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Synopsis
National bestselling author Amanda Scott sweeps readers back to the turbulent fourteenth-century Scottish Borders, where valiant men and women risk everything for their land. Jenny Easdale is ready to accept her fate. She's agreed to marry a man she will never love - yet not before slipping away for one last adventure. Following a traveling minstrel troupe, she's whisked into a world of intoxicating freedom. Then, all too soon, she finds herself in danger - from a vengeful political plot against Scotland and from the man who has come to take her home. Dutybound to return with his brother's wayward bride, Sir High Douglas is not prepared for how her quick wit, courage, and laughing eyes touch his warrior heart. Now, as the merry minstrels play matchmaker and passion sparks between Hugh and Jenny, the conspiracy against Scotland builds...and threatens all they hold dear.
Release date: June 10, 2009
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 432
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Tamed by a Laird
Amanda Scott
RAVES FOR AMANDA SCOTT AND HER SCOTTISH ADVENTURES
“Amanda Scott is a master.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A most gifted storyteller.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Scott has a flair for characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
BORDER MOONLIGHT
“4 Stars! Scott crafts an accurate portrait of the snarled politics of the era and the vibrant people who lived, loved, and
dared to keep the peace. Excitement melds with romance in a page-turning adventure.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A devilishly fun romance novel rich with intrigue, deception, tension, and love ever after. If there was ever a novel to
bring a reader’s smile alive, this is it.”
—
CurledUp.com
“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
“Exceptional… Another fabulous book by über-talented Amanda Scott… She fills our senses with the sights, sounds, smells, touch,
and taste of the great lands and castles of Scotland.”
—
SingleTitles.com
“Fast-paced… An exciting Border romance with plenty of action… A terrific historical gender war.”
—Midwest Book Review
“It was hard to put this one down… A pleasure to read.”
—
ReadingRomanceBooks.com
“Combines political intrigue, mystery, and romance that will leave readers wanting more.”
—
RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“The love story is funny, honest, and flares with both friendship and desire… Simon and Sibylla are outstandingly detailed
and complex characters.”
—
TheRomanceReader.com
BORDER LASS
“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots… Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of
medieval Scotland. She combines a passionate love story with a detailed understanding of those dangerous times… a fascinating
story. I highly recommend Border Lass.”
—
FallenAngelReviews.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Readers will be thrilled… a tautly written, deeply emotional love story steeped in the rich history of
the Borders. Scott’s use of real events and people enables her to subtly move readers into the characters’ mind-sets, which
greatly enriches the story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Stars! A wonderful romance with a historical setting full of action, suspense, passion, and a great plot.”
—
TheRomanceReaderConnection.com
“Scott excels in creating memorable characters… A good read.”
—
FreshFiction.com
“Excellent… a charming romance, a tale of murder and intrigue, and an enlightening, entertaining foray into Medieval Scottish
history. I recommend [it].”
—
RomRevToday.com
“Will be enjoyed by the romantic who loves historical romances set in medieval times… Scott has researched the history of
early Scotland… to give the novel a rich, believable background.”
—
JandysBooks.com
BORDER WEDDING
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Not only do her characters leap off the pages, the historical events do too. This is more than entertainment
and romance; this is historical romance as it was meant to be.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Hearts! A very enjoyable read that is rich in history… Ms. Scott’s next book will be another must-read.”
—
NightOwlRomance.com
“5 Stars! Scott has possibly written the best historical in ages!… There was not a part of this story that was not enjoyable…
the best book to come along in a long time.”
—
FallenAngelReviews.com
“A journey you won’t want to miss! Scott’s gift is her ability to create people you want to know. No matter the conflict or
the story line, you’re always drawn to the people. Border Wedding, the first novel in a new trilogy, is no exception. Another winner!”
—
FreshFiction.com
“Wonderful… full of adventure and history… Scott is obviously well-versed on life in the fourteenth century, and she brings
her knowledge to the page… an excellent story for both the romance reader and the history buff. I’m anxious to read others
by Scott in the future.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Don’t miss this beautiful historic tale.”
—
BookCoveReviews.com
“A fun, light read… Scott’s vivid attention to details makes you feel as if you are indeed visiting Scotland each and every
time you pick up her delightful book.”
—
ArmchairInterviews.com
“A winner… Few authors do medieval romances as consistently excellent as Amanda Scott’s… brings to life the late fourteenth
century.”
—
HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Well-written narrative and dialogue… exciting plot… Border Wedding proves great stories of Scotland don’t only arise out of the Highlands.”
—
RomRevToday.com
KING OF STORMS
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel… with a lively love story… Scott brings the memorable characters from her previous novels
together in an exciting adventure romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Passionate and breathtaking… Amanda Scott’s King of Storms keeps the tension moving as she continues her powerful saga of the Macleod sisters.”
—
NovelTalk.com
“A terrific tale starring two interesting lead characters who fight, fuss, and fall in love… Rich in history and romance,
fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An engaging tale with well-written characters and a wonderful plot that will keep readers turning pages… Fans of historical
romances will be delighted with King of Storms.”
—
TheRomanceReaderConnection.com
“Enjoyable… moves at a fast pace… It was difficult to put the book down.”
—
BookLoons.com
“Intrigue and danger… Readers will enjoy the adventures and sweet romance.”
—
RomRevToday.com
“Enchanting… a thrilling adventure… a must read… King of Storms is a page-turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart. Combine this with a battle of wits, a test
of strength, faith, and honor, and you have one great read.”
—
FreshFiction.com
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
“An enjoyable book for a quiet evening at home. If you are a fan of historical romance with a touch of suspense, you don’t
want to miss this book.”
—
LoveRomanceAndMore.com
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—
NovelTalk.com
LADY’S CHOICE
“Terrific… with an exhilarating climax. Scott is at the top of her game with this deep historical tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enjoyable… The premise of Scott’s adventure romance is strong.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A page-turner… her characters are a joy to read… sure to delight medieval historical fans.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Plenty of suspense and action and a delightful developing love story… Another excellent story from Scott.”
