Bride of a Scottish Warrior

by Adrienne Basso

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

A union born of duty. . . Newly knighted Sir Ewan Gilroy needs a dowry and a wife, in that order. Though the widowed Lady Grace plans to enter a convent, squandering so much lush beauty--and such a fortune--would surely be its own sin. Grace will not be easily wooed, despite her family's urging and Ewan's famed charm. She challenges him as no woman ever dared, proving his equal in spirit and in passions. . . Forged by desire. . . To atone for her past, Grace vows to never remarry--least of all a brash and reckless warrior. Yet whether defending her honor or stoking desires she hardly knew she possessed, Ewan is a man beyond compare. And as their fragile trust is threatened by treachery, Grace must decide whether to reach for the happiness within her grasp--and fight for the love of her bold Highlander. . . Praise for Adrienne Basso's How to be a Scottish Mistress "Heartwarming." -- Publishers Weekly "Powerful. . .this poignant story quickly becomes a page-turner." -- RT Book Reviews

Release date: July 1, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

Scottish Highlands, Dunnad Castle, November 1314

“He’s dying,” Edna whispered, her voice hushed and reverent.

“I know.” Lady Grace Ferguson tore her gaze away from her maid’s sympathetic eyes and looked down at her husband. Sir Alastair, chief of Clan Ferguson, lay still and quiet beneath a pile of heavy furs, his ashen face lined with pain, for even in sleep the agony did not leave his broken body.

Grace studied him for a few moments, examining the strong line of his jaw, his crooked nose, the heavy dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. Though his wife for nearly seven years, she found his features were unfamiliar, for Sir Alastair had spent most of the days of their marriage away from her, fighting beside Robert the Bruce as that noble man secured the Scottish crown on his head and independence from the English.

Grace softly stroked Alastair’s fevered brow, the skin dry and warm. Instantly his eyes opened.

“Hot,” he croaked, attempting to push away the pile of furs.

Grace’s heart tightened as she realized he lacked the strength to move them. “Shhh,” she purred, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Let me.”

She pulled back the furs to his waist, then turned to the bowl of water on the table. Dampening the clean cloth she had brought, Grace slowly, gently brushed it over Alastair’s face. As she did so, she could feel the waves of heat radiating from his body.

“He’ll catch a deathly chill if ye keep that up much longer,” Edna admonished.

Grace nearly smiled. He was dying; they both knew it. Yet Edna still worried about him catching a chill. ’Twas testament indeed to how far the uncertainty and madness was spreading among them all.

“I’ll not stop as long as it brings him a small measure of comfort,” Grace insisted, running the cloth over his chest and arms. “God knows he’s had little peace these past few weeks.”

It seemed such a cruel irony that after surviving nearly seven years of warfare, Alastair was going to perish because of a hunting accident. He had been thrown from his horse and attacked by a wild boar while hunting four weeks ago. His leg had been shattered in several places, the bone poking obscenely through the flesh.

Brother John, a monk with renowned healing skills from the Turriff Monastery, had been brought to the keep. Miraculously, the monk had stitched together the worst of the mangled flesh and bound Alastair’s leg, but the fever and infection raging throughout his body would not abate.

“Ye’ve done enough of that fer now, milady. Why dinnae ye put down the cloth and I’ll take this away before anyone sees what ye’ve been doing?” Edna suggested.

Ignoring her maid, Grace continued with her ministrations, admitting they brought her as much, if not more, comfort than Alastair. With this small task, she finally felt as though she was doing something, instead of sitting calmly at his bedside, watching him die.

The repetitious movements soon fell into a rhythm, and with that, the words that followed came naturally. Murmuring soothingly, Grace spoke of how he would be better soon. How the fever would break and his strength would return. Again and again, she dipped the cloth in the water, squeezing it dry, then wiping it over his head, shoulders, chest, and arms, all the while encouraging him to believe the impossible.

“Grace?”

“I’m right here, Alastair.”

He squinted at her, his features drawn tightly in confusion. “Drink.”

Grace motioned to Edna. The maid frowned again, but refrained from reminding her mistress that Brother John had forbidden his patient any liquids until the sun set. Instead, the maid poured a small amount of ale into a goblet and handed it to Grace.

She shifted so she could support Alastair’s shoulders, then held the vessel to his mouth. He sipped slowly. When he was done, Grace laid him gently back on the mattress and once again covered him with the furs. His eyes fluttered closed.

Slowly, as not to jostle him, Grace stood. “Fetch me a chair, Edna.”

