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Synopsis
When eighteen-year-old Lady Catriona Mackintosh discovers a wounded man in the forest near her Highland home, little does she know that he has sworn a sacred oath to kill her father and other members of the powerful Highland confederation known as Clan Chattan. Nor does she realize that she has met her soul mate. Independent, competent, intelligent, fiercely proud of her heritage, determined always to live near her own family, and known to her family as the "wee wildcat" because of her quick temper, Catriona is the daughter of a Highland chieftain and granddaughter of the even more powerful Chief (or Captain) of Clan Chattan. But her life changes forever when she persuades Sir Finlagh Cameron to return with her to her home to recover from his wounds. Sir Finlagh "Fin" Cameron is on a mission for the heir to Scotland's throne, who has sent him to the Highlands to persuade the Chief of Clan Chattan to arrange a secret meeting for him with two other great lords (the Lord of the Isles and the Lord of the North). Until Fin meets Catriona, however, he has no idea that her father was the Clan Chattan war leader who led them in the battle that wiped out many of Clan Cameron's best warriors, including Fin's own father. The sole survivor of that battle, Fin accepted a bequest of vengeance from his dying father, providing him with a dilemma to face as he begins to fall in love with Catriona. He is not the only one enticed by her charms, either. There are two other contenders, one of whom is his own master, the heir to Scotland's throne. With royal mischief afoot, if Catriona and Fin are ever to find happiness, they must first avoid disaster that could change Scotland's history, and find ways to be open and honest with each other.
Release date: February 1, 2011
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 391
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Highland Master
Amanda Scott
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Scott demonstrates her incredible skills by crafting an exciting story replete with adventure and realistic,
passionate characters who reach out and grab you… Historical romance doesn’t get much better than this!”
—RT Book Reviews
“A descriptive and intriguing novel… Scott’s characters are most definitely memorable.”
—Rundpinne.com
“Captivates the reader from the first page… Another brilliant story filled with romance and intrigue that will leave readers
thrilled until the very end.”
—SingleTitles.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Tautly written… passionate… Scott’s wonderful book is steeped in Scottish Border history and populated
by characters who jump off the pages and grab your attention… Captivating!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Another excellent novel from Amanda Scott, who just keeps producing one fine story after another.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Readers fascinated with history… will love Ms. Scott’s newest tale… leaves readers clamoring for the story of Mairi’s sister
in Tempted by a Warrior.”
—FreshFiction.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Scott has crafted another phenomenal story. The characters jump off the page and the politics and treachery
inherent in the plot suck you into life on the Borders from page one. This is the finest in historical romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[Scott] instills life and passion in her memorable characters… Few writers have come close to equaling her highly creative
and entertaining stories.”
—ClanMalcolm.com
“Fascinating… fourteenth-century Scotland’s rich history comes alive in this romantic novel full of intrigue.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Scott creates a lovely, complex cast.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Features Scott’s trademarks: strong-willed women and warrior men, mystery and intrigue, dashes of humor and wit, deep characterization,
complex plots, and, above all, historical and geographic accuracy in the days of ancient Scotland.”
—Sacramento Bee
“Fast-paced… An exciting Border romance with plenty of action… A terrific historical gender war.”
—Midwest Book Review
“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots… Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of
medieval Scotland.”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Readers will be thrilled… a tautly written, deeply emotional love story steeped in the rich history of
the Borders.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Scott excels in creating memorable characters.”
—FreshFiction.com
“5 Stars! Scott has possibly written the best historical in ages!”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“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.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Wonderful… full of adventure and history.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel… with a lively love story.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A terrific tale… Rich in history and romance, fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enchanting… a thrilling adventure… a must read… King of Storms is a page-turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—NovelTalk.com
“Delightful historical… Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
Perth, Scotland, September 1396
Abrupt silence filled the air when the young dark-haired warrior’s opponent fell. The lad looked swiftly for the next one but
saw no one nearby still standing.
Then, hearing moans and weaker cries of the wounded and dying, the warrior realized that his sense of silence was no more
than that the screeching of the pipes that always accompanied combat had abruptly ceased when his own fight had.
Not only had the pipes of battle fallen silent, but so also had the noble audience that watched from tiered seats overlooking
the field. They had cheered at the beginning, for he had heard them before all his senses had focused on his first opponent.
The broad, usually green meadowlike expanse of the North Inch of Perth had altered gruesomely now to a field of bodies and
gore.
Man after man had he slain in that trial by combat between Camerons and Clan Chattan, two of the most powerful Highland clan
federations. Each, by order of the King of Scots, had produced thirty champions to fight. The royal intent was to end decades of feuding over land and other bones of contention.
The young warrior extended his gaze to sweep the rest of the field for any remaining opponent. He saw only three men standing
and one kneeling, all some distance away from where he stood near the wide, fast-moving river Tay.
St. John’s town of Perth and nearby Scone Abbey having served as royal and sacred places for centuries, Perth’s North Inch
had long been a site for trial by combat. The field was fenced off from the town just southeast of it on the river, and the
river provided as effective a barrier as the fences did, if not more so.
The town overlooked the Tay estuary at the first place narrow enough to bridge. If a man should fall in, the swift and powerful
river would sweep him into the Firth of Tay and thence to the sea or, more likely, drown him long before then.
Therefore, the day’s combatants had tried to keep clear of the precipitous riverbank. But when other ground grew slippery
with gore and cluttered with the fallen, the area near the water remained as the only option.
None of the four who were still visibly alive looked as if he cared a whit about the young warrior. The lad remained wary
but was grateful to rest, knowing that if he had to fight one or all of them, the likelihood was that he would die.