—
RomanceReviewsMag.com
PRINCE OF DANGER
“Phenomenal.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“RITA Award-winning Scott has a flair for colorful, convincing characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Exhilarating… fabulous… action-packed… Fans of fast-paced historical tales… will want to read Amanda Scott’s latest.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Scott is a phenomenal writer… I am not sure if perfection can be improved upon, but that is exactly what she has done in
her latest offering.”
—
RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
LORD OF THE ISLES
“Scott pits her strong characters against one another and fate. She delves into their motivations, bringing insight into them
and the thrilling era in which they live.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Scott writes great tales.”
—
RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Scott’s storytelling is amazing… a captivating tale of intrigue… This is a defi nite keeper.”
—
CoffeeTimeRomance.com
A HIGHLAND PRINCESS
“Delightful historical starring two fabulously intelligent lead characters… Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets]
go.”
—Affair de Coeur
“Perfect for readers who enjoy romances with a rich sense of history.”
—Booklist
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A marvelously rendered portrait of medieval Scotland, terrific characters, and a dynamic story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
Galloway, Scotland, December 1367
Minstrels had been playing music in the minstrel gallery from the time the first guests of the new laird had entered the ancient
castle hall to take dinner with him. Since then, a juggler had juggled, dancers had danced, and now a harpist was plucking
merry tunes from his wee harp.
As the harpist performed in a cleared space below the dais, men swiftly set up trestles behind him and laid stout planks across
them, an indication that the best of the entertainment was about to begin.
The harpist took his bows, and a man and woman stepped to the edge of the clearing. As he plucked out a tune on his lute,
she began to sing:
From the East the Ass has come,
Beautiful in truth and strong as a gale,
So leap to the boards now, Sir Ass,
And bray for us your tale!
Drumming of tabors from the minstrel gallery and applause from the guests accompanied a long-limbed fool in a belled and ass-eared
cap, whiteface, and the colorful patchwork garb called motley that all fools wore, as he turned flips and tumbled his way
to the stout trestle stage. He leapt wildly onto it, only to sprawl in a heap on its boards. When laughter erupted, he looked
around in confusion, then slowly raised himself to a handstand and flipped to his feet. Narrowing his eyes, he shifted his
gaze to the high table and began to recite in a sing-song voice:
There once was a wee bit buffoon,
Who dwelt in a gey grand hall…
What followed was at first clever, even humorous. But it soon developed into a strange farce about a ruthless invader with
an army of foreigners determined to subjugate a defiant land and its freedom-loving people. As the speaker neared the end
of his tale, he made a sweeping gesture from the audience to the dais, saying,
Such is that wee bit buffoon,
That laird in his gey grand hall.
That he hath declared the king’s peace on the land,
A Grim peace for one and all!
The crowded hall remained silent when his recitation ended, leaving only the sound of the tinkling bells on the fool’s ass-eared
cap as he made his bow.
The tinkling continued through the silence as he straightened. He looked bewildered, absurdly so, thanks to exaggerated features
on the chalky whiteface that he, like most of his sort, wore. Apparently, he had expected applause if not laughter.
Instead, eyes throughout the hall shifted focus from his white face to the dark-faced, dark-haired man in the central chair
at the high table.
“By God,” his lordship growled. “What I’ve heard be true, then. Though you call yourself a wit and a poet, fool, you have
composed only claptrap mocking my character and his grace’s royal command that I impose peace on Galloway. Having prated that
claptrap to the delight of mine enemies, you now dare to prattle it to me. Worse, you do nowt to make me laugh. Send him on
his way, lads!”
Three men-at-arms stepped forward to carry out the order.
“My lord, ha’ mercy!” the fool cried. “ ’Twas all done in jest, and it be blowing a blizzard outside. Sakes, but I do claim
hospitality!”
“Faugh, that be a Highland notion and none of mine,” his lordship snarled. “Afore ye speak ill of men with the power of pit
and gallows, you should learn to cloak your words in at least a thin coat of wit. I am showing you mercy. We’ll see if God thinks you deserve more from Him. Get him out of my sight, lads!”
Two of the three men-at-arms grabbed the fool, one by each arm. They hustled him the length of the hall, down a step, and
across a landing of the stairway spiraling in the thickness of the wall. Pulling open the great door, they forced him outside,
where thickly blowing snow covered the outer stairs and the courtyard.
As they marched him diagonally across the yard to the main gate, his feet crunched on gravel beneath that snowy blanket.
The third man-at-arms motioned to the gatekeeper, and the gate swung slowly open, scraping ruts in the snow as it did. The
fool’s escort dragged him outside to a wooden walkway that he vaguely recalled led ahead to a river wharf and east toward
a nearby town. Just outside the gateway, they gave him a heave.
Stumbling, slipping, he crashed onto the walk, where they left him.
He heard the gate swing shut, but the snow swirled so heavily around him that he could not see the castle wall or the edges
of the walkway.
He could see nothing, anywhere, but thickly swirling snow.
Fear crept in then and grabbed him by the throat.
Seventeen-year-old Janet, Baroness Easdale of that Ilk— but Jenny Easdale to her friends and family—tried to ignore the hamlike
hand on her right thigh belonging to the man to whom, hours earlier, she had pledged her troth. To that end, she intently
studied the five jugglers performing in the space before the dais in Annan House’s great hall, trying to decide which might
be her maidservant’s older brother.
Since Jenny’s betrothed was drunk and she had no information about Peg’s brother other than that he was a juggler in the company
of minstrels and players entertaining the guests at her betrothal feast, her efforts so far had proven futile.
All five jugglers wore the short cote-hardies and vari-colored hose favored by minstrels of many sorts and not one had a mop
of red curls like Peg’s. Jenny could find little to choose between them.
