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Synopsis
Lady Fiona, wed in haste, has never known marital peace. When last she'd seen her cruel husband Will, he'd struck her - and she has no memory of what she did next - only that she woke later alone in her bedchamber. Will has gone missing, and Fiona fears that in her rage and terror she might somehow have killed him. When her husband's cousin Sir Richard comes to search for Will, Fiona is touched by his warm nature. A knight and warrior, Richard is drawn to Fiona's brave manner, quickly seeing in her an equal measure of inner courage. Confessing that she fears having killed Will, Fiona accepts Richard's offer to help her. Pursuing together the mystery of Will's disappearance, they fall in love. Meanwhile the English are reinforcing their garrison in the Scottish Borderlands, putting Fiona, Richard, and Scotland in peril . . .
Release date: June 16, 2010
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 424
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Tempted by a Warrior
Amanda Scott
“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 great Scottish medieval romance… Filled with fourteenth-century history, the story line is fast-paced from the moment
Mairi and Rob meet and never slows down.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“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… Political intrigue adds a level of tension to this wonderful
Scottish romance… 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
“Remarkable… Soars with intrigue, exciting characters, and a wonderful setting.”
—MyShelf.com
“[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… and has a deft touch with thorny period language.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A delightful story filled with romance, passion, humor, and intrigue… Scott makes Scotland come alive.”
—RomanceNovel.tv
“Fast-paced… A super Scottish medieval romance starring two terrific lead characters and a strong support cast who bring out
the essence of the era of the main players.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Scott is able to make settings and history come to life… for a read brightened by suspense, wit, and love, Tamed by a Laird is a great choice.”
—RomRevToday.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
“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
“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
Annandale, Scotland, 5 June 1377
His first slap made her left ear ring.
“Now see what ye’ve made me do!” he shouted over the rush and roar of the river below. A half-moon lit the grassy track and revealed
white foam on the water.
Holding a hand to her stinging cheek, seventeen-year-old Fiona Jardine scowled at the tall, powerful-looking man who had struck
her and said stubbornly, “Clouting me won’t change the truth, Will Jardine. It was your fault, not mine!”
He loomed over her, terrifying in his fury. “By God,” he snapped, putting the face she had once thought so handsome close
to hers, “ye’ll no talk to me like that!”
“You’re ape-drunk,” she said. In the crisp night air, she could smell the whisky on him, so powerful that it made her dizzy
just to inhale its fumes.
When he drew back his hand to slap her again, she tried to get away, to protect herself. But his left hand shot out then,
and with bruising strength, he caught her by an arm and whipped her back to face him.
“Let me go!” she shrieked. But he did not let go, and he was one of the strongest men she knew.
“Aye, I’ll let ye go. After I’ve taught ye a lesson.”
Struggling frantically and screaming with fear as she tried to break free, she managed to duck the next slap, only to suffer
a backhanded blow instead that made her right ear throb with pain.
Before she could catch her breath, he hit her again, a hard smack of his calloused palm right across her mouth. Had he not
held her upright, she would have fallen. As it was, she tasted blood and feared that he had loosened a tooth.
He laughed. “Ye should ken fine by now, lass, that what I say, I mean.”
His next blow flew at her belly, but by twisting hard, she took it instead on her side just above her waist. Gasping at a
pain so sharp that it took her breath away, she continued to fight him anyway, out of pure terror. But the pain was overwhelming,
her strength fast waning, and his next blow sent her reeling to the ground.
Her head struck something hard. Blearily, she saw him step toward her.
Then, looming above her, he drew back his foot.
Through the stunning ache in her head, distantly, she heard him say, “Mayhap, now, ye’ll remember to keep your place, madam wife.”
After that, she knew nothing more.
Spedlins Tower, Annandale, 20 June 1377
The leather-clad, booted traveler approaching the open kitchen doorway on the pebbled path running behind Spedlins Tower paused
at hearing a soft feminine voice inside:
“‘I expect I should be spinning, too, aye,’ the maiden said sadly. ‘But it would be t’ nae purpose. I could never finish so
great a task in time.’”
The traveler took a step closer as the voice went on, creaking now with age, “‘Och, but I could spin it all for ye, aye,’
the old woman said.”
“Gey good o’ the auld crone!” cried several childish voices, as if they had many times heard the story and exclaimed always
at the same place.
