once.
By the time he and his men reached the riverbank, the screams were well east of them, but Simon easily spotted the frantically splashing child. Beyond, in the distance, he discerned through the shrubbery a lone rider in a dark-green cloak racing along the opposite bank. Whoever it was, with the river as high as it was, and the current as strong, that rider would need help.
As Simon turned east, one of his men shouted, “M’lord, look yonder! There be another lad in the water!”
Glancing back to see more splashes, Simon shouted, “You men do what you must to rescue him. I’m going after the other one. Hodge Law, you’re with me!” he added, singling out the largest and strongest of his men.
Giving spur to his mount with mental thanks to God that he was riding a sure-footed horse of good speed, Simon followed the narrow, rutted track along the riverbank. Watching through trees and shrubbery as well as he could in passing, he tried to keep one eye on the child and the other on the green-cloaked rider.
As he rode, he wondered how two bairns had ended up in the river. If they’d been playing on its banks, they wanted skelping—if they lived long enough. If not . . .
Half of his mind continued to toy with possibilities as it was wont to do when faced with any problem. But as he drew nearer, he saw that the other rider was female and realized that, before, the shrubbery had hidden her flying plaits.
Forgetting all else, he focused his mind on how he could aid her.
When she forced her mount into the river at the ford where he and his men had crossed, he noted how nervous the beast was and how deftly she controlled it.
As that thought crossed his mind, she leaned to grab the child racing toward her, and although he saw with approval that she grabbed the front of its garments rather than trying to catch a madly waving arm, he doubted that any female would be strong enough to hold on to it in such a current. She would have to let go.
He spurred his horse again, his vivid imagination warning him what would happen split seconds before she fell in.
She bobbed up straightaway, still gripping the child. But the current had both of them and was flowing fast enough to make him fear he could not catch up in time, let alone get ahead of them as he must if he were to help them.
The woods lining the river were thicker where its course bent southward, but he knew it would bend east again half a mile later. He could shorten the distance by cutting across the field. Then, if the two could avoid drowning before he got to them, and if his horse could avoid putting a foot in a rabbit hole or worse . . .
Sibylla held on to the child by sheer willpower. She resisted fighting the current, tried to relax, and put her energy into kicking and keeping her head and the child’s above water as she let the river carry them.
She hoped she could keep her wits together long enough to think what to do, but the icy water made it hard to breathe, let alone to think. Although the child seemed lighter with the water bearing them both, she knew they did not have long to survive unless they could reach one of the river’s banks.
Adventurous by nature, Sibylla had grown up at Aker-moor Castle, which boasted its own loch a short way to the west and the Ale Water to the east. Having likewise enjoyed the blessing of an older brother determined to teach her how to survive the commonest perils of Border life, and to look after herself, she was an excellent swimmer and had acquired the ability to remain calm in a crisis.
She knew she could not successfully fight the child and the strong current, so to divert the child she commanded it to help them stay afloat.
“Kick hard!” she shouted, managing to shift her grip to the back of its clothing near its neck. By floating the child on its back, keeping her right arm straight, and bending her wrist sharply, she could keep its head up while she paddled with her left hand. Her body shifted almost onto its side, but she found it easier to kick hard in that position with the child kicking its legs above hers.
Desperation kept her going, and for a wonder, the water had pushed her skirts nearly to her hips, enough for the fabric to resist wrapping itself around her legs.
Sibylla was tiring fast though, and knew she could not go on indefinitely. They had to find something that would float and to which they could cling.
She could barely see where she was going, but she knew they were rapidly approaching the river bend. Without intent but because of the way she held the child and because she faced the south bank of the river, she had drawn close enough to it to be wary of nearby boulders poking their heads out of the water.
Much as she wanted to feel firm ground beneath her again, it occurred to her that letting the river smash them into a boulder might kill them both.
Telling herself sternly that such a collision was more likely to injure them than kill them, and that injury would be better than drowning, she tried to judge how safely she could ease them closer. Only then did she remember the half-submerged log.