Reid Douglas squeezed her thigh, making it harder to ignore him.
Two fools in whiteface—one tall, one as short as a child and bearded—chased each other, creating havoc among the jugglers,
who nonetheless deftly kept their colored balls in the air.
“Give me a kiss,” Reid muttered much too close to Jenny’s right ear, slurring his words. “ ’Tis my right now, lass, and I’ve
had none o’ ye yet.”
She glanced at him, fighting to hide her revulsion and disdain. He was four years older than she was and handsome, she supposed,
with his strong-looking body, softly curling brown hair, and chiseled Douglas features. And doubtless all men got drunk occasionally.
But she had not chosen Reid and did not want him.
However, Lord Dunwythie and his lady wife, Phaeline, had made it plain that Jenny’s opinion did not matter in the selection
of her husband. Dunwythie, her uncle by marriage, was also her guardian. Had her father still been alive…
“Come now, Jenny, kiss me,” Reid said more forcefully, leaning so near that she feared he might topple over and knock her
right off her back-stool. His breath stank of ale and the spicy foods he had eaten.
She stiffened, bracing herself.
“What’s this?” he demanded, frowning. “Now ye’re too good for me, are ye? Faith, but I’ll welcome the schooling of ye after
we’ve wed.”
Meeting his gaze, she put her hand atop the one on her thigh, wrapped her fingers around his middle one, and bent it sharply
upward. “Pray, sir,” she said politely as he winced and snatched his hand away, “have the goodness to wait until after the
wedding to make yourself so free of my person. I like it not.”
“By my faith, ye’ll pay for such behavior then,” he snapped, putting his face too close to hers again. “Just a month, Jenny
lass, three Sundays for the banns, then six days more, and I become Baron Easdale of Easdale. Think well on that.”
“You are mistaken,” she said. “Although others may address you then as ‘my lord,’ I will remain Easdale of Easdale. My father
explained long ago that once I became Baroness Easdale in my own right, my husband would take but a pretender’s styling until
he and I produced an heir to the barony. You will not become Easdale of Easdale unless I will it so. And I’ve seen naught in you to suggest that that is likely.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “But a betrothed man has rights, too, and ye’ll soon be finding out what they are, I promise
ye.”
“Here now, lad,” Lord Dunwythie said from Reid’s other side as he put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and visibly exerted
pressure there.
Dunwythie was a quarter of a century older than Reid was, with dark hair beginning to show gray. His forbears had been seneschals
of Annandale in the days of the Bruce overlords, so his lordship commanded great respect in any company.
“Lower your voice, Reid,” he said sternly. “Ye’ve had too much to drink, lad, which can surprise nae one, but—”
“A man’s entitled to drink to his own betrothal, is he not?” Reid interjected, shrugging his shoulder free and shifting his
heavy frown toward Dunwythie.
“Aye, sure,” the older man replied. “But he should not treat his intended wife unkindly. Nor should his actions distract his
guests from the entertainment—which, I’d remind ye, I have provided at great expense.”
Realizing that their discussion had drawn the attention of the powerfully built, dark-haired man on Dunwythie’s right, and
unexpectedly meeting that gentleman’s enigmatic gaze, Jenny raised her chin and returned her attention to the jugglers.
Sir Hugh Douglas had sharp ears. Despite a desultory conversation with his host that now and again required dutiful attention,
his younger brother Reid’s gruff muttering to his betrothed had drawn Hugh’s notice before drawing Dunwythie’s.
Hugh was observant enough to note a spark in Janet Easdale’s eyes that he easily identified as anger. Having seen Reid snatch
his hand out from under the table, he guessed that the lad had taken an unwanted liberty.
Reid was inebriated, but it looked as if her ladyship could manage him. Hugh had noticed little else about her other than
a pair of speaking eyes and deep dimples that appeared now on either side of her mouth as she hastily looked away. In any
event, Reid’s behavior was of small concern to him.
He liked the lad well enough, although he had seen little of him for years. Reid had been their sister Phaeline’s favorite
brother from his birth, some seven years before her marriage. He was ten when their mother died, and Phaeline had insisted
then that he would do better to move in with her at Annan House than to remain with their father at Thornhill, the family’s
estate in nearby Nithsdale.
Their father had not objected, nor had Hugh. At the time of their mother’s death, he was serving as squire to his cousin Sir
Archibald Douglas. After winning his spurs on the field of battle two years later, he had continued to follow Archie.
He had done so, in fact, until his father died. Hugh had married six months before then, and he and his beloved Ella had been
expecting their first child.
Ella and their newborn daughter died three months after Hugh’s father did, and the grief-stricken Hugh had left Reid with
Phaeline so he could devote his own energy to his Thornhill estates. Having had the chance to observe Reid for the past two
days, he could see that Phaeline’s up-bringing had done his brother little good, but Hugh found it hard to care. In truth,
he had found it hard since the deaths of his wife and tiny daughter to care much about anyone or anything except Thornhill.
He noticed a gillie heading their way with a jug of claret. Dunwythie saw the lad, too, and motioned him away. Then he turned
to Hugh and said quietly, “Mayhap if ye were to invite the lad to stroll about some with ye, sir, his head might—”
“Sakes, don’t talk about me as if I were not here,” Reid said in a tone more suited to a sulky child than to a man soon to
marry. “I see a chap I want to talk to, and I don’t need Hugh to look after me.” Turning to his betrothed, he said curtly,
“Don’t wander off before I return, lass. I’ll escort you to your chamber myself.”
Her dimples had vanished, and Hugh saw that the curt command annoyed her. But she said calmly, “I never wander. Prithee, take
time to enjoy your talk.”
As Reid ambled off, she glanced again at Hugh.