The maid clucked her tongue. “Ever since the men carried him home on a litter, ye’ve spent nearly every waking minute and half the night in this sickroom. Why dinnae ye go to yer chamber and lay down? I promise ye’ll be summoned at once if there’s any change in Sir Alastair’s condition.”

“I’m too restless to nap.”

“Then go outside and take a walk in the sunshine to stretch yer muscles. ’Tis cold, but the wind is quiet and the fresh air will do ye a world of good.”

For a moment Grace was tempted to comply. The days were growing shorter and colder. Soon the icy winds and snow-covered ground would make spending any time outdoors a misery. She glanced down at Alastair, running her hand over his flushed cheeks, and sighed.

Escaping from the suffocating air of gloom in the chamber sounded heavenly, yet she could not abandon her wifely duties. “Nay, Edna, I shall stay by my husband’s side.”

The maid shrugged with acceptance, then pulled over the requested chair. Grace had just settled herself in it when the chamber door opened.

“Good day, Lady Grace.” Brother John glanced around the chamber, his brow drawing into a heavy frown when he spied the bowl of water, damp cloth, and goblet. “Have you been ignoring my orders again?” he asked, huffing with a superior air of indignity. “I have told ye repeatedly that ye must follow my instructions precisely if ye wish Sir Alastair to recover.”

Grace clenched the edge of the fur blanket. “I’m only trying to ease his pain.”

Muttering beneath his breath, Brother John hurried to his patient’s side. Grace forced herself to rise from the chair, so the monk could attend Alastair’s leg, which was braced between two long planks of wood and covered in long strips of linen. As Brother John carefully snipped away at the linen, the putrid smell of rotting flesh filled the room.

Grace’s stomach heaved. Holding her hand over her nose, she glanced down at the bed. Alastair’s entire leg was gray in color, tinged with streaks of bright red surrounding several gaping wounds. She took a step back, almost knocking over the chair.

“Dinnae let the odor distress ye, Lady Grace,” Brother John said. “ ’Tis not obvious to the untrained eye, yet I can see there’s been improvement.” The monk managed a very slight grin, his thin lips parting to expose long, yellow teeth and a smile so condescending it was clear he thought her a simpleton.

Keeping her composure, Grace answered with a concerned frown. “His fever rages and he suffers mightily.”

“’Tis God’s will,” Brother John replied. He slapped a foul-smelling poultice over an oozing wound, then started to reapply the dirty bandages.

Alastair let out a loud groan. Grace sprang forward, pushing her way between the monk and her husband. “Fer pity’s sake, why must ye be so rough? Have ye no compassion at all?” Taking the bandages away from Brother John, Grace turned to Edna. “Fetch the clean linen ye washed yesterday. I’ll bind Sir Alastair’s wounds myself.”

“Lady Grace—” There was a note of annoyance in Brother John’s voice.

She turned and faced the monk, her expression set. “I will tend him,” she insisted. Brother John’s face reddened in anger. Grace could hear him grinding his teeth, but she refused to relent. Enough! How long was she to remain silent and complacent, while her husband was forced to suffer? She might not know as much about the mysteries of healing, but she could apply a dressing without causing undue pain.

The monk stood waiting for several long moments, then realizing her determination, he turned and huffed out of the chamber. Grace listened to the sound of his footsteps on the rough wooden floor until they faded into silence.

“He’ll be back,” Edna observed wryly.

“No doubt. This time with reinforcements. We must act quickly.”

Moving as fast as possible, Grace and her maid wrapped the clean bandages around his shattered leg, struggling to avoid causing Alastair any additional pain. He made no sound while they worked, waking only when they were finished. Knowing she would have but a scant moment alone with him, Grace turned to her husband.

“Can ye tell me where it pains ye the most?”

Alastair’s face lit with a ghost of a smile. “Everywhere, milady. Even my hair.”

“It will get better,” she whispered, hoping the lie did not reveal itself in her eyes.

“Ye’ve a kind heart, lass. I wish I had known ye better, wish there had been more time. . . .” His voice trailed off with a regretful sigh.

An unbearable loneliness seized her heart, followed by a stab of regret. Regret for all she’d never experienced, never had in her life. A loving husband, a gaggle of healthy children clinging to her skirts, a sense of peace and contentment. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, yet both parties had been willing. If not for the war and the years of separation, they might have had a chance to find happiness together. Or at least a peaceful contentment.

“We’ll have more time together than we know what to do with, Alastair, once ye have recovered.”