Debris in the water consisted mostly of branches, twigs, and other useless stuff, none of it large enough to provide support for them both.
If she could grab the log, they could at least gain a respite. They might even manage to drag themselves out of the water if the log lay near enough to the shore.
She had no doubt she could manage that feat for herself. But her grip on the child made everything else gruelingly awkward. Other than reminding the little one to kick, and muttering occasional brief encouragement as she fought to swim and to breathe, Sibylla had barely spoken.
The child, too, was exhausting what energy it had left in kicking, and she knew she dared not waste her own lest she need it later.
As a result, she did not even know yet which sex the child was.
It was wearing thin breeks rather than a skirt, but its fragile bone structure seemed feminine, as did its willingness to obey her. Despite the attempt to climb up her when she fell in, a single stern command to kick hard and look for something they could grab to keep them afloat had been enough.
Such simple trust in her made Sibylla determined not to give up. She had no illusions though. She had to get closer to shore for them to have any chance at all.
When a break in the trees showed Simon he was a little ahead of the victims, he shouted at Hodge Law to stay near the river, to be at hand if they managed to make it to shore before the current swept them around the bend. Then he turned his horse to cross the open field, hoping to get farther ahead of them beyond the bend.
He had ridden just a short way, however, when a shrill whistle made him look back to see Hodge waving frantically. As Simon wheeled his horse, he saw the big man thrust himself off his own mount and vanish into the shrubbery.
Simon put his horse to its fastest pace, wrenched it to a halt near Hodge’s beast, and flung himself from the saddle. Following Hodge’s huge footprints through the shrubbery to the riverbank, he saw the big shaggy-haired Borderer trying to step onto a half-submerged log with a multitude of dead branches thrusting from it.
Seeing the sodden, bedraggled woman clinging to a branch and the child clinging to the woman, Simon said, “Take care or you’ll end in the river with them!”
“I’ll no be going aboard it, m’lord,” Hodge said. “The blessed log be so unstable I’m afeard me weight will dislodge it from what’s keeping it here.”
“Will it take my weight?” Simon asked as he drew near enough to see for himself that the log rocked like a ship at sea.
“I’m thinking I could hold it steady enough for ye,” Hodge said. “Like as not, though, ye’ll get a dousing.”
“I won’t fall in,” Simon said, noting that the woman had not spoken or even tried to push away the heavy strands of muddy hair that obscured most of her face.
She was shivering, clearly exhausted and using the last dregs of her energy to hang on. The child, too, looked spent. But although its arms were around the woman’s neck, it seemed to have sense enough left not to choke her.
He moved up by Hodge, who held on to a stout branch. The log looked like part of a good-sized tree, but it lay too far from shore for him to step onto it. He’d have to leap, and the damnable thing was bound to be slippery.
But if anyone could hold it steady, Hodge could. “Mistress, heed me,” Simon said as he shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a nearby shrub. “I am going to jump on that log whilst my man holds it steady. When I do, I’ll take the lad from you first. Can you hang on a while longer?”
“I shall have to, shall I not?” she murmured, still barely moving.
“Have faith,” he said more gently. “I won’t let the river have you. Hold fast now, Hodge. Don’t let the damnable thing get away when I jump.”
“I’ve got it, sir.”
The woman looked up as Simon set himself to leap, her eyes widening.
They were an odd grayish brown, matching the muddy water. Her plaits and the loose strands that concealed so much of her face—soaked through as they were and doubtless painted with mud—were a similar color. Her lips were blue.
Despite her bedraggled appearance, she seemed familiar. He wondered if she resided on one of the estates near Elishaw.
Shifting his mind to getting safely on the log, he put one hand on a sturdy branch, picked a flattish spot as the best place to land, and leapt.
The log was indeed slippery, but he kept his balance by grabbing a strong-looking upright branch. Holding it with his left hand, he bent toward the child, saying, “Reach a hand up to me, lad. I’ll pull you out.”
