Prince of Danger

Book 3: Isles/Templars

by Amanda Scott

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

This historical romance by the USA Today bestselling author Amanda Scott continues the medieval-Scotland saga began in Lord of the Isles and introduces a new Macleod sister. When a dashing Scottish nobleman meets an impetuous beauty under treacherous circumstances, they discover something more irresistible than the fabled Templar treasure that they seek.... To Lady Isobel Macleod, marriage is a prison and husbands irritating encumbrances. Her domineering father and ferocious brother-in-law have proven as much to her. But when she comes upon Sir Michael St. Clair, master of Rosslyn Castle, being beaten by vicious strangers, she flies to the knight's defense, helps him escape, and flees with him into the rugged Highlands and beyond to the misty Isles. Alone under the stars with the man whose gaze holds her spellbound, Isobel ponders her long-held prejudices. But as their relentless enemy pursues them, she faces a new danger-surrendering her freedom to this fearless yet tender man...and linking her fate forever to the treasure that stirs mankind's greed and imagination to this very day.

Release date: September 3, 2007

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter 1

Scottish Highlands near Glenelg, July 1379

Nineteen-year-old Lady Isobel Macleod, having escaped the confines of Castle Chalamine and her father’s carping criticism, rode her pony bareback and with abandon along the tree-and-shrubbery-lined river path through Glen Mòr toward the steep track that led down into Glen Shiel. The day was glorious, and the cool salty breeze blowing from the sea caressed her face as she rode. Wildflowers bloomed in vast, colorful splashes, and not another human being was in sight.

She had not yet found the lone isle of her dreams, with the solitary tower to which she had often told her sisters she intended to remove as soon as she had means to do so, but her morning ride would provide solitude for an hour or two.

She had a sennight more to endure at Chalamine before she could return to Castle Lochbuie on the Isle of Mull, her home for the past seven years. She missed the Laird of Lochbuie and his wife, her sister Cristina, and she missed their three bairns and her two favorite cats, Ashes and Soot, as well.

Although she had lived at Chalamine until she was twelve, it no longer felt homelike with only three of her six sisters remaining there. The eldest of the three, Adela, burdened at twenty with household responsibilities, was rapidly turning into a bitter woman, while Sidony and Sorcha, at sixteen and seventeen, were champing at the bit to find husbands and marry so they, too, could leave. Isobel, however, intended never to marry.

She could be grateful at least that her father, Murdoch Macleod of Glenelg, had given up making each sister wait until her elder ones had married. That superstition had died years before, along with her sister Mariota and Macleod’s dreams of a grand future for them all.

Firmly banishing further thought of Mariota or Macleod, Isobel considered her options for the next few hours. She could continue to Glen Shiel and Loch Duich or she could stay off her usual tracks and seek someplace new.

As she pondered the possibilities, movement above on a hillside to the north caught her eye. Thanks to Glen Mòr’s steep slopes and narrow floor—no wider in most places than the swift, tumbling river that flowed through its center and the narrow track beside it—the distance was not great, and she easily discerned two horsemen. When they disappeared into the dense shrubbery, she decided they might be following a track she had not known was there.

Curious to know if that was the case, she touched her pony with her whip, guiding it toward the nearest place where she could safely ford the river. Once across, she urged her horse up the hillside. Although she was no longer certain she would be able to find the exact place where the two had vanished, even a search for the track they followed gave more purpose to her outing than mere escape.

Ten minutes later, she entered a dense grove of aspens, oaks, and chestnuts that she believed was the one the men had entered, with a narrow burn wending its way downhill through the trees to the river. Riding into the shady woods, she drew rein and listened. She did not want to meet anyone, and it had occurred to her that the two men, having vanished nearby, might reappear at any moment.

Certain that anyone from a neighboring glen would know her, and that she need tell any stranger only that she was Macleod’s daughter, she felt no fear. Her sisters or father would have mentioned any feud that had erupted in her absence.

Hearing no sound but gurgling water and normal forest chirps and chatters, she urged her pony on and soon found the track she sought. That she had not come upon it before was no wonder, because it began at a narrow cleft between two huge boulders on the far side of the burn, led up and away from the water, and dipped into a ravine where it looked as if it might end. Instead, the passage widened, and shortly afterward, she came to a grassy clearing surrounded by more woods. Just beyond, a high, sheer, solid backdrop of granite rose forbiddingly toward the sky.