He noted that her beautifully shaped, heavily lashed eyes were an unusual shade of soft golden-brown, almost the color of
walnut shells. Her caul and veil covered her hair, so he could not tell what color it was, but her rosy cheeks glowed.
She wore a green silk gown with a snug-fitting bodice under a surcoat of pale gold silk. As his gaze drifted over her softly
shaped breasts, she shifted position slightly. A glance upward revealed that her dimples were showing again.
Dunwythie’s voice jarred him as the older man said, “I’ve been meaning to ask if ye ken the reason for this new tax that Sheriff
Maxwell of Dumfries has demanded, Hugh. He is trying to impose it even on us here in Annandale, although the man must know
that we have never recognized his authority over us.”
“As you know, Thornhill lies well within his jurisdiction, so I must recognize his authority,” Hugh said. “But his demands
have increased notably, so I suspect the Maxwells need money to rebuild Caerlaverock.”
“Aye, sure, and with Archie Douglas now building his new castle, we’ll likely have them both trying to snatch gelt from our purses. I’m willing to support the Douglases because
they can keep the English at bay. But the Maxwells have twice lost Caerlaverock to England, so I’ve told the sheriff I’ll
pay nowt…”
He went on, but Hugh listened only enough to respond suitably. He could scarcely advise Dunwythie. Maxwells or no Maxwells,
Hugh’s loyalty remained with Archie Douglas—now known to all as Archibald “the Grim,” Lord of Galloway—the most powerful man
in southwestern Scotland.
In the clearing below the dais, a tall juggler in a long scarlet robe joined the others, juggling six balls and manipulating
them with deft skill. In whiteface like the fools but with a turned-down mouth and tears drawn below each eye, he looked older
than the others, Jenny thought, too old to be Peg’s brother.
Plucking a long dirk apparently from thin air, the man flung it high to join the balls. As his audience emitted a collective
gasp, a second dirk joined the first. A red ball and a yellow one flew from his agile hands toward the high table, the red
one to the ladies’ end, the yellow to the men’s.
The younger of Jenny’s two Dunwythie cousins, fourteen-year-old Lady Fiona, leapt up and captured the red ball with a triumphant
cry that on any other occasion would surely have drawn censure from her lady mother. At the other end of the table, a nobleman
put up a hand almost casually to catch the yellow one.
By the time Jenny looked again at the jugglers, the older one was alone with six daggers in the air. She had no idea where
they had come from or what had become of the four balls he’d still had when she looked away. Others had performed sleight
of hand, making a pin or feather plume disappear from clothing of an audience member only to have it reappear on someone else.
But this man was much more skillful.
Musicians had played from the minstrels’ gallery throughout the afternoon and into the evening. But now, as the dirks flew
ever higher, each one threatening to slice the juggler’s hands when it descended, the music slowly faded. Soon the hall was
so quiet that one could hear the great fire crackling on the hooded hearth.
Clearly oblivious of the juggler and the increasing tension his skill produced in his audience, Phaeline, Lady Dunwythie,
fingered the long rope of pearls she wore as she said, “Our Reid is much taken with you, is he not, Janet, dear?”
Concealing irritation as she turned to her uncle’s round-faced, eyebrowless, richly attired second wife, Jenny said bluntly,
“Reid is ape-drunk, madam.”
“He is, aye,” Phaeline agreed.
“Such coarse behavior does naught to improve my opinion of him.”
“You are young, my dear. So is he. But he will soon teach you how to please him, and I cannot doubt that you two will ultimately
deal quite well together.”
“I fear the only thing about me that pleases Reid, madam, is my inheritance.”
“Doubtless that is true, although clearly he is not blind to your attractions,” Phaeline said without a blink. “One must be
practical, however, and although my lord husband would have preferred that my brother Hugh marry you, because ’tis he who
is Laird of Thornhill and thus equal to you in rank—”
“Sir Hugh may be more suitable, but I’d not want him, either.”
“Nor he you,” Phaeline retorted.
“Faith, did you ask him?”
“I had no need to ask,” Phaeline said. “Hugh declared two years ago, when his wife, Ella, and their bairn died, that he would
not marry again. And when Hugh makes a decision, let me tell you, no one can turn him from it.”
Resisting an impulse to look again at the dark-eyed gentleman at Dunwythie’s right, Jenny said, “Surely, you can be most persuasive.”
“Not persuasive enough to compel Hugh to do aught he has decided he will not do. However, you must not think that Reid is
wholly unsuitable for you, my dear. Thanks to our inheritance laws, if Hugh dies without a son of his own, as he is likely to do,
Reid will inherit Thornhill.”
“In faith, madam, I should think Sir Hugh may well outlive Reid. He cannot be much older than Reid is.”
“Just five years, and that was the difficulty until I realized that Reid should marry you. You see, Hugh refuses even to provide
an adequate allowance for him. He is ever impatient with poor Reid, saying he would do better to win his spurs and perhaps
even an estate of his own. But Reid has no great opinion of taking up arms unless a man must, and one cannot blame him for
that—certainly not now, when we enjoy a truce of sorts with England. But had Hugh fallen in battle—”
“Surely, you did not hope for such a thing!”
“I am not heartless, Janet,” Phaeline said stiffly. “But knights often do fall in battle, and our Reid must have an income.
However,” she added with a sigh, “devising a way to provide him with a proper one did vex me until—”
“Until eight months ago when your lord husband assumed guardianship of me and my estates,” Jenny said.
“Aye,” Phaeline admitted. “Easdale being such a fine and wealthy barony, one might say that Reid’s betrothal to you simply
arranged itself.”
“You are very frank, madam!”
“ ’Twas providential, though, as even your uncle was quick to see.”
Jenny did not bother to point out that it had proven other than providential for her. She knew she would be wasting her breath,
just as she had wasted it in trying to avoid having her eyebrows and forehead plucked as bare as Phaeline’s.