He grimaced. Behind his mask of pain, Grace caught a glimpse of vulnerability and it made her heart ache even more. “’Tis no use. I’m dying and there’s naught anyone can do except prolong my agony. A task Brother John seems hell-bent on completing.”

“His skill is widely praised,” Grace replied, not knowing what else to say, for her husband spoke the truth.

Alastair reached out, his fingers surprisingly strong as they gripped her hand. “I heard him talking with his assistant last night.”

“Who?”

“Brother John. My healer.” Alastair rubbed his thumb over Grace’s knuckles. The intimate gesture brought tears to her eyes. “The monk said as a last resort he’ll cut the leg.”

Grace gasped. “Ye already have enough cuts upon it. Why would he insist on more?”

“Nay, Grace, ye dinnae understand. He wants to cut the leg off.”

Grace shook her head vehemently. “Nay, oh, nay. Alastair, ye must have misheard. ’Tis barbaric to even consider such a thing. Besides, no warrior can lead his clan with only one leg.”

“Aye.” Alastair sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “Ye must stop it from happening, Grace. Ye must allow me to die in peace, with all my limbs still attached to my body.”

How? Clasping her husband’s palms between hers, Grace leaned forward, pressing their joined hands against her chest. “If ye want to refuse the treatment, then ye must tell Brother John. Loudly. Forcefully. He’ll have no choice but to obey.”

“Och, lass, most days I lack the strength to open my eyes to see who is tending me.” Pain and anguish filled Alastair’s voice. “Ye must speak fer me.”

Grace attempted a comforting smile through her tears. “They’ll not listen to a woman, no matter how loudly I shriek. Can ye not ask one of yer brothers for aid?”

“I dinnae believe they would listen. Besides, ’twould be unmanly, cowardly. I dinnae want that to be my legacy.”

Grace’s throat constricted. Pride, ’twas always pride when it came to men. Yet while she might not agree, she did understand his feelings. “I’ll do what I can,” she whispered.

“Pray fer me,” Alastair croaked.

“I do. Almost hourly I ask God to bring ye back to health.”

A grimace of sorrow stole across her husband’s face. “Nay. Pray fer death, as I do. I dinnae fear it; I welcome it. I long fer it.”

Grace heard footsteps again, this time more than one set. As she predicted, Brother John had returned, bringing with him Sir Alastair’s brothers, Douglas and Roderick. The three entered the room and stared at her, a myriad of expressions on their faces.

Douglas appeared concerned, Roderick wary, and Brother John smug. Though she believed Alastair’s brothers each carried a genuine affection for him, they had clear and differing opinions on his recovery. And their own particular reasons for wanting him to linger or go quickly to his final reward.

Since Alastair had no son of his own, Roderick and Douglas would each fight hard to be the one to lead the clan once Alastair was gone. If the gossip Grace heard around the castle was to be believed, Douglas currently had the most support, though Roderick was making some progress in changing the minds of his clansmen.

Thus Douglas would benefit the sooner Alastair died, while Roderick might be successful in his bid for power if given more time to garner support. ’Twas no surprise that it was Roderick who had insisted that Brother John be fetched to tend to Alastair. Indeed, no expense or effort had been spared, a commendable occurrence if one did not delve too deeply into Roderick’s ulterior motive.

“Brother John says that Alastair is much improved,” Roderick exclaimed. “Does that not gladden yer heart, Grace?”

“’Twould indeed make me joyful, if it were true.”

Brother John snorted. “Ye lack the knowledge to properly judge,” the monk insisted. Yet she heard the clank of glass upon metal as he portioned out the medicine, and she observed his shaking hands. Despite his superior attitude and almost swaggering bravado, the monk was nervous.

They all stood silently as Brother John administered the medicine, massaging Alastair’s throat to help him swallow. Nearly half the liquid dribbled out the side of his mouth. Grace moved forward to wipe it away.

“Will it aid him even if he cannae drink it properly?” Roderick asked.

“Aye,” the monk replied. “A smaller amount is actually preferable. Too much might do him great harm.” He secured the cork stopper on the glass bottle and it disappeared into the folds of his brown robes. “We shall wait a few more days, but if the flesh on his leg continues to rot, I shall perform the operation we discussed.”

Grace turned. “Nay! Ye willnae remove his leg. I forbid it.”

The three men turned toward Grace, varying degrees of shock and surprise on their faces. “Ye’re too tenderhearted, Lady Grace,” Brother John said. “An admirable quality, no doubt, in a female, but one that has no place in a sickroom.”

“Ye will not cut off his leg,” she repeated.