Seeing no sign of the riders she had followed, she rode across the nearly dry streambed that divided the clearing to see if the path continued on the other side. Entering woodland again, she savored its silence until a man’s scream shattered it.

The scream had come from a short distance ahead and did not repeat itself, so although she urged her pony forward, she did so with care, listening for any other sounds that might tell her more. The woodland darkness lessened, and hearing male voices, one speaking sternly, she drew rein. She could not make out his words.

“Doubtless we should leave,” she murmured to her pony. “Whatever is going on here is probably no concern of ours, but curiosity has always been my besetting sin, and I suppose it always will be.” With that, she slipped off, landed lightly on soft ground, and looped the reins over a nearby tree branch.

Patting the pony’s nose, she said softly, “No noise now, if you please.”

Knowing she could not depend on its silence, and recalling the many times her parents or foster parents had punished her for letting curiosity get the better of her, she sent a prayer aloft that this time no one would catch her. Then, carrying her riding whip, she gathered her long, dark-gray cloak closer around her so that it would not catch on any shrubbery and moved swiftly but quietly through the trees toward the voices.

Stopping behind a large chestnut tree near the edge of the woods, she peeked cautiously around it into the small clearing beyond and gaped at what she saw.

Six men had gathered around a seventh, who hung by tautly outstretched arms, roped to branches of two ancient, entangled oak trees. He was dark haired and wore only his breeks and boots. His muscular back and arms were bare, and blood oozed from four vicious stripes across his broad shoulders. As she realized what she was witnessing, one of the six raised a heavy whip and said grimly, “You’ll tell us soon enough, you know. It might as well be now whilst you can still talk sensibly.”

“Demons will roast you in hell first,” his victim said in a deep, vibrant voice that easily carried to Isobel’s ears. She did not recognize it or him, however, nor did she recognize any of the men watching. Under the circumstances, the hanging man’s calm demeanor astonished her, as did his educated diction.

“You know my skill,” the one with the whip said. “Faith, man, you screamed at only the fourth stripe. Do you dare to test me further?”

When his victim remained silent, he raised the whip again.

The victim’s muscles clenched, and Isobel’s did likewise as the lash descended. His scream of agony ripped through the air again.

“Well now, what ha’ we here?”

Startled, she whirled, raising her riding whip, but a large hand clamped hard on her forearm, and the black-bearded man whose hand it was growled, “Nay, lassie. Drop it, and be glad ye didna strike me. Lads, hold your whisst now,” he called out to the others. “We’ve an inquisitive lass here, come to amuse us all!”

Isobel sighed, but it certainly was not the first time God had failed to heed her prayers. Nor could she blame Him, since she was not always conscientious about honoring the promises she made when she hoped that one might sway Him.

She made no protest as her burly captor hustled her across the clearing to the others, but when he jerked her to a halt in front of the one with the whip, she said, “I don’t know who you are, but I am Macleod of Glenelg’s daughter, and you have no business here, certainly not to be doing what you are doing. If this man has broken a law, you should hail him before the laird’s court for a fair trial.”

“Aye, sure,” the man with the whip said, “but that depends on whose laws he’s broken, does it not?”

“The only ones that matter here are Macleod laws and mayhap those of the Lord of the Isles,” she said, but as she did, she realized she had misjudged the group. She had assumed that a band of local ruffians had attacked a gentleman, but hearing the chief tormentor speak as his victim did told her the assumption was wrong. Likewise, the tormentors’ clothing and weapons were not those of common folk.

Two of the henchmen wore swords that any of her father’s men-at-arms or those at Lochbuie or Ardtornish would have cherished, and the man with the whip wore a black velvet doublet and silk trunk hose of excellent cut and styling. A chill tickled her spine, but she ignored it, glared at him, and said, “Cut that poor man down at once.”

“Faith, lass, but you’re full of orders for one with no army behind her,” he said, adding as an aside to the others, “I warrant she’ll provide rare sport in bed.”

“Let her go,” his victim snapped. “She knows naught of what passes here, but she is clearly of noble birth, and if she goes missing, many will come searching for her. She may even have an escort nearby. Heaven knows, she ought to have one.”