The others wore clothing similar to his—saffron-colored, knee-length tunics and wide leather sword belts. Each also wore a
leather targe strapped to one arm to parry sword strokes. And each one wore his long hair in a single plait, as most Highland
warriors did, to keep flying strands out of his face as he fought.
Although he could not discern their clan badges from where he stood, the lad knew they were all members of Clan Chattan, the
enemy.
“Fin.”
His sharp ears heard the voice, weak though it was, and he turned quickly.
Amidst the nearby bodies, he saw a slight but insistent movement and hurried toward it. Dropping to a knee beside the man
who had made it and fighting back a rush of fear and icy despair, he exclaimed, “Father!”
“I’m spent,” Teàrlach MacGillony muttered, clearly exerting himself more than a man in his condition should. “But I must—”
“Don’t talk!” Fin said urgently.
“I must. Ye be all we ha’ left from this dreadful day, lad. So ’tis your sacred duty tae stay alive. How many o’ the villains
be still upstanding?”
“I can see four,” Fin said. “One is kneeling—retching, I think.” With a catch in his voice, he added, “Except for me, all
of our men have fallen.”
“Then them ye see be just taking a breath,” his father said. “Ye’ll ha’ to stand against them unless his grace, the King,
stops the slaughter. But his brother, Albany, does sit by his side. The King is weak, but Albany is not. He is evil, is what
he is. ’Twas his idea, all this, but his grace does ha’ the power to stop it.”
Fin looked again toward the tiers. Not only did the King and the Duke of Albany sit there but also members of the royal court,
the clergy, and many of Perth’s townspeople. Banners waved, and vendors doubtless still sold the ale, whisky, buns, and sweets
that at the beginning of the day had made the event seem like a fair.
“Albany is speaking to his grace now,” Fin said.
“Aye, nae doots telling him that there must be a true victor, so that the feuding betwixt the Camerons and Clan Chattan will
stop. But hear me, lad. Our people did count on me as their war leader today, and I failed them. Ye must not.”
“You accounted for several of these dead, sir,” Fin said.
“I did, aye, but your sword sped more to their Maker than mine did. And, if ye truly be the last man o’ ours standing, ye
ha’ a duty that ye must see to.”
“What is it?”
“Vengeance,” his father said, gasping. “Swear that ye’ll seek it against their war leader and… and others. Ye ken fine… after
such slaughter… the right o’ vengeance be sacred. ’Tis a holy bequest that ye… as sole survivor, must accept.” Gasping more
harshly for each breath, he added, “Swear it… to me.”
“I do swear it, sir, aye,” Fin said hastily. To his father, clearly dying, he could give no other reply.
“Bless ye, my…”
Teàrlach MacGillony gasped no more.
Tears sprang to Fin’s eyes, but a cry from the audience startled him from his grief. Glancing toward the tiers, he saw Albany
waving for combat to continue.
The pipes kept silent. The King sat with his head bowed, making no sign, but people would see naught amiss in that. The King
was weak, and Albany, as Governor of the Realm in his grace’s stead, had long been the one who made such decisions.
Looking toward the men of Clan Chattan, Fin saw that three of them faced the tiers. The fourth, a tall and lanky chap, spoke to the others. Then, his sword at the ready, he turned toward Fin. The others followed but stopped well back of
him.
As the man approached, he kept his head down and watched where he walked, doubtless to avoid treading on the fallen.
Fin hefted his sword, drew a deep breath, and set himself.
When the other man looked up at last, his gaze caught Fin’s and held it.
Fin stared, then found voice enough to say, “Hawk?”
The other stopped six feet away. With a movement of his head so slight that Fin wondered if he had imagined it, he indicated
the river nearby to his right.
The men behind him were talking to each other, cheerful now, confident of the outcome. They were far enough away that they
could not have heard Fin speak, nor would they hear him if he spoke again.
“What are you trying to say?” he asked.
“Go,” Hawk said, although his lips barely moved. “I cannot fight you. Someone from your side must live to tell your version
of what happened here today.”
“They’ll flay you!”
“Nay, Lion. I’ll be a hero. But think on that later. Now go, and go quickly before Albany sends his own men to dispatch the
lot of us.”
Hawk being one of the few men Fin trusted without question, he whirled, thrust his sword into the sling on his back, and dove
in, wondering at himself and realizing only as the water swallowed him that he must look like a coward. By then, the river
was bearing him swiftly past the town and onward, inexorably, to the sea.
The weight and cumbrous nature of the sword strapped to his back threatened to sink him, but he did not fight it. The farther
the current took him before he surfaced, the safer he would be, and if he died on the way, so be it.
Then another, horrifying, thought struck. He’d sworn two oaths that day.
The first had been to accept the results of the combat and do no harm to any man on the opposing side. Every man there, as
one voice, had sworn to that oath.
But then his war leader—his own dying father—had demanded a second oath, of vengeance, an oath that Fin could not keep without
breaking his first one. Such a dilemma threatened his honor and that of his clan. But all oaths were sacred.
Might one oath be more sacred? Had his father known what he had asked?
He began kicking toward the surface, angling southward, knowing of only one place where he might find an answer. He could
get there more easily from the shore opposite Perth… if he could get there at all.
The Highlands, early June 1401
The odd gurgling punctuated with harsher sounds that composed the Scottish jay’s birdsong gave no hint of what lay far below
its perch, on the forest floor.
The fair-haired young woman silently wending her way through the forest toward the jay’s tall pine tree sensed nothing amiss.
Nor, apparently, did the large wolf dog moving through the thick growth of pines, birch, and aspen a few feet to her right
like a graceful, tarnished-silver ghost.
Most of the winter’s snow had melted, and the day was a temperate one.
The breeze hushing through the canopy overhead and the still damp forest floor beneath eighteen-year-old Lady Catriona Mackintosh’s
bare feet made keeping silent easier than it would be after warmer temperatures dried the ground and foliage.