The child shook its head fervently, clinging tighter to the woman.
“Come now, don’t be
BORDER LASS
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Readers will be thrilled . . . a tautly written, deeply emotional love story steeped in the rich history of the Borders. Scott’s use of real events and people enables her to subtly move readers into the characters’ mindsets, which greatly enriches the story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots . . . Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of medieval Scotland. She combines a passionate love story with a detailed understanding of those dangerous times . . . a fascinating story. I highly recommend Border Lass.”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“Scott excels at creating memorable characters . . . A good read.”
—FreshFiction.com
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
St. Giles Kirk, Edinburgh, 1386
“No.”
The young bride’s single decisive word silenced the rustling of the noble wedding guests’ movements and whispers.
The priest, having just asked the stout, elegantly dressed groom if he would take fourteen-year-old Lady Sibylla Cavers as his wife, now shifted his gaze to her.
“My daughter,” he said sternly, “I was asking his lordship if he would take you as his wife. Prithee, keep silent until I address you.”
The wedding guests saw only her slender back and thus could not read her expression. But her very posture expressed her indignation.
Her hip-long, wavy auburn hair glinted golden in the glow of the cressets on the arcade separating the new south aisle from the nave. That aisle, as most of Edinburgh knew, owed its existence to the generosity of the bride’s father, Sir Malcolm Cavers, Lord of Akermoor.
The groom—nearer Sir Malcolm’s age than Sibylla’s— turned to gape at her. His jowls were aquiver. His thick lower lip protruded.
Ignoring him, she faced the priest. “It cannot matter how Lord Galston answers you, Father,” she said as firmly and clearly as before. “I do have the right to refuse him, do I not? My godfather said I do.”
“A good daughter obeys the commands of her father,” the priest declared.
“I am a good daughter, but I don’t want Lord Galston for my husband. The Douglas, my godfather, said I need not have him. Was he wrong?”
The priest stared at her, his heavy frown making most of the spectators glad he had not directed it at them.
They held their communal breath, fearful of missing a word.
Heads turned toward Sir Malcolm. He stood at the foot of the chancel steps, his grim profile visible to nearly everyone save the bridal couple.
His face flamed red and his jaw jutted forward.
The priest looked at him. The bride did not.
“My lord,” the priest said. “You know the answer to her ladyship’s question. What would you have me do?”
Grimacing, Sir Malcolm shook his head. “Ye can do nowt,” he muttered.
The lady Sibylla turned, gathered her skirts in a graceful, swooping gesture, and descended the chancel steps. Head high, acknowledging no one, she turned toward the south aisle.
As the congregation watched in stunned silence, she walked with dignity far beyond her tender years outside into Edinburgh’s High Street.
Selkirk, Allhallows’ Day, 1387
As fifteen-year-old Sibylla Cavers walked beside her father toward the altar of the wee kirk, she saw that he had invited few guests. But she could scarcely blame him after what had happened the first time he’d arranged for her to marry.
With the banns mysteriously omitted this time, just two lay brothers and a few curious citizens were in the kirk that drizzly November day to view the sacred rite and help alleviate the damp chill. Shivering, Sibylla studied the handsome young man who awaited her with the priest at the altar.
She had never met the bridegroom before. But, as her father had promised, this one did seem a better choice for her than the aged Lord Galston. For one thing, this man was only six years older than she was, surely a better match for her than any rotund graybeard.
The dark-tawny hair beneath his plumed blue velvet cap was neatly trimmed. His expensively clad figure boasted broad shoulders, slim hips, and legs both powerful- looking and shapely in their dark hose. His eyes seemed a bit fierce under jutting eyebrows darker than his hair, but fierce eyes did not scare Sibylla. At first glance, she thought him intriguing.
She had enjoyed a few mild flirtations, and was growing used to men of every age—including her brother Hugh’s friends—making clear their approval of her beauty. So she waited for that familiar look to appear on the face of her intended.