The traveler smiled, recognizing the tale from his own childhood. He moved nearer, trying to muffle the sounds that his boots
made on the pebbles of the path.
He saw the speaker then, seated on the stone floor of the scullery with her back to him. Six fascinated children of various
ages sat in a semicircle before her.
Beyond, in the dim, vaulted kitchen, the traveler discerned bustling movement and heard sounds indicative of preparations
for the midday meal.
The storyteller went on in a soft, clear voice—doubtless her own, “So the maiden ran to fetch her lint and laid it in her
new friend’s hand. Then she asked the old woman for her name and where she should call that evening for the spun yarn.”
One child, a dark lad of perhaps eight or nine, looked right at the traveler.
The man put a finger to his lips.
Although the boy obediently kept silent, he continued to stare.
The storyteller continued, “But the maiden received no reply, for the old woman had vanished from where she stood. The lassie
looked long for her until at last she became so tired that she lay down to rest.”
Three of the children eyed him now as a fourth, the smallest lass—blue-eyed with curly auburn hair—piped up, “Aye, and when
she awoke, it was gey dark!”
“So it was, Tippy,” the storyteller agreed. “The evening star was shining down, and as the maiden watched the moon rise, a
rough voice startled her from—”
“Who is he?” the same small lassie demanded, pointing at the traveler.
The storyteller, turning, started and winced as she saw him. She began awkwardly to get to her feet, saying, “Good sakes,
wherever did you spring from?”
He noted first that she had black hair and light blue eyes, and was stunningly beautiful, with delicate features, rosy cheeks,
and plump, creamy breasts, their softness rising above the low neckline of her loose, blue kirtle. As she straightened, he
saw with a surge of unexpected disappointment that she was heavy with child.
“Forgive me for interrupting you, mistress,” he said. “They told me at the stable that I should come this way as it was quicker,
and none would mind. But if you will bid someone take me to Old Jardine, I shall leave you to finish your tale.”
“This is a good place to stop for a time,” she said, raising a hand to the short veil she wore over her long, shiny, thick
plaits, as if to be sure the veil was properly in place. “I can easily finish the story later.”
To a chorus of indignant protests, she replied firmly, “Nay, then, you must all go now to Cook and ask how you can help him.
Davy, you and Kate take care to see that the wee ones know what they must do.”
“Aye, we will,” the largest of the three lassies said. The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy who had first noted the stranger nodded
his agreement, still eyeing him.
As the children scrambled to obey her, the young woman turned her lovely eyes to the stranger again, adding, “Surely, someone
must have told you that Jardine of Applegarth lies on his deathbed and refuses to see anyone.”
“He will see me,” the traveler said confidently, noting that the dark rims of her irises made them look transparent, as if
one might see right through to her thoughts.
“Mercy, why should he see you? Have you no respect for a dying man?”
“I doubt that the old fustilugs is really dying. But he will see me nevertheless, because he sent for me. Sithee, I am his
heir.”
Instead of the hasty apology he had every right to expect from a servant who had spoken so pertly to him, she stiffened, saying,
“You must have taken that notion from a tale of the same sort that I’ve just been telling the bairns.”
His temper stirring, he said, “Mind your tongue, lass, lest—”
“Why should I? Do you dislike being told you are wrong?” she asked. “For so you are if you claim to be heir to Old Jardine’s
estates.”
Doubt stirred. No servant of the old man’s would dare speak so boldly.
Despite their kinship, he barely knew Jardine. But if even half of what he had heard about the contentious old scoundrel was
true, Jardine’s minions would tread lightly and with great care—especially when speaking to another nobleman.
“Who are you, lass?” he asked.
She gently touched her belly. “I am his heir’s mother, or mayhap his heir’s wife. Whichever it may be,” she added, squaring
her shoulders and giving him look for look, “I can tell you without hesitation that you are not his heir.”
Stunned, he realized that Old Jardine’s lie came as no surprise to him. He had suspected some deception but only in that he
doubted the old man was really dying. Ruthlessly stifling the unexpected anger that leaped in response to her near disdain,
he said, “I expect, then, that you must be Will Jardine’s wife.”
“Aye, of course, I am—or his widow,” she added. “But who are you?”
“Kirkhill,” he said.
She frowned. “Should I know you? Is that all anyone ever calls you?”
“People call me several different things. Some call me Seyton of Kirkhill. But most folks hereabouts know me as Kirkhill.