Isobel could see his face now and thought it handsome despite his scowl. But when his gaze met hers, a wary tingle shot up her spine. He was tied up, helpless, and in pain, but the look he gave her reminded her powerfully of those she received from the formidable Laird of Lochbuie when he was displeased with her.

The leader jerked his head toward the trees where Isobel had been standing, and said to the man who had captured her, “Have a look, Fin.”

“But I saw no one with her,” the other said. “She were alone.”

“Look anyway, because he’s right. A lass like this is bound to have keepers.” Motioning to two of the others, he said, “Cut him down for now, and stow them both in the cave until we sort this out. I don’t want any more surprises.”

Despite her fierce struggles, the two men forced her toward the sheer granite wall and soon came to a high, narrow opening. Beyond lay the pitch blackness of an underground cavern. Isobel shut her eyes at the sight, gathering courage, telling herself that it merely led to another adventure and was not a gateway to Hell.

They paused long enough for one of the two to light a torch before entering. Fascinated despite her fear of such darkness, and wondering how such a cave could lie so near Chalamine without her ever hearing so much as a whisper about its presence, she soon saw that although the passage was narrow, the rough granite ceiling rose far above them. Clearly Nature, rather than man, had carved both.

Hearing footsteps behind them, she glanced back and saw by the light of a second torch that two others were dragging their bare-chested victim in her wake. Soon the two captives found themselves stretched out on the hard floor, securely bound hand and foot.

“I wish that horrid man had not pulled off my cloak to tie my hands behind me, because it’s cold in here,” she grumbled when the men had gone, taking the torches and thus all the light with them. “But I suppose I should be grateful that they did not gag us.”

“No one would hear us from here even if we shouted,” he said, his rich voice coming calmly to her through the dense blackness.

Although his voice was a comfort, she was testing her bonds and did not reply. She could not see a thing now that the light was gone, not even shadows.

“You’re mighty cool for a lass in such a dire predicament,” he said. “Do you have keepers nearby?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, no. I came alone, and no one will look for me for hours. When they realize that I’m missing, however, many will search for me.”

“Is your father so powerful then?”

“Powerful enough,” she said, grimacing when the rope around her wrists pinched in protest of her squirming. “He is a member of the Council of the Isles. But my sister’s husband is even more powerful, and I have fostered with them these past seven years. He’ll soon join the search if my father’s men don’t find us straightaway, and he’ll find us, too, if those evil men haven’t murdered us first.”

“How is it that your foster father is more powerful than a Councilor of the Isles?” he asked, and she thought she detected amusement in his voice.

“He is Hector the Ferocious,” she said simply.

Silence greeted that information, and the amusement was gone when he said, “I think you will survive longer if you do not mention that detail to our hosts.”

“But why not? Hector terrifies most men.”

“Just so,” he said.

She thought about that. “You fear they might kill me rather than let him discover that they have done this to me. But they’d have to kill you, too, would they not, lest you tell him.”

He did not reply.

“Who are you that you’ve drawn their interest in such a way?” she demanded.

“You may call me Michael,” he said.

“I’ll call you anything you like, but your speech tells me you are educated and doubtless a man of more extensive identity than just Michael. Why have they done this to you?”

“Their reasons can be of no import to you,” he said.

“If they mean to kill us, I certainly want to know why!”

“They will not kill me—not yet—not intentionally, at all events.”

“It may surprise you to know that your fate interests me far less than my own,” she said tartly. “Am I more dangerous to them than you are?”

“Only if they learn about Hector Reaganach,” he said. “They do not fear me, you see, for I have taken care to give them little cause.”

“That man wanted you to tell him something,” she said, remembering.

He sighed. “You heard that, did you? If you are wise, you will not reveal that bit of information to them either.”

Others had said of her that she was wise beyond her years, but somehow that did not seem to be what he meant. In any event, she rarely took those words as a compliment, for too often the same people questioned her judgment and scolded her for trusting it. “Why don’t you just tell him what he wants to know?” she asked.

“Because I cannot.”

“Then we had better find a way to escape.”

Her companion’s chuckle reverberated from the cavern walls.