He continued to regard her without any change of expression other than what seemed to be a touch of chilly impatience.
Aware that she had inherited her mother’s generous wedding portion on that lady’s unfortunate demise ten years before, Sibylla eyed the young man more intently as she offered him a warm smile.
He remained coldly somber.
At the chancel steps, her father moved away after declaring himself willing to give her in marriage. With easy grace, she went up the steps, stopped nearer her bridegroom than the priest had indicated, and said confidingly, “You might at least smile, sir. You look as if you are attending a funeral.”
Instead, he glanced irritably at the priest. That worthy said, “My lady, you should look at me and not speak except to repeat your vows.”
Ignoring him, Sibylla smiled again at her intended. “My father told me you were all eagerness, sir,” she said. “But you never came to visit me, and now you do not return my smile. In troth, I begin to doubt his word.”
“This discourse is unseemly, Father,” the groom said. “Pray, proceed.”
“Nay, then, do not, Father,” Sibylla said. “I will have none of him.”
As she turned away, her erstwhile bridegroom said testily, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” she said. “You do not want me, and I do not want you.”
“By heaven, no one humiliates me like this!” he exclaimed.
Without word or pause, Sibylla picked up her skirts and left the kirk.
The words he shouted at her then rang in her ears for days afterward:
“I’ll never forgive you, you impudent snip! You will rue this day!”
Akermoor Castle, Lothian, April 1388
After each of her two aborted weddings, Sibylla had faced her furious father and endured his rebukes. She knew she deserved them, if only for disappointing him, and had felt profound relief that his reaction had not been more violent.
On both occasions, after he had roared at her, she had tried to explain her reasons. But Lord Galston’s having been too old for her and his successor too coldly arrogant had not impressed Sir Malcolm.
The third time, she recognized her error sooner. The ceremony was to take place at Akermoor, so she simply sent a message downstairs to the priest and did not show herself. Accordingly, she expected Sir Malcolm’s wrath to engulf her.
“What manner of complaint can ye have this time?” he demanded. “In sooth, ye said Thomas Colville suited ye fine.”
“I had seen him only at court with companies of people,” Sibylla replied. “Thomas seemed charming then and kind. But since he has been here at Akermoor, I have found not one thing about which we can talk.”
“Ye’ll talk enough after ye’re married!”
“He leers at the maidservants, sir, and cares only for his own wishes,” she said. Fearing that Sir Malcolm would see nothing amiss in that either, she added, “He also complained unceasingly that Hugh was not here to bear him company.”
“Any man prefers the company of other men,” her father retorted. “His wife is meant to look after his home and his bairns, no to demand his constant attention. Moreover, if ye meant to refuse him, ye should have said as much before now.”
“I did, sir. You did not listen. Apparently, that, too, is the nature of men.”
“I’ll stand nae more of your sauce!” he roared. “Your sister Alice will soon need a husband, and although I’d a mind to see ye wedded afore her, ye’ve had your chance, Sibylla—three of them! I’ll do nae more for ye. Ye’ll always have your home here, but ye’ll look after Alice till she weds and then ye’ll look after yourself and me. So look now at your future, ye foolish lass, and weep for it!”
But Sibylla did not weep.
Instead, as usual, she took matters into her own capable hands.
Chapter 1
Scottish Borders, 21 April 1391
The child’s scream shattered the morning stillness.
Whipping her head toward the sound, which had come from a short distance away near the river Tweed, nineteen-year-old Lady Sibylla Cavers reined in the dapple-gray gelding she rode. Pushing back the sable-lined hood of her long, dark-green wool cloak, she listened, frowning, her eyes narrowed. For the first time since leaving Sweethope Hill House that morning, she wished she had brought her groom, but as the land from Sweethope Hill to the river belonged to the estate, she had not.
She often rode alone, and having but recently recovered from an illness that had kept her in bed for a fortnight, she had wanted to savor her freedom.
The scream came again and seemed closer.