My family has lived in upper Annandale for two centuries. However, as I am Will’s cousin, you and I are clearly kin by marriage,
so you may call me Richard if you like, or Dickon.”
“I will call you Kirkhill,” she said firmly, but almost as if her thoughts had briefly flitted elsewhere. “I warrant it must
be Lord Kirkhill, though,” she added.
“More to the purpose, my mother has the misfortune to be that old scoundrel’s sister,” he said.
“Good sakes, I did not know that Old Jardine had a sister!”
“I think she’d liefer not be one,” he said with a wry smile. “But he did send word to me that he was dying and bade me hie
myself to Spedlins Tower.”
“Then I expect that I should go and tell him you are here and see if he will receive you,” she said. “I will get someone to
take you to a more comfortable—”
“Nay, my lady—Lady William, I should say—”
“‘My lady’ is sufficient,” she said. “No one calls me Lady William.”
“’Tis the usual way, so forgive me if I have irked you,” he said. “In any event, I did not come here to kick my heels whilst
my crusty uncle takes his time to decide that he does indeed want to see me. You will take me to him. First, though, I want
to hear about what happened to Will.”
“So do we all,” she replied.
“God’s troth, do you not know? Jardine’s messenger told me that my uncle was on his deathbed and that I was to be his heir, so I assumed Will must
be dead. But as you have that said you are either the heir’s wife or his mother…” He paused.
“Aye,” she said, touching her belly again. “I do not know which it is. See you, Will was here; then he was not. He has been
gone for over a fortnight.”
“Then I hope you will forgive my asking if you and he were legally married. I am sure that no one informed my mother of such
a grand occasion, because she would certainly have told me.”
“Aye, sure, we were legally married,” she said with a flash in her eyes and deep flush to her cheeks. “If my good-father did
not tell his sister of our union, it was through no fault of mine.”
“It would not have been your fault in any event,” he agreed.
Looking away, she added, “He has plainly called you here to no benefit of your own, sir. Doubtless, you would be wise to turn
round and go home.”
He waited until she met his gaze again, this time with wariness in her eyes.
“Do I look like the sort of man who would do that?” he asked.
Fiona did not think that Kirkhill looked like a man who would go away just because she’d suggested that course. In truth, she was not sure
what to make of him.
He was taller and even more powerful looking than Will was, taller than she was by a head, and he looked as if he might be
twice as broad across the shoulders. He had dressed for riding in leather breeks, boots, and a leather jack over a loose,
snowy white shirt, similar to clothing that Will and many Border lords wore. But his features were more rugged than Will’s,
so Kirkhill was not as handsome.
He also lacked that air of menace that Will had worn so casually, but Will had not shown that side of himself to her at first
either. There was something unnerving about Kirkhill, though, a sense of power, perhaps.
Will had strutted about like a cock in its hen yard, chin jutting and with an expression that dared anyone to cross him. Looking
at Kirkhill, she realized that Will’s posturing had missed the mark. His cousin did none of that, but no one could doubt his
confidence in himself or his belief that he would get what he wanted.
Despite his kinship with Will and a slight—albeit much neater—similarity of taste in attire, Kirkhill did not look at all
like the dark Jardines. His curly hair was the color of dark honey, and his face showed darker stubble, as if no one had shaved
him for a day or two. But he moved with feline grace, spoke well, and seemed perfectly at ease with himself. She envied him
his air of certainty, recalling a time when she had enjoyed similar self-assurance.
But to ask her if she was “truly married”! What a question! A true gentleman would not challenge a lady so—although, in truth, she had not met many gentlemen.
The only ones that came to mind were her deceased father; her sister Mairi’s husband, Robert Maxwell; and her cousin Jenny’s
husband, Sir Hugh Douglas. Sir Hugh was Fiona’s maternal uncle as well, although she barely knew him, and she had met Maxwell
but once. If Jenny and Mairi had married them, they must be gentlemen, but she certainly did not count her cantankerous good-father
as one, or her husband, if Will even counted still amongst the living.
Gentleman or not, Kirkhill did not strike her as a patient man. And, if he was kin to Old Jardine and Will, she knew that
she would be wise to do as he bade her.
“Come this way, my lord,” she said quietly, and turned toward the kitchen.
They passed through that vaulted chamber and up a wheel stairway to the main entryway and the great hall, crossing the west-to-east
length of that hall to the inner chamber entrance near the north end of the dais.