“I do not know why you laugh,” she said. “When one recognizes that a necessity has arisen, one should greet it with resolution and make a plan.”

“You’d better plan quickly then, mistress, because they’ll soon be back.”

She was still testing her bindings, seeking loose ends, but her sharp ears had caught no sound of footsteps or voices yet, and she could discern no light, so she still had time if she could just untie herself.

Thoughts whirled and danced through her head as her fertile imagination sought possible avenues of escape. Her wrists, tied behind her, felt raw from her struggles against the rough binding. If only she could reach . . .

Memory shifted to a time in her childhood when her sister Kate had tied her hands behind her and threatened to tickle her witless if she did not stop chattering and let Kate finish some chore or other. The minute Kate had turned her back, a younger, smaller, and doubtless much more agile Isobel had slipped her bound wrists beneath her bottom, up her legs, and over her feet. Then, loosening the binding with her teeth, she had run up behind her sister on silent, bare feet, poked her sides, and startled Kate nearly out of her skin.

Wondering if she could still do such a thing, she gave it a try. Her hips were broader now, but her arms were longer, too, and with only a slight hitch when a seam in her heavy skirt snagged against the rope, she managed by pulling, scooting, and at last rolling backward over her bound hands and lifting her backside as she forced them underneath her, wincing when they scraped rock.

She was glad now that the villain had taken off her cloak and cast it to the floor, because had it still covered her, it would have been very much in her way.

“What are you doing?” Michael asked.

Grateful that he could not see her, and knowing she would sound breathless if she tried to talk, she said nothing, hoping to show him her success instead.

“Answer me, lass. Are you all right?”

“Aye,” she muttered. “Just listen hard for them, will you?”

Rolling to a sitting position, she tried to reach under her skirt, but the dirk Hector had given her when she turned thirteen sat in its snug leather sheath on the outside of her right leg above the knee, and she could not reach it. Nor, in that earlier incident, had Kate tied her ankles. No matter how she twisted, she could not seem to stretch far enough to force both feet at once through the small opening. She had to try harder. Their captors would not stay away much longer.

Rolling backward again, she exhaled as much air as she could and lifted her legs and backside as if she were attempting a backward somersault, using her bound hands to pull her hips and then her legs as close as possible to her torso. She was still flexible enough to bend double at the waist, but whether she would be able to slide her hands far enough to do the trick remained to be seen. In any case, she was glad her companion could not see her. Her position lacked dignity, to say the least.

Sir Michael St. Clair, having painfully exerted himself to test his bonds and found them tight enough that they would soon cut off his circulation, believed the lass was struggling as futilely against hers. But believing as well that she might hurt herself in such a struggle, his first inclination was to warn her to be still so he could at least hear as soon as possible when Waldron and the others returned for him.

Not that hearing them would make much difference to his fate at their hands, but at least he had seen enough of the cavern now to be fairly certain it was not the one he saw so frequently in his dreams.

Sounds of her movements continued. Mayhap the belief that she could do something was somehow aiding her, he mused. That she was not screaming in terror or berating him for getting them into such a fix was surely admirable behavior that he ought to encourage as long as possible. She was undeniably an unusual female. He had never known one before who, in distress, could manage to hold her tongue.

When she gave a barely audible cry of pain followed by a mutter of what he suspected was a most unladylike epithet, he said, “Are you sure you are all right?”

Silence greeted him for a long, uncomfortable moment, broken then only by another indecipherable grunt.

Stretching so much that she feared she might hurt herself, Isobel had at last reached her feet with her hands, but the rope binding her wrists had snagged on the ankle bindings. Gasping from frustration as much as from her exertions, she forced herself to exhale more, expelling so much air that she wondered if her stomach might scrape her backbone.

A dull, rhythmic thudding sounded distantly in the passageway, and with the impetus of near panic, she slipped her hands over her feet at last. Rolling upward again, still unable to reach the dagger through the slits in her skirt and underskirt, she yanked the skirts up instead and grasped its hilt.

Blessing Hector for insisting that she keep the weapon sharp, she drew it at once, sliced through the ropes around her ankles, and got awkwardly to her feet.

“Make a noise so I can find you,” she whispered. “I cannot see a thing in this cursed blackness.”

“I’m here,” he said. “But you’re standing. Did you manage to free yourself?”