Spurring the gray, Sibylla rode toward the river until she saw through a break in the trees lining its bank a tiny, splashing figure a quarter mile to the west. Caught in the river’s powerful, sweeping spring flow, it moved steadily toward her.
Without hesitation, Sibylla wheeled her mount eastward and urged it to a gallop, hoping it could outrun the river to the next ford. With hood bobbing and long, thick, red-gold plaits flying, she listened for more screams to tell her the child was still alive and help her estimate how fast the river was carrying it along.
Her sense of urgency increasing with every hoofbeat, she leaned low along the gelding’s neck and urged it to go faster.
The ford was not far, if it still was a ford. She knew only what she had gleaned about the Tweed during the princess Isabel Stewart’s eight-month residence at Sweethope. But her experience with other rivers warned her that even trustworthy fords that had remained so for years could vanish in a heavy spate, and tended to do so just when one most urgently needed to cross to the other side.
At present, the Tweed was a thick, muddy brown color and moved swiftly, carrying branches, twigs, and larger items in its grip. Some distance to the east, she saw a long, half-submerged log that had snagged near the opposite shore just short of where the river bent southward. Branches with enough clinging dry leaves to look like spiky plumes shot off the log in all directions, making it easy to see. Other objects swept past it though, as the child would if she could not intercept it.
The ford lay just ahead now with sunlight gleaming on water-filled ruts of the worn track approaching it. Although the river was higher than usual, hoofprints in the mud indicated that, not long before, horses had crossed there.
Reining the gray to a trot and turning in fear that she would see nothing but churning water, she observed with profound relief that the child still splashed, albeit with less energy than before. Its strength was rapidly waning.
At best, she would have only one chance to save it. Reaching the ford, she urged the gray into the water. The horse was reluctant, but she was an experienced horsewoman.
She knew it was strong and reliable. Forcing it into the swift flow, wishing again that she had brought her groom, she discovered only when the gray was in nearly to its withers that the water was deeper than she had expected.
Nevertheless, the horse obeyed, leaning into the river’s flow to steady itself.
Keeping firm control of it, she fixed her eyes on the child, urging the gelding forward until the child was splashing directly toward them.
When the little one was near enough, Sibylla resisted trying to grab one of the thin, flailing arms with her gloved hand. She grabbed clothing instead, praying the cloth would not tear as the water fought to rip the terrified child from her grip. The river thrust hard against the horse, eddying angrily around the already skittish beast.
The child proved shockingly heavy and awkward to hold. Just as she thought she had a firm grip, the gelding shifted a foreleg eastward.
The combination of the child’s waterlogged weight and the river’s mighty flow pulled the little one under the horse’s neck and forced Sibylla to lean sharply to retain her grip. Before she knew what was happening, she was in the icy water.
Long practice compelled her to hold on to the reins. The startled horse, already struggling to return to firm ground, jerked its head up, nearly yanking the reins free. Sibylla’s skirts and heavy cloak threatened to sink her, and the combined forces of the river and the child’s weight dragged her eastward with a strength impossible to resist. Worse, the child had caught hold of her arm and, shrieking in its terror, tried to climb right up her.
Sibylla let go of the reins and, submerging, used her left hand to release the clasp at the neck of her cloak as she tried desperately to keep the child’s head above her, out of the water, and find footing beneath her. The water filled her boots and thrust one off. She kicked the other one away.
Although her feet had briefly touched bottom as she kicked toward the surface and the cloak’s weight vanished as the river swept it away, she could find only water under her now. Whatever had remained of the ford was behind them.
Pulse pounding, trying not to swallow the cold, muddy water churning around them, Sibylla fought to breathe and to keep them both afloat. But the river, determined to keep them, swept them inexorably toward the sea.
Simon Murray, Laird of Elishaw, returning from Kelso with his usual, modest tail of six armed men, had forded the Tweed sometime earlier on his way south to Elishaw. Having also heard the screaming child, he had turned back at once.