Fiona paused at the closed door, glancing at her unwanted companion. “His chamber is no pleasant place,” she told him. “He
has a vicious, smelly mastiff with him nearly all the time, and my good-father will be in no pleasant humor, either.”
“I’ll charm him into one,” he said, leaning past her to open the door and gesturing for her to precede him inside.
Grimacing, she did. The room reeked as it always did of sickness, dog, and old man, the combination almost overpowering, and
she wanted the business over quickly. The babe moved within her, pushing against the rib that still ached from twisting to
see Kirkhill when he’d arrived.
He showed no sign of minding the noisome air of Jardine’s bedchamber or the huge, deep-chested mastiff that surged to its
feet, growling, when they entered.
The inner chamber was the sort of large room wherein many a laird still held audiences, tended business, and slept with his
wife if he had one. Old Jardine’s bed frame, large, elaborately carved, and draped with dark blue curtains tied back at its
posts, stood at the center of the wall opposite the doorway, its foot end facing them.
The fat old man was awake, propped on pillows, glowering at Fiona through piggy eyes. Hod, his personal servant, hovered at
his side, holding out a cup to him.
The mastiff growled again.
“Quiet, Dobby! Hod, take that poison away!” Waving dog and manservant away, he returned his scowl to Fiona. “What d’ye want,
lass? I told ye afore to rap on yon door and wait till Hod admits ye. Ye’re lucky the dog didna savage ye.”
“That was my doing, Uncle,” Kirkhill said, urging Fiona farther into the room with a touch to her back but putting himself
between her and the dog.
Jardine exclaimed, “Richard! ’Tis yourself then? But so it must be, for ye’re the spit o’ your fiendish father, and forbye,
ye’d be the only man to call me ‘Uncle.’”
“I warrant I was no more than seven when last we met, for I’ve not been nigh the place since,” Kirkhill said. “And now, apparently,
I’ve come on a fool’s errand.”
“’Tis no foolish thing to answer the cry of a dying man,” Jardine muttered, his voice suddenly much weaker.
Fiona nearly rolled her eyes. She did not believe the old man was any feebler than he had been the moment before.
Evidently, Kirkhill agreed, because his voice took on an edge as he said, “But why did you declare yourself at the point of death and me your heir when you sent for me? Even if the first part should prove
true, the second is patently false.”
“D’ye think so? I’m thinking that only God kens if it be false.”
Fiona gritted her teeth. She would have liked to remove herself from the old man’s presence, but curiosity and a suspicion
that Old Jardine might have met his match in Kirkhill bade her stay as long as the two allowed it.
Kirkhill said, “Your good-daughter is obviously with child, Uncle. And she assures me that she and Will were properly wed.”
“Aye, ’tis true he did marry her, the young fool, thinking he could gain much thereby. He should ha’ had better ken o’ how
matters stood.”
“From your message, I thought he must be dead,” Kirkhill went on with a new note in his voice, a harder one that made Fiona look quickly at him and try to
judge if a harsh temper was another trait he shared with his uncle and cousin.
Not that she counted herself a good judge of men, for experience had proven she was not. But she had learned to recognize certain important things about them. So she studied Kirkhill carefully as he continued to gaze sternly
at his uncle.
Old Jardine continued to look at him as if he, too, were sizing Kirkhill up.
The dog growled again, low in its throat.
When the old man’s silence made it clear that he had forgotten the question or did not choose to reply, Kirkhill added softly,
“Is Will dead, Uncle?”
“He must be, aye.”
“Even if he is, why did you say that I was to be your heir? I don’t like liars.” As soft as Kirkhill’s voice was now, it sent a chill right through Fiona.
Old Jardine said in his usual curt way, “Nor do I tell lies. We’ve no seen my Will now for over a fortnight, so he must be dead. Nowt but a grave would keep that lad away this
long without a word to me.”
“The English have been restless for more than a month now, breaking our so-called ten-year truce by sending raiding parties
across the line,” Kirkhill said. “Mayhap Will got himself killed or captured.”
“Not captured. D’ye think he’d ha’ kept his name to himself? He’d ha’ said right off that he were my son, and I’d ha’ got a demand for his ransom. I’d ha’ paid it, too, for
Will. He’s naebody’s prisoner,” Jardine added. “It has been too long.”