Phaeline had said that one must follow fashion, so Jenny’s face was now a hairless oval framed by the expensive beaded white
caul that concealed her tresses.
Applying to her uncle to support her against Phaeline would likewise prove useless. Lord Dunwythie exerted himself to please
his wife, because he still hoped for an heir. At three-and-thirty, Phaeline was thirteen years younger than he was, but although
they had been married for fifteen
“Amanda Scott is a master.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A most gifted storyteller.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Scott has a flair for characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
BORDER MOONLIGHT
“4 Stars! Scott crafts an accurate portrait of the snarled politics of the era and the vibrant people who lived, loved, and
dared to keep the peace. Excitement melds with romance in a page-turning adventure.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A devilishly fun romance novel rich with intrigue, deception, tension, and love ever after. If there was ever a novel to
bring a reader’s smile alive, this is it.”
—
CurledUp.com
“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
“Exceptional… Another fabulous book by über-talented Amanda Scott… She fills our senses with the sights, sounds, smells, touch,
and taste of the great lands and castles of Scotland.”
—
SingleTitles.com
“Fast-paced… An exciting Border romance with plenty of action… A terrific historical gender war.”
—Midwest Book Review
“It was hard to put this one down… A pleasure to read.”
—
ReadingRomanceBooks.com
“Combines political intrigue, mystery, and romance that will leave readers wanting more.”
—
RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“The love story is funny, honest, and flares with both friendship and desire… Simon and Sibylla are outstandingly detailed
and complex characters.”
—
TheRomanceReader.com
BORDER LASS
“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots… Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of
medieval Scotland. She combines a passionate love story with a detailed understanding of those dangerous times… a fascinating
story. I highly recommend Border Lass.”
—
FallenAngelReviews.com
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Readers will be thrilled… a tautly written, deeply emotional love story steeped in the rich history of
the Borders. Scott’s use of real events and people enables her to subtly move readers into the characters’ mind-sets, which
greatly enriches the story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Stars! A wonderful romance with a historical setting full of action, suspense, passion, and a great plot.”
—
TheRomanceReaderConnection.com
“Scott excels in creating memorable characters… A good read.”
—
FreshFiction.com
“Excellent… a charming romance, a tale of murder and intrigue, and an enlightening, entertaining foray into Medieval Scottish
history. I recommend [it].”
—
RomRevToday.com
“Will be enjoyed by the romantic who loves historical romances set in medieval times… Scott has researched the history of
early Scotland… to give the novel a rich, believable background.”
—
JandysBooks.com
BORDER WEDDING
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Not only do her characters leap off the pages, the historical events do too. This is more than entertainment
and romance; this is historical romance as it was meant to be.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Hearts! A very enjoyable read that is rich in history… Ms. Scott’s next book will be another must-read.”
—
NightOwlRomance.com
“5 Stars! Scott has possibly written the best historical in ages!… There was not a part of this story that was not enjoyable…
the best book to come along in a long time.”
—
FallenAngelReviews.com
“A journey you won’t want to miss! Scott’s gift is her ability to create people you want to know. No matter the conflict or
the story line, you’re always drawn to the people. Border Wedding, the first novel in a new trilogy, is no exception. Another winner!”
—
FreshFiction.com
“Wonderful… full of adventure and history… Scott is obviously well-versed on life in the fourteenth century, and she brings
her knowledge to the page… an excellent story for both the romance reader and the history buff. I’m anxious to read others
by Scott in the future.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Don’t miss this beautiful historic tale.”
—
BookCoveReviews.com
“A fun, light read… Scott’s vivid attention to details makes you feel as if you are indeed visiting Scotland each and every
time you pick up her delightful book.”
—
ArmchairInterviews.com
“A winner… Few authors do medieval romances as consistently excellent as Amanda Scott’s… brings to life the late fourteenth
century.”
—
HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Well-written narrative and dialogue… exciting plot… Border Wedding proves great stories of Scotland don’t only arise out of the Highlands.”
—
RomRevToday.com
KING OF STORMS
“4 Stars! An exhilarating novel… with a lively love story… Scott brings the memorable characters from her previous novels
together in an exciting adventure romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Passionate and breathtaking… Amanda Scott’s King of Storms keeps the tension moving as she continues her powerful saga of the Macleod sisters.”
—
NovelTalk.com
“A terrific tale starring two interesting lead characters who fight, fuss, and fall in love… Rich in history and romance,
fans will enjoy the search for the Templar treasure and the Stone of Scone.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An engaging tale with well-written characters and a wonderful plot that will keep readers turning pages… Fans of historical
romances will be delighted with King of Storms.”
—
TheRomanceReaderConnection.com
“Enjoyable… moves at a fast pace… It was difficult to put the book down.”
—
BookLoons.com
“Intrigue and danger… Readers will enjoy the adventures and sweet romance.”
—
RomRevToday.com
“Enchanting… a thrilling adventure… a must read… King of Storms is a page-turner. A sensual, action-packed romance sure to satisfy every heart. Combine this with a battle of wits, a test
of strength, faith, and honor, and you have one great read.”
—
FreshFiction.com
KNIGHT’S TREASURE
“An enjoyable book for a quiet evening at home. If you are a fan of historical romance with a touch of suspense, you don’t
want to miss this book.”
—
LoveRomanceAndMore.com
“Filled with tension, deceptions, and newly awakened passions. Scott gets better and better.”
—
NovelTalk.com
LADY’S CHOICE
“Terrific… with an exhilarating climax. Scott is at the top of her game with this deep historical tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Enjoyable… The premise of Scott’s adventure romance is strong.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A page-turner… her characters are a joy to read… sure to delight medieval historical fans.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Plenty of suspense and action and a delightful developing love story… Another excellent story from Scott.”