By the time he and his men reached the riverbank, the screams were well east of them, but Simon easily spotted the frantically splashing child. Beyond, in the distance, he discerned through the shrubbery a lone rider in a dark-green cloak racing along the opposite bank. Whoever it was, with the river as high as it was, and the current as strong, that rider would need help.
As Simon turned east, one of his men shouted, “M’lord, look yonder! There be another lad in the water!”
Glancing back to see more splashes, Simon shouted, “You men do what you must to rescue him. I’m going after the other one. Hodge Law, you’re with me!” he added, singling out the largest and strongest of his men.
Giving spur to his mount with mental thanks to God that he was riding a sure-footed horse of good speed, Simon followed the narrow, rutted track along the riverbank. Watching through trees and shrubbery as well as he could in passing, he tried to keep one eye on the child and the other on the green-cloaked rider.
As he rode, he wondered how two bairns had ended up in the river. If they’d been playing on its banks, they wanted skelping—if they lived long enough. If not . . .
Half of his mind continued to toy with possibilities as it was wont to do when faced with any problem. But as he drew nearer, he saw that the other rider was female and realized that, before, the shrubbery had hidden her flying plaits.
Forgetting all else, he focused his mind on how he could aid her.
When she forced her mount into the river at the ford where he and his men had crossed, he noted how nervous the beast was and how deftly she controlled it.
As that thought crossed his mind, she leaned to grab the child racing toward her, and although he saw with approval that she grabbed the front of its garments rather than trying to catch a madly waving arm, he doubted that any female would be strong enough to hold on to it in such a current. She would have to let go.
He spurred his horse again, his vivid imagination warning him what would happen split seconds before she fell in.
She bobbed up straightaway, still gripping the child. But the current had both of them and was flowing fast enough to make him fear he could not catch up in time, let alone get ahead of them as he must if he were to help them.
The woods lining the river were thicker where its course bent southward, but he knew it would bend east again half a mile later. He could shorten the distance by cutting across the field. Then, if the two could avoid drowning before he got to them, and if his horse could avoid putting a foot in a rabbit hole or worse . . .
Sibylla held on to the child by sheer willpower. She resisted fighting the current, tried to relax, and put her energy into kicking and keeping her head and the child’s above water as she let the river carry them.
She hoped she could keep her wits together long enough to think what to do, but the icy water made it hard to breathe, let alone to think. Although the child seemed lighter with the water bearing them both, she knew they did not have long to survive unless they could reach one of the river’s banks.
Adventurous by nature, Sibylla had grown up at Aker-moor Castle, which boasted its own loch a short way to the west and the Ale Water to the east. Having likewise enjoyed the blessing of an older brother determined to teach her how to survive the commonest perils of Border life, and to look after herself, she was an excellent swimmer and had acquired the ability to remain calm in a crisis.
She knew she could not successfully fight the child and the strong current, so to divert the child she commanded it to help them stay afloat.
“Kick hard!” she shouted, managing to shift her grip to the back of its clothing near its neck. By floating the child on its back, keeping her right arm straight, and bending her wrist sharply, she could keep its head up while she paddled with her left hand. Her body shifted almost onto its side, but she found it easier to kick hard in that position with the child kicking its legs above hers.
Desperation kept her going, and for a wonder, the water had pushed her skirts nearly to her hips, enough for the fabric to resist wrapping itself around her legs.
Sibylla was tiring fast though, and knew she could not go on indefinitely. They had to find something that would float and to which they could cling.
She could barely see where she was going, but she knew they were rapidly approaching the river bend. Without intent but because of the way she held the child and because she faced the south bank of the river, she had drawn close enough to it to be wary of nearby boulders poking their heads out of the water.
Much as she wanted to feel firm ground beneath her again, it occurred to her that letting the river smash them into a boulder might kill them both.
Telling herself sternly that such a collision was more likely to injure them than kill them, and that injury would be better than drowning, she tried to judge how safely she could ease them closer. Only then did she remember the half-submerged log.