“I am the one in charge of Sir Alastair’s health. Therefore, I am the one who will make that decision.” The monk’s eyes narrowed. He sounded furious.

But Grace would not relent. Still, she hesitated before speaking again. Men never liked to have their authority challenged. She moved toward Douglas, searching for an ally. “Can we not allow God to decide Alastair’s fate?”

Douglas met her eyes, his face scored with genuine concern. “We must do all that we can to save him.”

“Butchering him willnae save him,” she dared to whisper.

The expression of compassion and concern faded from Douglas’s face. “Aye.”

“Do ye agree, Roderick?”

Grace could feel her legs shaking, her heart pounding, and she had the distinct feeling that she was turning red. Yet she fought hard to keep her voice calm and firm, lifting her chin in defiance. She would not acquiesce without a fight. Not when so much was at stake.

Shadows of flickering daylight softened Roderick’s face and for a moment Grace dared to think he understood why this was so important. But ever the warrior, Roderick bristled against even the smallest hint of weakness. “We must do as Brother John commands.”

His words chilled her. They had each acknowledged it was hopeless, yet still refused to allow Alastair a peaceful death. She sank gracefully into the hard, wooden chair and folded her hands on her lap. This battle would not be won with words or reason. She would have to find another way.

Grace sat silently as the men spoke in low tones to each other, and gradually she returned to what they expected her to be. A quiet, placid, and obedient female, content to peacefully accept what she was told, to willingly follow the dictates of men. Yet inside she seethed.

She reminded herself that there would be a price to pay for her interference. In this world and most likely the next, when she would have to stand before God and account for her earthly sins.

Yet was this a sin? Granting her husband’s last wish, easing his unbearable suffering?

Three days. She had but three days to figure out a way to peacefully end her husband’s suffering and hasten his leap from this life into the next. Her eyes burned and for a brief moment she was afraid she was going to cry. She curled her hands into fists, tightening them until the nails bit painfully into the soft flesh of her palms, blinking several times until the burning vanished.

Brother John turned and she heard the distinct rattle of the bottle of medicine hidden within the pocket of his robes. He had told Douglas that too much of the elixir would cause serious harm. Or perhaps death?

Grace’s chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. But she knew now what she had to do.

The sun shone high overhead, yet the warmth of its golden rays did not reach the long line of weary travelers plodding across the barren landscape. The winter cold seeped into their very bones, the chilling wind stinging any exposed flesh. Sir Ewan Gilroy glanced down at the crudely drawn map, searching fruitlessly for the landmarks that would indicate they were getting close to their journey’s end.

“We should have turned right at the pile of jagged rocks,” an amused male voice declared.

“Shut up, Alec.” Ewan squinted again at the map, annoyed to realize his close friend and captain of his guard was right. It would take nearly an hour to turn around, making their arrival before nightfall unlikely.

“The valley below is protected from the wind,” Alec mused. “A good place to make camp fer the night. Do ye agree?”

“I suppose,” Ewan grumbled.

“Here, let me see.” Alec held out his gloved hand and Ewan reluctantly handed him the map. ’Twas a sad man indeed who could not lead his people on a true course, but Ewan was too weary to protest. Alec had ridden at his side through seven years of war and two years before that—he was the closest thing to a true brother Ewan would ever have and he trusted him completely. He also had, to Ewan’s great annoyance, a skill in map reading that many, including Ewan, lacked.

“If we turn a mile up ahead, we can easily reach yer land from this side,” Alec proclaimed. “Actually, it might even be a shorter route.”

“Stop gloating,” Ewan said with an affable grin, raising his arm to give the signal to turn.

The long line of exhausted travelers wound around like a giant serpent as they changed course, turning directly into the wind. Heads down, the group plodded onward, Ewan in the lead, Alec by his side.

They remained silent for the next few hours, alone with their thoughts as they battled the elements. At last Ewan caught sight of the five mountains indicating they were drawing near. The news spread quickly down the line, reenergizing everyone. Despite his determination to remain calm and keep his expectations realistic, Ewan’s heart picked up speed as he urged his mount forward. Finally he crested the rise and got his first look at the valley below.

The sight took his breath away. Unmoving, he stared silently, barely acknowledging Alec’s presence beside him.

“Mother of God,” Alec swore beneath his breath.

“Indeed,” Ewan answered.