“Aye, but only my feet, so beware, because if I trip and fall, I may stab you.”

“You’ve a knife then! Mind your step,” he added hastily. “That was my foot.”

Already kneeling, she found the bindings at his feet, then the space between them, and sliced through the rope.

“Someone’s coming, so don’t talk anymore,” she murmured.

“Aye. I heard them.”

“If you will turn so that I can find your hands, I’ll free them, too.”

He obeyed, and although the sounds drew ever nearer, she discerned no light.

Feeling her way, she stiffened when her hand touched the bare flesh of his shoulder. Ignoring the impulse to snatch it away, she slid it further down his back, seeking the rope that bound his wrists.

When he gasped, she knew she had brushed across his injuries, and then she felt stickiness on her palm that was harder to ignore. Her stomach heaved at the thought of congealing blood and the knowledge that she had hurt him.

Moving as swiftly as she dared, she tried nonetheless to be careful, fearing to do him greater injury. She felt him trying to help, pulling his hands apart as the blade cut through his bindings. Then, in a twinkling, he was free.

“Give me the knife,” he said, his voice sounding strained.

“Be careful,” she said. “The blade is sharp enough to shave a man’s face.”

He chuckled again. “So I guessed, lass,” he said, adding as he felt for her bindings with one hand and sliced with the other, “You are a most extraordinary female. I have no doubt that you know just how to get us out of here.”

“Faith, I did not even know this cavern existed until they brought us here,” she said. “You seem strong enough. Can you not overpower whoever is coming?”

“I doubt it. Heaven knows how many will come for us. Moreover, I’ve had naught to eat or drink since this morning, so I’m feeling a trifle unsteady on my feet. And even if only one comes and I could knock him down, what good would that do with the other five outside, just waiting to get on with my questioning?”

She had no answer and little time to think. The footsteps were so close that she could see a dim orange glow in the distance. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been surprised that so little light could prove useful, but she could discern the near wall now and enough of the floor to see that no obstacle stood in her path.

She felt her way along the wall, certain that she had caught a glimpse earlier of some sort of side passage but having no idea how one might be useful, even if she could find it. Without light, they could not hope to escape down an unknown pathway, because their captors would find them in a trice. Still, she knew that only a witless fool would ignore any opportunity to find concealment or means of escape.

Her companion remained silent, and she was grateful, because his silence let her concentrate. Puzzles always had answers. One just had to find the right one.

“Give me back my dirk,” she said, moving back to him.

“Faith, do you mean to murder him?”

“If I must,” she said as she reclaimed the dagger, her mind already leaping ahead, seeking more possibilities.

He muttered something, but she ignored him. She could see a figure coming toward them now and felt a measure of relief that the waiting was nearly over.

“I think only one comes,” she said. “Could you not try to knock him down?”

“Lass, much as I’d like to oblige you, I dare not promise anything. I’ll do my best, but I should warn you that even if I do manage to knock him out, it will accomplish little more than to make him angry, and without any way out of here—”

“But how do you know that? Do you know this cavern?”

“No more than you do, but you must agree that it does not look promising.”

“It would be less promising if the passage ended here,” she pointed out. “But we know it does not, and I swear there is at least one side passage just yon—”

“Hush,” he interjected. “He’s close enough to hear us.”

Although the orange glow had increased steadily, she could see little, for she had dropped to her knees to feel around on the hard-packed earth, and her body kept blocking the dim light. At first, she found only pebbles, two boulders near the wall, and her cloak, but at last she touched a good-sized stone that she thought she could heft. Quickly, using both hands, she picked it up and stood again.

Her companion was barely visible, no more than a thickening of the darkness near the opposite wall. She went to him as silently as she could.

“Here,” she whispered, pushing the rock into his midsection. “Take this. I’ll divert his attention before he realizes that we are both free, and you can bash him on the head.”

“Faith, lass, I’m a man of peace.”

“If that is true, you are the first such man I’ve ever met,” she retorted. “Do try to resist predicting failure at every turn and summon up some resolution instead. You may recall that you said those louts are likely to murder me. I’d infinitely prefer to remain amongst the living, so—”

“Shhhh,” he hissed.