Debris in the water consisted mostly of branches, twigs, and other useless stuff, none of it large enough to provide support for them both.
If she could grab the log, they could at least gain a respite. They might even manage to drag themselves out of the water if the log lay near enough to the shore.
She had no doubt she could manage that feat for herself. But her grip on the child made everything else gruelingly awkward. Other than reminding the little one to kick, and muttering occasional brief encouragement as she fought to swim and to breathe, Sibylla had barely spoken.
The child, too, was exhausting what energy it had left in kicking, and she knew she dared not waste her own lest she need it later.
As a result, she did not even know yet which sex the child was.
It was wearing thin breeks rather than a skirt, but its fragile bone structure seemed feminine, as did its willingness to obey her. Despite the attempt to climb up her when she fell in, a single stern command to kick hard and look for something they could grab to keep them afloat had been enough.
Such simple trust in her made Sibylla determined not to give up. She had no illusions though. She had to get closer to shore for them to have any chance at all.
When a break in the trees showed Simon he was a little ahead of the victims, he shouted at Hodge Law to stay near the river, to be at hand if they managed to make it to shore before the current swept them around the bend. Then he turned his horse to cross the open field, hoping to get farther ahead of them beyond the bend.
He had ridden just a short way, however, when a shrill whistle made him look back to see Hodge waving frantically. As Simon wheeled his horse, he saw the big man thrust himself off his own mount and vanish into the shrubbery.
Simon put his horse to its fastest pace, wrenched it to a halt near Hodge’s beast, and flung himself from the saddle. Following Hodge’s huge footprints through the shrubbery to the riverbank, he saw the big shaggy-haired Borderer trying to step onto a half-submerged log with a multitude of dead branches thrusting from it.
Seeing the sodden, bedraggled woman clinging to a branch and the child clinging to the woman, Simon said, “Take care or you’ll end in the river with them!”
“I’ll no be going aboard it, m’lord,” Hodge said. “The blessed log be so unstable I’m afeard me weight will dislodge it from what’s keeping it here.”
“Will it take my weight?” Simon asked as he drew near enough to see for himself that the log rocked like a ship at sea.
“I’m thinking I could hold it steady enough for ye,” Hodge said. “Like as not, though, ye’ll get a dousing.”
“I won’t fall in,” Simon said, noting that the woman had not spoken or even tried to push away the heavy strands of muddy hair that obscured most of her face.
She was shivering, clearly exhausted and using the last dregs of her energy to hang on. The child, too, looked spent. But although its arms were around the woman’s neck, it seemed to have sense enough left not to choke her.
He moved up by Hodge, who held on to a stout branch. The log looked like part of a good-sized tree, but it lay too far from shore for him to step onto it. He’d have to leap, and the damnable thing was bound to be slippery.
But if anyone could hold it steady, Hodge could. “Mistress, heed me,” Simon said as he shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a nearby shrub. “I am going to jump on that log whilst my man holds it steady. When I do, I’ll take the lad from you first. Can you hang on a while longer?”
“I shall have to, shall I not?” she murmured, still barely moving.
“Have faith,” he said more gently. “I won’t let the river have you. Hold fast now, Hodge. Don’t let the damnable thing get away when I jump.”
“I’ve got it, sir.”
The woman looked up as Simon set himself to leap, her eyes widening.
They were an odd grayish brown, matching the muddy water. Her plaits and the loose strands that concealed so much of her face—soaked through as they were and doubtless painted with mud—were a similar color. Her lips were blue.
Despite her bedraggled appearance, she seemed familiar. He wondered if she resided on one of the estates near Elishaw.
Shifting his mind to getting safely on the log, he put one hand on a sturdy branch, picked a flattish spot as the best place to land, and leapt.
The log was indeed slippery, but he kept his balance by grabbing a strong-looking upright branch. Holding it with his left hand, he bent toward the child, saying, “Reach a hand up to me, lad. I’ll pull you out.”
The child shook its head fervently, clinging tighter to the woman.
“Come now, don’t be
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