He had not expected King Robert to bequeath him a grand estate. Those riches were rewarded to men of higher standing and legitimate birth. Truth be told, he was humbled to have been given any land by his king, for Ewan was one of thousands of knights who had fought to secure the crown on Robert the Bruce’s head. Yet Robert had taken a liking to Ewan and he understood that rather than a trunk of gold, a true reward to a bastard son would be a property to call his own and the chance to create a lasting legacy for his progeny.

Though most of the western Highlands had supported their king’s rise to power, some areas had resisted and suffered mightily for it. Apparently Ewan’s new holdings had been one of them.

The valley below was stark and barren, the dry, dusty soil swirling like a cloud. On the far side, perched atop a large hill, stood the remains of the small castle, its crumbling stone walls and charred beams visible even from a distance.

“The mountains on either side create a natural defense,” Alec offered.

“One would think,” Ewan muttered. “Yet clearly they were not enough to hold back Robert’s troops.”

Blackened areas where cottages had stood marred the peaceful view. Most of the structures that were intact looked as though a strong wind would blow them over. There was no smoke from any cooking fires coming from the cottages, no sounds of livestock or people, no signs of any life at all.

“Do ye think it’s entirely deserted?” Alec asked.

“’Tis best to assume that some still reside in this godforsaken place,” Ewan replied. “Just to be safe.”

Ewan drew his sword. A select band of his best warriors did the same. Falling in beside him, they rode into the valley, leaving the rest of the party to wait until they were summoned.

As they drew closer to the keep, they discovered a cluster of cottages in somewhat better condition, most boasting four walls and sturdy roofs. Without warning, two frightened pairs of eyes suddenly appeared in a cottage window, then disappeared in an instant.

“Did ye see that?” Alec asked.

“Aye,” Ewan replied. “There’s more than a few pairs of eyes trained upon us. Yet I dinnae fear we are riding into an ambush. From what I can see, ’tis mostly young faces and women peering out.”

The slightly improved conditions of the property vanished once they reached the drawbridge of the castle. The thick oak door had been smashed to pieces, most likely with an iron-tipped battering ram. The stone steps leading to the battlements were scattered throughout the bailey, the rooftops of each of the four corner towers charred and splintered. A few rusted swords were ground into the dirt, testament to the fierce hand-to-hand combat that bespoke of the intensity and carnage of the final battle.

The gaping hole at the entrance to the great hall allowed Ewan to see clear through to the other side and he quickly realized it was uninhabitable. Additional holes in the roof had left the interior exposed to the elements for years; it would take a crew of men weeks to make the necessary repairs before anyone could live in it.

Once gathered in the bailey, the men dismounted. Ewan turned in a complete circle to view every inch of his domain. Despite the disappointment at the appalling conditions, his heart pummeled in his chest. Mine. My castle. My lands. My legacy. It was exhilarating, intoxicating to realize how far he had risen in the world. From a starving, neglected, discarded bastard son of an earl to a laird of his own lands. An impossible dream for most, yet he had somehow achieved it.

With a blood-chilling battle cry, Ewan thrust his sword into the ground, then lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. His prayers for the future were silent and heartfelt. Let us have peace and prosperity and a wee bit of fun.

When he was finished, Ewan rose and regarded his men. “Ye four go out to the cottages and rouse the village folk. ’Tis time we all met.”

One of the men leered a smile. Ewan sent him a warning glare and added, “Dinnae draw sword or dirk unless ye are challenged. We want to live among these people, not scare them witless.”

Ewan waited patiently for the men to carry out his orders. It didn’t take long for them to round up a sad-looking collection of old men, young children, and frightened women. Dressed in little more than rags, they stood huddled together inside the crumbling bailey, their eyes darting suspiciously in all directions.

“Is this everyone?” Ewan asked one of the old men.

“Aye,” he answered, straightening his crooked back. “Though there will be far fewer alive once the winter sets in fully.”

A flash of pity burned in Ewan’s gut. ’Twas a harsh life, and though he vowed to try his best, he knew he could not alleviate all the pain and suffering that came with struggling to survive in such a brutal place.

“I am Sir Ewan Gilroy, newly appointed laird of these lands and Tiree Keep,” he shouted, his deep voice rumbling through the ruins. “At the bequest of our great King Robert, my men and I have come to rebuild this property and renew the bounty of the land. I will accept the pledges of all those who are willing to remain here and swear allegiance to me. In exchange, I vow that ye shall live here in peace and prosperity under my rule and protection.”

There was complete silence, then a few murmurs of fear and suspicion rumbled through the air. Ewan stood tall and proud, waiting for the first brave soul to break ranks and declare his intentions. He stared. . .