When a fat furry brown vole scurried out of her path and two squirrels chased each other up a nearby tree, she smiled, feeling
a stab of pride in her ability to move so silently that her presence did not disturb the forest creatures.
She listened for sounds of the fast-flowing burn ahead. But before she heard any, the breeze dropped and the dog halted, stiffening
to alertness as it raised its long snout. Then, trembling, it turned its head and looked at her.
Raising her right hand toward it, palm outward, Catriona stopped, too, and tried to sense what it sensed.
The dog watched her. She could tell that the scent it had caught on the air was not that of a wolf or a deer. Its expression
was uncharacteristically wary. And its trembling likewise indicated wariness rather than the quivering, bowstring-taut excitement
that it displayed when catching the scent of a favored prey.
The dog turned away again and bared its teeth but made no sound. She had trained it well and felt another rush of pride at
this proof of her skill.
Moving forward, easing her toes gently under the mixture of rotting leaves and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor,
as she had before, she glanced at the dog again. It would stop her if it sensed danger lurking ahead.
Instead, as she moved, the dog moved faster, making its own path between trees and through shrubbery to range silently before
her.
She was accustomed to its protective instincts. Once, she had nearly walked into a wolf that had drifted from its pack and
had gone so still at her approach that she failed to sense its presence. The wolf dog had leaped between them, stopping her
and snarling at the wolf, startling it so that it made a strident bolt for safety. She had no doubt that the dog would kill
any number of wolves to protect her.
That it glided steadily ahead but continued to glance back told her that although it did not like what it smelled, it was
not afraid.
She felt no fear either, because she carried her dirk, and her brothers had taught her to use it. Moreover, she trusted her
own instincts nearly as much as the dog’s. She was sure that no predator, human or otherwise, lay in wait ahead of her.
The jay still sang. The squirrels chattered.
Birds usually fell silent at a predator’s approach. And when squirrels shrieked warnings of danger, they did so in loud, staccato
bursts as the harbinger raced ahead of the threat. But the two squirrels had grown noisier, as if they were trying to outshriek
the jay.
As that whimsical thought struck, Catriona glanced up to see if she could spy the squirrels or the bird. Instead, she saw
a huge black raven swooping toward the tall pine and heard the larger bird’s deep croak as it sent the jay squawking into
flight. The raven’s arrival shot a chill up her spine. Ravens sought out carrion, dead things. This one perched in the tree
and stared fixedly downward as it continued its croaking call to inform others of its kind that it had discovered a potential
feast.
The dog increased its pace as if it, too, recognized the raven’s call.
Catriona hurried after it and soon heard water rushing ahead. Following the dog into a clearing, she could see the turbulent
burn running through it. The huge raven, on its branch overhead, raucously protested her presence. Others circled above, great
black shadows against the overcast sky, cawing hopefully.
The dog growled, and at last she saw what had drawn the ravens.
A man wearing rawhide boots, a saffron-colored tunic with a large red and green mantle over it—the sort that Highlanders called a plaid—lay facedown on the damp ground, unconscious or dead, his legs stretched toward the tumbling burn.
Strapped slantwise across his back was a great sword in its sling, and a significant amount of blood had pooled by his head.
The dog had scented the blood.
So had the ravens.
Sir Finlagh Cameron awoke slowly. His first awareness was that his head ached unbearably. His second was of a warm breeze
in his right ear and a huffing sound. He seemed to be facedown, his left cheek resting on an herbal-scented pillow.
What, he wondered, had happened to him?
Just as it finally dawned on him that he was lying on dampish ground atop leafy plants of some sort, a long wet tongue laved
his right cheek and ear.
Opening his eyes, he beheld two… no, four silvery gray legs, much too close.
Tensing, but straining to keep still as the animal licked him again, well aware that wolves littered all Highland forests,
he shifted his gaze beyond the four legs to see if there were any more. He did see two more legs, but either his vision was
defective or his mind was playing tricks on him.
The two legs were bare, shapely, and tanned.
He shut his eyes and opened them again. The legs looked the same.
Slowly and carefully, he tried to lift his head to see more of both creatures, only to wince at the jolt of pain that shot
through his head as he did. But, framed by the arch of the beast’s legs and body, he glimpsed bare feet and ankles, clearly human, then bare calves, decidedly feminine.
By straining, he could also see bare knees and bare…
A snapping sound diverted him, and the animal beside him backed off. It was larger than he had expected and taller. But it
was no wolf. On the contrary…
“Wolf dog or staghound,” he muttered.
“So you are not dead after all.”
The soft feminine voice carried a note of drollery and floated to him on the breeze, only he no longer felt a breeze. Doubtless,
the dog’s breath had been what he’d felt in his ear earlier. Coming to this conclusion reassured him that he hadn’t lost his
wits, whatever else had happened to him.
“Can you not talk to me?”
It was the same voice but nearer, although he had not sensed her approach in any way. But then, until the warm breath huffed
into his ear, he had not sensed the dog either. He realized, too, that she had spoken the Gaelic. He had scarcely noticed,
despite having spoken it little himself for several years.
Recalling the shapely legs and bare feet, he realized with some confusion that his eyes had somehow shut themselves. He opened
them to the disappointing revelation that her bareness ended midthigh. A raggedy blue kirtle, kilted up the way a man would
kilt up his plaid, covered most of the rest of her.
“I can talk,” he said and felt again that odd sense of accomplishment. “I’m not so sure that I can move. My head feels as
if someone tried to split it in two.”
“You’ve shed blood on the leaves round your head, so you are injured,” she said. Her voice was still soft, calm, and carrying that light note, as if she felt no fear of him or of anything else in the woods. “I can get your sword out of
its sling if you will trust me to do it. And I can get the sling and belt off you, too. But you will have to lift yourself
a bit for that. Then, mayhap you can turn over.”