—
RomanceReviewsMag.com
PRINCE OF DANGER
“Phenomenal.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“RITA Award-winning Scott has a flair for colorful, convincing characterization.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Exhilarating… fabulous… action-packed… Fans of fast-paced historical tales… will want to read Amanda Scott’s latest.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Scott is a phenomenal writer… I am not sure if perfection can be improved upon, but that is exactly what she has done in
her latest offering.”
—
RomanceReaderAtHeart.com
LORD OF THE ISLES
“Scott pits her strong characters against one another and fate. She delves into their motivations, bringing insight into them
and the thrilling era in which they live.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Scott writes great tales.”
—
RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Scott’s storytelling is amazing… a captivating tale of intrigue… This is a defi nite keeper.”
—
CoffeeTimeRomance.com
A HIGHLAND PRINCESS
“Delightful historical starring two fabulously intelligent lead characters… Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets]
go.”
—Affair de Coeur
“Perfect for readers who enjoy romances with a rich sense of history.”
—Booklist
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A marvelously rendered portrait of medieval Scotland, terrific characters, and a dynamic story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
Galloway, Scotland, December 1367
Minstrels had been playing music in the minstrel gallery from the time the first guests of the new laird had entered the ancient
castle hall to take dinner with him. Since then, a juggler had juggled, dancers had danced, and now a harpist was plucking
merry tunes from his wee harp.
As the harpist performed in a cleared space below the dais, men swiftly set up trestles behind him and laid stout planks across
them, an indication that the best of the entertainment was about to begin.
The harpist took his bows, and a man and woman stepped to the edge of the clearing. As he plucked out a tune on his lute,
she began to sing:
From the East the Ass has come,
Beautiful in truth and strong as a gale,
So leap to the boards now, Sir Ass,
And bray for us your tale!
Drumming of tabors from the minstrel gallery and applause from the guests accompanied a long-limbed fool in a belled and ass-eared
cap, whiteface, and the colorful patchwork garb called motley that all fools wore, as he turned flips and tumbled his way
to the stout trestle stage. He leapt wildly onto it, only to sprawl in a heap on its boards. When laughter erupted, he looked
around in confusion, then slowly raised himself to a handstand and flipped to his feet. Narrowing his eyes, he shifted his
gaze to the high table and began to recite in a sing-song voice:
There once was a wee bit buffoon,
Who dwelt in a gey grand hall…
What followed was at first clever, even humorous. But it soon developed into a strange farce about a ruthless invader with
an army of foreigners determined to subjugate a defiant land and its freedom-loving people. As the speaker neared the end
of his tale, he made a sweeping gesture from the audience to the dais, saying,
Such is that wee bit buffoon,
That laird in his gey grand hall.
That he hath declared the king’s peace on the land,
A Grim peace for one and all!
The crowded hall remained silent when his recitation ended, leaving only the sound of the tinkling bells on the fool’s ass-eared
cap as he made his bow.
The tinkling continued through the silence as he straightened. He looked bewildered, absurdly so, thanks to exaggerated features
on the chalky whiteface that he, like most of his sort, wore. Apparently, he had expected applause if not laughter.
Instead, eyes throughout the hall shifted focus from his white face to the dark-faced, dark-haired man in the central chair
at the high table.
“By God,” his lordship growled. “What I’ve heard be true, then. Though you call yourself a wit and a poet, fool, you have
composed only claptrap mocking my character and his grace’s royal command that I impose peace on Galloway. Having prated that
claptrap to the delight of mine enemies, you now dare to prattle it to me. Worse, you do nowt to make me laugh. Send him on
his way, lads!”
Three men-at-arms stepped forward to carry out the order.
“My lord, ha’ mercy!” the fool cried. “ ’Twas all done in jest, and it be blowing a blizzard outside. Sakes, but I do claim
hospitality!”
“Faugh, that be a Highland notion and none of mine,” his lordship snarled. “Afore ye speak ill of men with the power of pit
and gallows, you should learn to cloak your words in at least a thin coat of wit. I am showing you mercy. We’ll see if God thinks you deserve more from Him. Get him out of my sight, lads!”
Two of the three men-at-arms grabbed the fool, one by each arm. They hustled him the length of the hall, down a step, and
across a landing of the stairway spiraling in the thickness of the wall. Pulling open the great door, they forced him outside,
where thickly blowing snow covered the outer stairs and the courtyard.
As they marched him diagonally across the yard to the main gate, his feet crunched on gravel beneath that snowy blanket.
The third man-at-arms motioned to the gatekeeper, and the gate swung slowly open, scraping ruts in the snow as it did. The
fool’s escort dragged him outside to a wooden walkway that he vaguely recalled led ahead to a river wharf and east toward
a nearby town. Just outside the gateway, they gave him a heave.
Stumbling, slipping, he crashed onto the walk, where they left him.
He heard the gate swing shut, but the snow swirled so heavily around him that he could not see the castle wall or the edges
of the walkway.
He could see nothing, anywhere, but thickly swirling snow.
Fear crept in then and grabbed him by the throat.
Seventeen-year-old Janet, Baroness Easdale of that Ilk— but Jenny Easdale to her friends and family—tried to ignore the hamlike
hand on her right thigh belonging to the man to whom, hours earlier, she had pledged her troth. To that end, she intently
studied the five jugglers performing in the space before the dais in Annan House’s great hall, trying to decide which might
be her maidservant’s older brother.
Since Jenny’s betrothed was drunk and she had no information about Peg’s brother other than that he was a juggler in the company
of minstrels and players entertaining the guests at her betrothal feast, her efforts so far had proven futile.
All five jugglers wore the short cote-hardies and vari-colored hose favored by minstrels of many sorts and not one had a mop
of red curls like Peg’s. Jenny could find little to choose between them.
Reid Douglas squeezed her thigh, making it harder to ignore him.
Two fools in whiteface—one tall, one as short as a child and bearded—chased each other, creating havoc among the jugglers,
who nonetheless deftly kept their colored balls in the air.