Gripping her dagger tightly, Isobel flitted back to the wall across the passage.

Chapter 2

Here now, who untied ye?” the man asked as he loomed over Isobel, holding his torch high, its flaring brightness making her shield her eyes and hope he would not put it too near her.

“I untied myself,” she said, lowering the hand shielding her eyes and smiling at him. He was the one who had caught her in the woods. “I don’t like being tied up.”

“Faith, but ye’re a beauty,” he said. “I’m partial to flaxen-haired wenches. Come here and see if ye can persuade me to speak to Waldron on your behalf.”

“Would you do that for me, sir?” she said as she put her free hand to her breast and leaned slightly toward him, her years attending the Court of the Isles making it almost natural to let him see a flirtatious gleam in her eyes. “I surmise that Waldron is your leader’s name?”

“Aye.” The glint in his eyes was predatory as he reached for her.

She stepped back, still smiling, fluttering her lashes as she held his gaze with her own, the dagger clenched ready in her right hand behind her back.

He followed her, grinning in anticipation of what he meant to do, but what that was exactly, she would never know, because as she braced herself to raise the dagger and strike, a silent shadow loomed out of the blackness behind him, a dull thud sounded, and the man collapsed toward her without another word.

She jumped out of the way, and when he hit the ground, he lay still. She looked up again and saw to her amazement, as Michael stepped forward a pace, that he had somehow managed to grab the torch as the villain fell.

“Now what?” he asked, gazing down at his victim. His tone was as casual as if he had inquired about the weather.

Isobel grimaced. “The others will not be far behind him. We must hurry.”

“I agree that haste is warranted, mistress, but as neither of us knows precisely where we are or, for that matter, where the others are—”

“Faith, sir, we know we are in a bad place and must remove ourselves from it forthwith. We must at least take advantage of his torch whilst we can, to see where that narrow passage yonder leads and how much farther the main route will take us.”

“We cannot do both at once,” he said. “May I suggest that you let me hold the torch aloft for you whilst you inspect that narrow passageway? I’m thinking it looks utterly impassable for a man of my size.”

“What about him?” Isobel said. “Is he dead?”

“Would you mind if he were?”

“No. He is a vile creature.”

“So I thought, but I own I’m relieved that he seems still to be breathing.”

“That only means he may awaken at any moment. We should tie him up.”

“An excellent notion,” he said, handing her the torch. “I shall do so if I can find enough uncut rope.”

“Tie some bits together if you must.”

Nodding, he gathered the longest pieces and quickly trussed the other man up. Then, taking the torch again from Isobel, he gestured toward the narrower passage.

A brief glimpse inside revealed that it was no more than a shallow alcove.

“We could bundle him into it,” her companion suggested diffidently. “They won’t see him straightaway, and if they have to look for him, untie him, even revive him, the delay will occupy them for at least a few minutes. If we are lucky, they may miss him altogether and thus even mistake the exact spot where they left us.”

“Can you lift him?” she asked. “I shan’t be much help to you unless I put down this torch, and if it falls over, we may be plunged into darkness again. I’m not sure how much longer it will burn as it is. It’s already dimming.” She fought to speak calmly despite her fear that the pitch blackness would swallow them again, but she was not sure she had succeeded. Her voice had seemed to tremble a bit.

He had begun wrestling their captive into the opening, however, and if his method of shifting him about was rough and ready, it stirred no sympathy in Isobel. She hoped the villain sustained at least as many scrapes and scratches from banging into the rock walls as she had in her graceless contortions to free herself.

The task was soon finished, and Michael said, “If you will lend me your dagger again, mistress, I can cut away a strip of his shirt to gag him.”

She gave it to him, straining her ears for any hint of the enemy’s approach, fearful that she would not hear them in time to extinguish the light before they saw it.

Though he worked quickly and in relative silence, her impatience stirred. “Mayhap I should just go a little way on whilst you finish with—”

“Nay, lass, I’m done. I’ll take that torch again, shall I? I can hold it up and light the way for us both if you lead the way—although I cannot help but believe they will simply follow us.”

“Which is why we must hurry,” she said, reaching down to snatch up her cloak. “The more distance we can put between us, the safer we will be.”

“But I cannot think how we can escape them unless we do find a side tunnel. Even then, they have