“Aye, sure,” he said. If she had wanted to kill him, she’d have done it. And she was too small to wield his heavy sword as
a weapon.
She managed without much difficulty to drag the sword from the sling on his back. But when he raised himself so she could
reach the strap’s buckle under him, he had to grit his teeth against the pain and dizziness that surged through his head.
Still, he decided by the time she unbuckled the stout strap and deftly slipped it free of his body that little was wrong with
him other than an aching head.
“Now, if you can turn over,” she said, “I will look and see how bad it is.”
Exerting himself, he rolled over and looked up to see a pretty face with a smudge on one rosy cheek, and a long mass of unconfined,
wild-looking, tawny hair.
Despite the look of concern on her face, her eyes twinkled.
Fin could not tell their exact color in the shadow of so many trees and with an overcast sky above, but they seemed to be
light brown, rather than blue.
“Are you a sprite, or some other woodland creature?” he murmured, finding the effort to talk greater now. His eyelids drooped.
She chuckled low in her throat, a delightful sound and a stimulating one.
His eyes opened again, and he saw that she had dropped to one knee to bend over him. As he took in the two soft-looking, well-tanned mounds of flesh that peeped over the low-cut
bodice so close to him, his head seemed instantly clearer.
Her lips were moving, and he realized that she was speaking. Having missed the first bit, he listened intently to catch the
rest, hoping thereby to reply sensibly.
“… would laugh to hear anyone mistake me for a sprite,” she said, adding firmly, “Now, lie still, sir, if you please. You
must know that I was leery of getting too near until I could be sure that you would not harm me.”
“Never fear, lass. I would not.”
“I can see that, but Boreas, my companion here, dislikes letting any stranger near me. Had you moved suddenly or thrashed
about as some do when they regain consciousness after an injury, he might have mistaken you for a threat.”
Having noted how quickly the wolf dog had stepped back after the snapping sound he’d heard—surely a snap of her slim fingers—he
doubted that it would attack against her will. But he did not say so. His eyelids drifted shut again.
“Are you still awake?” No amusement now, only concern.
“Aye, sure, but fading,” he murmured. “What is your name, lass?”
“Catriona. What’s yours?”
He thought about it briefly, then said, “Fin… they call me Fin of the Battles.”
“What happened to you, Fin of the Battles?” Her voice sounded more distant, as if she were floating away again.
“I wish I knew,” he said, trying to concentrate. “I was walking through the forest, listening to a damned impertinent jay that squawked and muttered at me for trespassing. The next
thing I knew, your escort was huffing in my ear.”
He drew a long breath and, without opening his eyes, tried moving his arms more than had been necessary to shift himself.
Pain shot through his head again, and he felt more pain from some sort of scrape on his left arm. But both arms seemed obedient
to his will. His toes and feet likewise obeyed him.
A hand touched his right shoulder, startling him. She had come up on his other side, and again he’d not heard her move. He
was definitely not himself yet.
“Be still now,” she said, kneeling gracefully beside him. As she bent nearer, he noted the bare softness of her breasts again
before a cold, wet cloth touched his forehead and moved soothingly over it to cover his eyes.
He knew then that she must have gone to the burn that he could hear splashing nearby. He tried to decide if he remembered
seeing that burn.
“That feels good,” he murmured.
“It won’t in a minute. You have a gash on the left side of your forehead with leaves, dirt, and hair stuck in it. You will
have a fine scar to brag about.”
“I don’t brag.”
“All men brag,” she said, the note of humor strong again. “Most women do, too, come to that. But men brag like bairns, often
and with great exaggeration.”
“I don’t.” It seemed important that she should know that.
“Very well, you don’t. You are unique amongst men. Now, hold still. Recall that Boreas will object to any sudden movement.”
He braced himself. He was not afraid of the dog, but he hated pain. And he had already borne more than his share of it.
Catriona saw him stiffen and easily deduced the reason. All men, in her experience, disliked pain. Certainly, her father and
two brothers did, although they were all fine, brave warriors. The excellent specimen of manhood before her looked as if he
could hold his own against any one of them.
When he’d turned over, it had taken all of her willpower not to exclaim at his blood-streaked face. She reminded herself that
head wounds always bled freely, and noted thankfully that all the blood seemed to come from the gash in his forehead.
In cleaning his face before she put the cloth over his eyes, she had decided that, besides being well formed, he was handsome
in a rugged way. His deep-set eyes were especially fine, their light gray irises surprising in a darkly tanned face. His thick,
black lashes were less surprising. For a reason known only to God, men always seemed to grow darker, thicker lashes than women
did.
“Have you enemies hereabouts?” she asked as she gently plucked hair and forest detritus from his wound.
Instead of answering directly, he said, “I have not passed this way before. Are your people unfriendly to strangers?”
Having ripped two pieces from her red flannel underskirt to soak in the burn, she’d used one to cover his eyes, hoping it
would soothe him and keep him from staring at her as she cleansed his wound. The latter hope was not for his sake but for hers. Aware that she would be hurting him, she knew she would do a better job if she need not keep seeing
the pain in his eyes each time she touched his wound.
Now, however, she plucked the cloth from his eyes, waited until he opened them and focused on her, and then raised her eyebrows
and said, “My people?”
To her surprise, he smiled, just slightly. But it was enough to tell her that he had a nice smile and that her tone had tickled
his sense of humor.
“Do you dare to laugh at me?” she demanded.
“Nay, lass, I would not laugh at such a kind benefactress. I am still wondering if your people are human or otherwise. Sithee,
although you disclaim being a wood sprite, I have heard tales of wee folk in this area.”
“I am human,” she said. “Lie still now. Your wound is trying to clot, but I must rinse these cloths, and if you move too much,
you’ll start leaking again.”