“Give me a kiss,” Reid muttered much too close to Jenny’s right ear, slurring his words. “ ’Tis my right now, lass, and I’ve
had none o’ ye yet.”
She glanced at him, fighting to hide her revulsion and disdain. He was four years older than she was and handsome, she supposed,
with his strong-looking body, softly curling brown hair, and chiseled Douglas features. And doubtless all men got drunk occasionally.
But she had not chosen Reid and did not want him.
However, Lord Dunwythie and his lady wife, Phaeline, had made it plain that Jenny’s opinion did not matter in the selection
of her husband. Dunwythie, her uncle by marriage, was also her guardian. Had her father still been alive…
“Come now, Jenny, kiss me,” Reid said more forcefully, leaning so near that she feared he might topple over and knock her
right off her back-stool. His breath stank of ale and the spicy foods he had eaten.
She stiffened, bracing herself.
“What’s this?” he demanded, frowning. “Now ye’re too good for me, are ye? Faith, but I’ll welcome the schooling of ye after
we’ve wed.”
Meeting his gaze, she put her hand atop the one on her thigh, wrapped her fingers around his middle one, and bent it sharply
upward. “Pray, sir,” she said politely as he winced and snatched his hand away, “have the goodness to wait until after the
wedding to make yourself so free of my person. I like it not.”
“By my faith, ye’ll pay for such behavior then,” he snapped, putting his face too close to hers again. “Just a month, Jenny
lass, three Sundays for the banns, then six days more, and I become Baron Easdale of Easdale. Think well on that.”
“You are mistaken,” she said. “Although others may address you then as ‘my lord,’ I will remain Easdale of Easdale. My father
explained long ago that once I became Baroness Easdale in my own right, my husband would take but a pretender’s styling until
he and I produced an heir to the barony. You will not become Easdale of Easdale unless I will it so. And I’ve seen naught in you to suggest that that is likely.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “But a betrothed man has rights, too, and ye’ll soon be finding out what they are, I promise
ye.”
“Here now, lad,” Lord Dunwythie said from Reid’s other side as he put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and visibly exerted
pressure there.
Dunwythie was a quarter of a century older than Reid was, with dark hair beginning to show gray. His forbears had been seneschals
of Annandale in the days of the Bruce overlords, so his lordship commanded great respect in any company.
“Lower your voice, Reid,” he said sternly. “Ye’ve had too much to drink, lad, which can surprise nae one, but—”
“A man’s entitled to drink to his own betrothal, is he not?” Reid interjected, shrugging his shoulder free and shifting his
heavy frown toward Dunwythie.
“Aye, sure,” the older man replied. “But he should not treat his intended wife unkindly. Nor should his actions distract his
guests from the entertainment—which, I’d remind ye, I have provided at great expense.”
Realizing that their discussion had drawn the attention of the powerfully built, dark-haired man on Dunwythie’s right, and
unexpectedly meeting that gentleman’s enigmatic gaze, Jenny raised her chin and returned her attention to the jugglers.
Sir Hugh Douglas had sharp ears. Despite a desultory conversation with his host that now and again required dutiful attention,
his younger brother Reid’s gruff muttering to his betrothed had drawn Hugh’s notice before drawing Dunwythie’s.
Hugh was observant enough to note a spark in Janet Easdale’s eyes that he easily identified as anger. Having seen Reid snatch
his hand out from under the table, he guessed that the lad had taken an unwanted liberty.
Reid was inebriated, but it looked as if her ladyship could manage him. Hugh had noticed little else about her other than
a pair of speaking eyes and deep dimples that appeared now on either side of her mouth as she hastily looked away. In any
event, Reid’s behavior was of small concern to him.
He liked the lad well enough, although he had seen little of him for years. Reid had been their sister Phaeline’s favorite
brother from his birth, some seven years before her marriage. He was ten when their mother died, and Phaeline had insisted
then that he would do better to move in with her at Annan House than to remain with their father at Thornhill, the family’s
estate in nearby Nithsdale.
Their father had not objected, nor had Hugh. At the time of their mother’s death, he was serving as squire to his cousin Sir
Archibald Douglas. After winning his spurs on the field of battle two years later, he had continued to follow Archie.
He had done so, in fact, until his father died. Hugh had married six months before then, and he and his beloved Ella had been
expecting their first child.
Ella and their newborn daughter died three months after Hugh’s father did, and the grief-stricken Hugh had left Reid with
Phaeline so he could devote his own energy to his Thornhill estates. Having had the chance to observe Reid for the past two
days, he could see that Phaeline’s up-bringing had done his brother little good, but Hugh found it hard to care. In truth,
he had found it hard since the deaths of his wife and tiny daughter to care much about anyone or anything except Thornhill.
He noticed a gillie heading their way with a jug of claret. Dunwythie saw the lad, too, and motioned him away. Then he turned
to Hugh and said quietly, “Mayhap if ye were to invite the lad to stroll about some with ye, sir, his head might—”
“Sakes, don’t talk about me as if I were not here,” Reid said in a tone more suited to a sulky child than to a man soon to
marry. “I see a chap I want to talk to, and I don’t need Hugh to look after me.” Turning to his betrothed, he said curtly,
“Don’t wander off before I return, lass. I’ll escort you to your chamber myself.”
Her dimples had vanished, and Hugh saw that the curt command annoyed her. But she said calmly, “I never wander. Prithee, take
time to enjoy your talk.”
As Reid ambled off, she glanced again at Hugh.
He noted that her beautifully shaped, heavily lashed eyes were an unusual shade of soft golden-brown, almost the color of
walnut shells. Her caul and veil covered her hair, so he could not tell what color it was, but her rosy cheeks glowed.
She wore a green silk gown with a snug-fitting bodice under a surcoat of pale gold silk. As his gaze drifted over her softly
shaped breasts, she shifted position slightly. A glance upward revealed that her dimples were showing again.