“Tell me first who your people are,” he said as she stood. His voice was stronger, and his words came as a command from a
man accustomed to obedience.
Catriona eyed him speculatively. “Do you not know where you are?”
“I am in Clan Chattan territory, in Strathspey, I think. But Clan Chattan boasts vast lands and numerous clans within it—six,
I think, at last count.”
“All controlled by one man,” she said.
“The Mackintosh is chief of the whole confederation, aye,” he said, almost nodding. She saw him remember her warning about
that and catch himself.
Satisfied, she said, “That’s right, although we call him our captain, to show that he is more powerful than other clan chiefs in our confederation.” Moving swiftly back to the burn, she knelt and rinsed the bloody cloth in the churning,
icy water. Then she dipped the other one, wrung them both out, and returned to him.
As she approached, s. . .
passionate characters who reach out and grab you… Historical romance doesn’t get much better than this!”
—RT Book Reviews
“A descriptive and intriguing novel… Scott’s characters are most definitely memorable.”
—Rundpinne.com
“Captivates the reader from the first page… Another brilliant story filled with romance and intrigue that will leave readers
thrilled until the very end.”
—SingleTitles.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Tautly written… passionate… Scott’s wonderful book is steeped in Scottish Border history and populated
by characters who jump off the pages and grab your attention… Captivating!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Another excellent novel from Amanda Scott, who just keeps producing one fine story after another.”
—RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Readers fascinated with history… will love Ms. Scott’s newest tale… leaves readers clamoring for the story of Mairi’s sister
in Tempted by a Warrior.”
—FreshFiction.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Scott has crafted another phenomenal story. The characters jump off the page and the politics and treachery
inherent in the plot suck you into life on the Borders from page one. This is the finest in historical romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[Scott] instills life and passion in her memorable characters… Few writers have come close to equaling her highly creative
and entertaining stories.”
—ClanMalcolm.com
“Fascinating… fourteenth-century Scotland’s rich history comes alive in this romantic novel full of intrigue.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Scott creates a lovely, complex cast.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Features Scott’s trademarks: strong-willed women and warrior men, mystery and intrigue, dashes of humor and wit, deep characterization,
complex plots, and, above all, historical and geographic accuracy in the days of ancient Scotland.”
—Sacramento Bee
“Fast-paced… An exciting Border romance with plenty of action… A terrific historical gender war.”
—Midwest Book Review
“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots… Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of
medieval Scotland.”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Readers will be thrilled… a tautly written, deeply emotional love story steeped in the rich history of
the Borders.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Scott excels in creating memorable characters.”
—FreshFiction.com
“5 Stars! Scott has possibly written the best historical in ages!”
—FallenAngelReviews.com
“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.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Wonderful… full of adventure and history.”
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“A terrific tale… Rich in history and romance, fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
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“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
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Perth, Scotland, September 1396
Abrupt silence filled the air when the young dark-haired warrior’s opponent fell. The lad looked swiftly for the next one but
saw no one nearby still standing.
Then, hearing moans and weaker cries of the wounded and dying, the warrior realized that his sense of silence was no more
than that the screeching of the pipes that always accompanied combat had abruptly ceased when his own fight had.
Not only had the pipes of battle fallen silent, but so also had the noble audience that watched from tiered seats overlooking
the field. They had cheered at the beginning, for he had heard them before all his senses had focused on his first opponent.
The broad, usually green meadowlike expanse of the North Inch of Perth had altered gruesomely now to a field of bodies and
gore.
Man after man had he slain in that trial by combat between Camerons and Clan Chattan, two of the most powerful Highland clan
federations. Each, by order of the King of Scots, had produced thirty champions to fight. The royal intent was to end decades of feuding over land and other bones of contention.
The young warrior extended his gaze to sweep the rest of the field for any remaining opponent. He saw only three men standing
and one kneeling, all some distance away from where he stood near the wide, fast-moving river Tay.
St. John’s town of Perth and nearby Scone Abbey having served as royal and sacred places for centuries, Perth’s North Inch
had long been a site for trial by combat. The field was fenced off from the town just southeast of it on the river, and the
river provided as effective a barrier as the fences did, if not more so.
The town overlooked the Tay estuary at the first place narrow enough to bridge. If a man should fall in, the swift and powerful
river would sweep him into the Firth of Tay and thence to the sea or, more likely, drown him long before then.
Therefore, the day’s combatants had tried to keep clear of the precipitous riverbank. But when other ground grew slippery
with gore and cluttered with the fallen, the area near the water remained as the only option.
None of the four who were still visibly alive looked as if he cared a whit about the young warrior. The lad remained wary
but was grateful to rest, knowing that if he had to fight one or all of them, the likelihood was that he would die.
The others wore clothing similar to his—saffron-colored, knee-length tunics and wide leather sword belts. Each also wore a
leather targe strapped to one arm to parry sword strokes. And each one wore his long hair in a single plait, as most Highland
warriors did, to keep flying strands out of his face as he fought.
Although he could not discern their clan badges from where he stood, the lad knew they were all members of Clan Chattan, the
enemy.
“Fin.”
His sharp ears heard the voice, weak though it was, and he turned quickly.
Amidst the nearby bodies, he saw a slight but insistent movement and hurried toward it. Dropping to a knee beside the man
who had made it and fighting back a rush of fear and icy despair, he exclaimed, “Father!”
“I’m spent,” Teàrlach MacGillony muttered, clearly exerting himself more than a man in his condition should. “But I must—”
“Don’t talk!” Fin said urgently.
“I must. Ye be all we ha’ left from this dreadful day, lad. So ’tis your sacred duty tae stay alive. How many o’ the villains
be still upstanding?”
“I can see four,” Fin said. “One is kneeling—retching, I think.” With a catch in his voice, he added, “Except for me, all
of our men have fallen.”
“Then them ye see be just taking a breath,” his father said. “Ye’ll ha’ to stand against them unless his grace, the King,
stops the slaughter. But his brother, Albany, does sit by his side. The King is weak, but Albany is not. He is evil, is what
he is. ’Twas his idea, all this, but his grace does ha’ the power to stop it.”
Fin looked again toward the tiers. Not only did the King and the Duke of Albany sit there but also members of the royal court,
the clergy, and many of Perth’s townspeople. Banners waved, and vendors doubtless still sold the ale, whisky, buns, and sweets
that at the beginning of the day had made the event seem like a fair.
“Albany is speaking to his grace now,” Fin said.
“Aye, nae doots telling him that there must be a true victor, so that the feuding betwixt the Camerons and Clan Chattan will
stop. But hear me, lad. Our people did count on me as their war leader today, and I failed them. Ye must not.”
“You accounted for several of these dead, sir,” Fin said.
“I did, aye, but your sword sped more to their Maker than mine did. And, if ye truly be the last man o’ ours standing, ye
ha’ a duty that ye must see to.”
“What is it?”
“Vengeance,” his father said, gasping. “Swear that ye’ll seek it against their war leader and… and others. Ye ken fine… after
such slaughter… the right o’ vengeance be sacred. ’Tis a holy bequest that ye… as sole survivor, must accept.” Gasping more
harshly for each breath, he added, “Swear it… to me.”
“I do swear it, sir, aye,” Fin said hastily. To his father, clearly dying, he could give no other reply.
“Bless ye, my…”
Teàrlach MacGillony gasped no more.
Tears sprang to Fin’s eyes, but a cry from the audience startled him from his grief. Glancing toward the tiers, he saw Albany
waving for combat to continue.
The pipes kept silent. The King sat with his head bowed, making no sign, but people would see naught amiss in that. The King
was weak, and Albany, as Governor of the Realm in his grace’s stead, had long been the one who made such decisions.
Looking toward the men of Clan Chattan, Fin saw that three of them faced the tiers. The fourth, a tall and lanky chap, spoke to the others. Then, his sword at the ready, he turned toward Fin. The others followed but stopped well back of
him.
As the man approached, he kept his head down and watched where he walked, doubtless to avoid treading on the fallen.
Fin hefted his sword, drew a deep breath, and set himself.
When the other man looked up at last, his gaze caught Fin’s and held it.
Fin stared, then found voice enough to say, “Hawk?”
The other stopped six feet away. With a movement of his head so slight that Fin wondered if he had imagined it, he indicated
the river nearby to his right.
The men behind him were talking to each other, cheerful now, confident of the outcome. They were far enough away that they
could not have heard Fin speak, nor would they hear him if he spoke again.
“What are you trying to say?” he asked.
“Go,” Hawk said, although his lips barely moved. “I cannot fight you. Someone from your side must live to tell your version
of what happened here today.”
“They’ll flay you!”
“Nay, Lion. I’ll be a hero. But think on that later. Now go, and go quickly before Albany sends his own men to dispatch the
lot of us.”
Hawk being one of the few men Fin trusted without question, he whirled, thrust his sword into the sling on his back, and dove
in, wondering at himself and realizing only as the water swallowed him that he must look like a coward. By then, the river
was bearing him swiftly past the town and onward, inexorably, to the sea.
The weight and cumbrous nature of the sword strapped to his back threatened to sink him, but he did not fight it. The farther
the current took him before he surfaced, the safer he would be, and if he died on the way, so be it.
Then another, horrifying, thought struck. He’d sworn two oaths that day.
The first had been to accept the results of the combat and do no harm to any man on the opposing side. Every man there, as
one voice, had sworn to that oath.
But then his war leader—his own dying father—had demanded a second oath, of vengeance, an oath that Fin could not keep without
breaking his first one. Such a dilemma threatened his honor and that of his clan. But all oaths were sacred.
Might one oath be more sacred? Had his father known what he had asked?
He began kicking toward the surface, angling southward, knowing of only one place where he might find an answer. He could
get there more easily from the shore opposite Perth… if he could get there at all.
The Highlands, early June 1401
The odd gurgling punctuated with harsher sounds that composed the Scottish jay’s birdsong gave no hint of what lay far below
its perch, on the forest floor.
The fair-haired young woman silently wending her way through the forest toward the jay’s tall pine tree sensed nothing amiss.
Nor, apparently, did the large wolf dog moving through the thick growth of pines, birch, and aspen a few feet to her right
like a graceful, tarnished-silver ghost.
Most of the winter’s snow had melted, and the day was a temperate one.
The breeze hushing through the canopy overhead and the still damp forest floor beneath eighteen-year-old Lady Catriona Mackintosh’s
bare feet made keeping silent easier than it would be after warmer temperatures dried the ground and foliage.
When a fat furry brown vole scurried out of her path and two squirrels chased each other up a nearby tree, she smiled, feeling
a stab of pride in her ability to move so silently that her presence did not disturb the forest creatures.
She listened for sounds of the fast-flowing burn ahead. But before she heard any, the breeze dropped and the dog halted, stiffening
to alertness as it raised its long snout. Then, trembling, it turned its head and looked at her.
Raising her right hand toward it, palm outward, Catriona stopped, too, and tried to sense what it sensed.
The dog watched her. She could tell that the scent it had caught on the air was not that of a wolf or a deer. Its expression
was uncharacteristically wary. And its trembling likewise indicated wariness rather than the quivering, bowstring-taut excitement
that it displayed when catching the scent of a favored prey.
The dog turned away again and bared its teeth but made no sound. She had trained it well and felt another rush of pride at
this proof of her skill.