Dunwythie’s voice jarred him as the older man said, “I’ve been meaning to ask if ye ken the reason for this new tax that Sheriff
Maxwell of Dumfries has demanded, Hugh. He is trying to impose it even on us here in Annandale, although the man must know
that we have never recognized his authority over us.”
“As you know, Thornhill lies well within his jurisdiction, so I must recognize his authority,” Hugh said. “But his demands
have increased notably, so I suspect the Maxwells need money to rebuild Caerlaverock.”
“Aye, sure, and with Archie Douglas now building his new castle, we’ll likely have them both trying to snatch gelt from our purses. I’m willing to support the Douglases because
they can keep the English at bay. But the Maxwells have twice lost Caerlaverock to England, so I’ve told the sheriff I’ll
pay nowt…”
He went on, but Hugh listened only enough to respond suitably. He could scarcely advise Dunwythie. Maxwells or no Maxwells,
Hugh’s loyalty remained with Archie Douglas—now known to all as Archibald “the Grim,” Lord of Galloway—the most powerful man
in southwestern Scotland.
In the clearing below the dais, a tall juggler in a long scarlet robe joined the others, juggling six balls and manipulating
them with deft skill. In whiteface like the fools but with a turned-down mouth and tears drawn below each eye, he looked older
than the others, Jenny thought, too old to be Peg’s brother.
Plucking a long dirk apparently from thin air, the man flung it high to join the balls. As his audience emitted a collective
gasp, a second dirk joined the first. A red ball and a yellow one flew from his agile hands toward the high table, the red
one to the ladies’ end, the yellow to the men’s.
The younger of Jenny’s two Dunwythie cousins, fourteen-year-old Lady Fiona, leapt up and captured the red ball with a triumphant
cry that on any other occasion would surely have drawn censure from her lady mother. At the other end of the table, a nobleman
put up a hand almost casually to catch the yellow one.
By the time Jenny looked again at the jugglers, the older one was alone with six daggers in the air. She had no idea where
they had come from or what had become of the four balls he’d still had when she looked away. Others had performed sleight
of hand, making a pin or feather plume disappear from clothing of an audience member only to have it reappear on someone else.
But this man was much more skillful.
Musicians had played from the minstrels’ gallery throughout the afternoon and into the evening. But now, as the dirks flew
ever higher, each one threatening to slice the juggler’s hands when it descended, the music slowly faded. Soon the hall was
so quiet that one could hear the great fire crackling on the hooded hearth.
Clearly oblivious of the juggler and the increasing tension his skill produced in his audience, Phaeline, Lady Dunwythie,
fingered the long rope of pearls she wore as she said, “Our Reid is much taken with you, is he not, Janet, dear?”
Concealing irritation as she turned to her uncle’s round-faced, eyebrowless, richly attired second wife, Jenny said bluntly,
“Reid is ape-drunk, madam.”
“He is, aye,” Phaeline agreed.
“Such coarse behavior does naught to improve my opinion of him.”
“You are young, my dear. So is he. But he will soon teach you how to please him, and I cannot doubt that you two will ultimately
deal quite well together.”
“I fear the only thing about me that pleases Reid, madam, is my inheritance.”
“Doubtless that is true, although clearly he is not blind to your attractions,” Phaeline said without a blink. “One must be
practical, however, and although my lord husband would have preferred that my brother Hugh marry you, because ’tis he who
is Laird of Thornhill and thus equal to you in rank—”
“Sir Hugh may be more suitable, but I’d not want him, either.”
“Nor he you,” Phaeline retorted.
“Faith, did you ask him?”
“I had no need to ask,” Phaeline said. “Hugh declared two years ago, when his wife, Ella, and their bairn died, that he would
not marry again. And when Hugh makes a decision, let me tell you, no one can turn him from it.”
Resisting an impulse to look again at the dark-eyed gentleman at Dunwythie’s right, Jenny said, “Surely, you can be most persuasive.”
“Not persuasive enough to compel Hugh to do aught he has decided he will not do. However, you must not think that Reid is
wholly unsuitable for you, my dear. Thanks to our inheritance laws, if Hugh dies without a son of his own, as he is likely to do,
Reid will inherit Thornhill.”
“In faith, madam, I should think Sir Hugh may well outlive Reid. He cannot be much older than Reid is.”
“Just five years, and that was the difficulty until I realized that Reid should marry you. You see, Hugh refuses even to provide
an adequate allowance for him. He is ever impatient with poor Reid, saying he would do better to win his spurs and perhaps
even an estate of his own. But Reid has no great opinion of taking up arms unless a man must, and one cannot blame him for
that—certainly not now, when we enjoy a truce of sorts with England. But had Hugh fallen in battle—”
“Surely, you did not hope for such a thing!”
“I am not heartless, Janet,” Phaeline said stiffly. “But knights often do fall in battle, and our Reid must have an income.
However,” she added with a sigh, “devising a way to provide him with a proper one did vex me until—”
“Until eight months ago when your lord husband assumed guardianship of me and my estates,” Jenny said.
“Aye,” Phaeline admitted. “Easdale being such a fine and wealthy barony, one might say that Reid’s betrothal to you simply
arranged itself.”
“You are very frank, madam!”
“ ’Twas providential, though, as even your uncle was quick to see.”
Jenny did not bother to point out that it had proven other than providential for her. She knew she would be wasting her breath,
just as she had wasted it in trying to avoid having her eyebrows and forehead plucked as bare as Phaeline’s.
Phaeline had said that one must follow fashion, so Jenny’s face was now a hairless oval framed by the expensive beaded white
caul that concealed her tresses.
Applying to her uncle to support her against Phaeline would likewise prove useless. Lord Dunwythie exerted himself to please
his wife, because he still hoped for an heir. At three-and-thirty, Phaeline was thirteen years younger than he was, but although
they had been married for fifteen
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