Moving forward, easing her toes gently under the mixture of rotting leaves and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor,
as she had before, she glanced at the dog again. It would stop her if it sensed danger lurking ahead.
Instead, as she moved, the dog moved faster, making its own path between trees and through shrubbery to range silently before
her.
She was accustomed to its protective instincts. Once, she had nearly walked into a wolf that had drifted from its pack and
had gone so still at her approach that she failed to sense its presence. The wolf dog had leaped between them, stopping her
and snarling at the wolf, startling it so that it made a strident bolt for safety. She had no doubt that the dog would kill
any number of wolves to protect her.
That it glided steadily ahead but continued to glance back told her that although it did not like what it smelled, it was
not afraid.
She felt no fear either, because she carried her dirk, and her brothers had taught her to use it. Moreover, she trusted her
own instincts nearly as much as the dog’s. She was sure that no predator, human or otherwise, lay in wait ahead of her.
The jay still sang. The squirrels chattered.
Birds usually fell silent at a predator’s approach. And when squirrels shrieked warnings of danger, they did so in loud, staccato
bursts as the harbinger raced ahead of the threat. But the two squirrels had grown noisier, as if they were trying to outshriek
the jay.
As that whimsical thought struck, Catriona glanced up to see if she could spy the squirrels or the bird. Instead, she saw
a huge black raven swooping toward the tall pine and heard the larger bird’s deep croak as it sent the jay squawking into
flight. The raven’s arrival shot a chill up her spine. Ravens sought out carrion, dead things. This one perched in the tree
and stared fixedly downward as it continued its croaking call to inform others of its kind that it had discovered a potential
feast.
The dog increased its pace as if it, too, recognized the raven’s call.
Catriona hurried after it and soon heard water rushing ahead. Following the dog into a clearing, she could see the turbulent
burn running through it. The huge raven, on its branch overhead, raucously protested her presence. Others circled above, great
black shadows against the overcast sky, cawing hopefully.
The dog growled, and at last she saw what had drawn the ravens.
A man wearing rawhide boots, a saffron-colored tunic with a large red and green mantle over it—the sort that Highlanders called a plaid—lay facedown on the damp ground, unconscious or dead, his legs stretched toward the tumbling burn.
Strapped slantwise across his back was a great sword in its sling, and a significant amount of blood had pooled by his head.
The dog had scented the blood.
So had the ravens.
Sir Finlagh Cameron awoke slowly. His first awareness was that his head ached unbearably. His second was of a warm breeze
in his right ear and a huffing sound. He seemed to be facedown, his left cheek resting on an herbal-scented pillow.
What, he wondered, had happened to him?
Just as it finally dawned on him that he was lying on dampish ground atop leafy plants of some sort, a long wet tongue laved
his right cheek and ear.
Opening his eyes, he beheld two… no, four silvery gray legs, much too close.
Tensing, but straining to keep still as the animal licked him again, well aware that wolves littered all Highland forests,
he shifted his gaze beyond the four legs to see if there were any more. He did see two more legs, but either his vision was
defective or his mind was playing tricks on him.
The two legs were bare, shapely, and tanned.
He shut his eyes and opened them again. The legs looked the same.
Slowly and carefully, he tried to lift his head to see more of both creatures, only to wince at the jolt of pain that shot
through his head as he did. But, framed by the arch of the beast’s legs and body, he glimpsed bare feet and ankles, clearly human, then bare calves, decidedly feminine.
By straining, he could also see bare knees and bare…
A snapping sound diverted him, and the animal beside him backed off. It was larger than he had expected and taller. But it
was no wolf. On the contrary…
“Wolf dog or staghound,” he muttered.
“So you are not dead after all.”
The soft feminine voice carried a note of drollery and floated to him on the breeze, only he no longer felt a breeze. Doubtless,
the dog’s breath had been what he’d felt in his ear earlier. Coming to this conclusion reassured him that he hadn’t lost his
wits, whatever else had happened to him.
“Can you not talk to me?”
It was the same voice but nearer, although he had not sensed her approach in any way. But then, until the warm breath huffed
into his ear, he had not sensed the dog either. He realized, too, that she had spoken the Gaelic. He had scarcely noticed,
despite having spoken it little himself for several years.
Recalling the shapely legs and bare feet, he realized with some confusion that his eyes had somehow shut themselves. He opened
them to the disappointing revelation that her bareness ended midthigh. A raggedy blue kirtle, kilted up the way a man would
kilt up his plaid, covered most of the rest of her.
“I can talk,” he said and felt again that odd sense of accomplishment. “I’m not so sure that I can move. My head feels as
if someone tried to split it in two.”
“You’ve shed blood on the leaves round your head, so you are injured,” she said. Her voice was still soft, calm, and carrying that light note, as if she felt no fear of him or of anything else in the woods. “I can get your sword out of
its sling if you will trust me to do it. And I can get the sling and belt off you, too. But you will have to lift yourself
a bit for that. Then, mayhap you can turn over.”
“Aye, sure,” he said. If she had wanted to kill him, she’d have done it. And she was too small to wield his heavy sword as
a weapon.
She managed without much difficulty to drag the sword from the sling on his back. But when he raised himself so she could
reach the strap’s buckle under him, he had to grit his teeth against the pain and dizziness that surged through his head.
Still, he decided by the time she unbuckled the stout strap and deftly slipped it free of his body that little was wrong with
him other than an aching head.
“Now, if you can turn over,” she said, “I will look and see how bad it is.”
Exerting himself, he rolled over and looked up to see a pretty face with a smudge on one rosy cheek, and a long mass of unconfined,
wild-looking, tawny hair.
Despite the look of concern on her face, her eyes twinkled.
Fin could not tell their exact color in the shadow of so many trees and with an overcast sky above, but they seemed to be
light brown, rather than blue.
“Are you a sprite, or some other woodland creature?” he murmured, finding the effort to talk greater now. His eyelids drooped.
She chuckled low in her throat, a delightful sound and a stimulating one.
His eyes opened again, and he saw that she had dropped to one knee to bend over him. As he took in the two soft-looking, well-tanned mounds of flesh that peeped over the low-cut
bodice so close to him, his head seemed instantly clearer.
Her lips were moving, and he realized that she was speaking. Having missed the first bit, he listened intently to catch the
rest, hoping thereby to reply sensibly.
“… would laugh to hear anyone mistake me for a sprite,” she said, adding firmly, “Now, lie still, sir, if you please. You
must know that I was leery of getting too near until I could be sure that you would not harm me.”
“Never fear, lass. I would not.”
“I can see that, but Boreas, my companion here, dislikes letting any stranger near me. Had you moved suddenly or thrashed
about as some do when they regain consciousness after an injury, he might have mistaken you for a threat.”
Having noted how quickly the wolf dog had stepped back after the snapping sound he’d heard—surely a snap of her slim fingers—he
doubted that it would attack against her will. But he did not say so. His eyelids drifted shut again.
“Are you still awake?” No amusement now, only concern.
“Aye, sure, but fading,” he murmured. “What is your name, lass?”
“Catriona. What’s yours?”
He thought about it briefly, then said, “Fin… they call me Fin of the Battles.”
“What happened to you, Fin of the Battles?” Her voice sounded more distant, as if she were floating away again.
“I wish I knew,” he said, trying to concentrate. “I was walking through the forest, listening to a damned impertinent jay that squawked and muttered at me for trespassing. The next
thing I knew, your escort was huffing in my ear.”
He drew a long breath and, without opening his eyes, tried moving his arms more than had been necessary to shift himself.
Pain shot through his head again, and he felt more pain from some sort of scrape on his left arm. But both arms seemed obedient
to his will. His toes and feet likewise obeyed him.
A hand touched his right shoulder, startling him. She had come up on his other side, and again he’d not heard her move. He
was definitely not himself yet.
“Be still now,” she said, kneeling gracefully beside him. As she bent nearer, he noted the bare softness of her breasts again
before a cold, wet cloth touched his forehead and moved soothingly over it to cover his eyes.
He knew then that she must have gone to the burn that he could hear splashing nearby. He tried to decide if he remembered
seeing that burn.
“That feels good,” he murmured.
“It won’t in a minute. You have a gash on the left side of your forehead with leaves, dirt, and hair stuck in it. You will
have a fine scar to brag about.”
“I don’t brag.”
“All men brag,” she said, the note of humor strong again. “Most women do, too, come to that. But men brag like bairns, often
and with great exaggeration.”
“I don’t.” It seemed important that she should know that.
“Very well, you don’t. You are unique amongst men. Now, hold still. Recall that Boreas will object to any sudden movement.”
He braced himself. He was not afraid of the dog, but he hated pain. And he had already borne more than his share of it.
Catriona saw him stiffen and easily deduced the reason. All men, in her experience, disliked pain. Certainly, her father and
two brothers did, although they were all fine, brave warriors. The excellent specimen of manhood before her looked as if he
could hold his own against any one of them.
When he’d turned over, it had taken all of her willpower not to exclaim at his blood-streaked face. She reminded herself that
head wounds always bled freely, and noted thankfully that all the blood seemed to come from the gash in his forehead.
In cleaning his face before she put the cloth over his eyes, she had decided that, besides being well formed, he was handsome
in a rugged way. His deep-set eyes were especially fine, their light gray irises surprising in a darkly tanned face. His thick,
black lashes were less surprising. For a reason known only to God, men always seemed to grow darker, thicker lashes than women
did.
“Have you enemies hereabouts?” she asked as she gently plucked hair and forest detritus from his wound.
Instead of answering directly, he said, “I have not passed this way before. Are your people unfriendly to strangers?”
Having ripped two pieces from her red flannel underskirt to soak in the burn, she’d used one to cover his eyes, hoping it
would soothe him and keep him from staring at her as she cleansed his wound. The latter hope was not for his sake but for hers. Aware that she would be hurting him, she knew she would do a better job if she need not keep seeing
the pain in his eyes each time she touched his wound.
Now, however, she plucked the cloth from his eyes, waited until he opened them and focused on her, and then raised her eyebrows
and said, “My people?”
To her surprise, he smiled, just slightly. But it was enough to tell her that he had a nice smile and that her tone had tickled
his sense of humor.
“Do you dare to laugh at me?” she demanded.
“Nay, lass, I would not laugh at such a kind benefactress. I am still wondering if your people are human or otherwise. Sithee,
although you disclaim being a wood sprite, I have heard tales of wee folk in this area.”
“I am human,” she said. “Lie still now. Your wound is trying to clot, but I must rinse these cloths, and if you move too much,
you’ll start leaking again.”
“Tell me first who your people are,” he said as she stood. His voice was stronger, and his words came as a command from a
man accustomed to obedience.
Catriona eyed him speculatively. “Do you not know where you are?”
“I am in Clan Chattan territory, in Strathspey, I think. But Clan Chattan boasts vast lands and numerous clans within it—six,
I think, at last count.”
“All controlled by one man,” she said.
“The Mackintosh is chief of the whole confederation, aye,” he said, almost nodding. She saw him remember her warning about
that and catch himself.
Satisfied, she said, “That’s right, although we call him our captain, to show that he is more powerful than other clan chiefs in our confederation.” Moving swiftly back to the burn, she knelt and rinsed the bloody cloth in the churning,
icy water. Then she dipped the other one, wrung them both out, and returned to him.
As she approached, s. . .
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