“Even if he is dead, you’d still have an heir or an heiress, and soon, too, by the look of her,” Kirkhill said, gesturing
toward Fiona.
“Faugh,” Jardine snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see the bairn. Sithee, her mam lost more bairns than anyone else I’ve
ever heard tell of.”
“I won’t lose my child,” Fiona declared.
“Aye, well, whether the bairn comes or no, Richard, I want ye to find out what became o’ my Will. I knew that if I told ye
ye’d stand to inherit Applegarth, ye’d come here. And so ye did. The fact is, I’ve willed it so that if Will doesna come home,
ye’re to look after the place when I die. Ye’ll do that right enough, I’m thinking, for a tithe from the rents.”
“I will, aye,” Kirkhill said. “I’d do that for anyone, tithe or none.”
“I’ve named ye lawful guardian for the bairn, too,” Jardine said with a darkling look at Fiona.
Stiffening, she said, “My child will need no guardian but me.”
“Even an I believed that, which I do not, ’tis my duty to name a suitable man to guard the bairn’s interest, aye—and yours, too, lass,” the old man said grimly.
Wondering if that were true, she looked at Kirkhill.
He met her questioning gaze with a stern look that somehow reassured her even as he gave a curt nod and said, “That is true, my lady. However, you should have someone whom you trust to look after your interest, a kinsman of your own.”
“Should I?” Fiona said. “My father is dead, and my good-brother lives much of the year in Galloway. My uncle, Sir Hugh Douglas,
lives nearer, in Nithsdale—”
“They ha’ nowt to do wi’ her, and I dinna want any o’ them setting foot on my land,” Jardine snapped. “Get hence now, lass. I would talk wi’ Kirkhill alone.”
Glancing again at Kirkhill and receiving another curt nod, Fiona obeyed.
When the lady Fiona had gone, Kirkhill faced his uncle. “I expect you think I should just drop everything else I might be
doing and stay here with you.”
“Nay, I’m none so daft as that,” Old Jardine retorted. “Ye’ll ha’ your own business to attend afore ye can see to mine. Moreover,
for a time yet, I’m still good to look after things here. I just wanted ye to know how ye stand. All of Applegarth will be
yours if Will be dead and the bairn also dies. The estates will be yours to run in any event until the bairn turns five-and-twenty.
I’d like a lad o’ Will’s to inherit them, but I’m none so sure I’d want one wi’ that vixen-lass as his mam. Still, he’d be the heir o’ me
own blood and Will’s, and in the end, God will decide the matter.”
“He will, aye,” Kirkhill agreed, not bothering to conceal his disgust.
“Aye, sure, but I’ll be damned afore I’ll see any daughter o’ hers take Applegarth, so ye’ll see to it that that doesna happen,” Jardine said with a straight look. “I’ve willed it so that only a male wi’ Jardine blood shall get me lands,
but others may try to deny my will. I want ye to see that they dinna succeed.”
“If I did not know better, I might think you mean me to do away with the bairn if it’s born female, or even to do away with
its mother beforehand,” Kirkhill said bluntly, noting that every sign of the old man’s weakness had vanished.
“Aye, well, if I thought ye’d do it, we might make a bargain, for I’ve nae use for her,” Jardine retorted. “Our Fiona be too
hot at hand for any man but Will, and she doesna take well to schooling. Doubtless, a daughter o’ hers would be the same.
Moreover, I’ve a strong notion that if my Will’s dead, she killed him. Sithee, she were the last to see him alive, and he
were gey displeased wi’ her, too.”
Kirkhill, finding it hard to think of the spirited lass as a murderess, said only, “I’ll see what I can learn of Will’s whereabouts.
I should perhaps seek out someone from the lady Fiona’s family, too, to look after her interests.”
“Nay, for I’ve willed it so that ye’ll look after Applegarth and after her, too. Mayhap we’ll talk more anon, lad, but I’m
dead tired now. Ye’ll stay the night.”
Mayhap he would, Kirkhill decided. He had no interest in talking further with Old Jardine, but he did want to learn more about
Will’s intriguing lady.
To his surprise, she was waiting outside the door to Jardine’s chamber, on the great hall dais. “He thinks I killed his son,”
she said without preamble.
Knowing that the old man would have lost no time in expressing the suspicion he had already made clear to her, Fiona had blurted
the statement, ignoring a pair of gillies hurrying onto the dais and away again with baskets and platters of food for the
midday meal.
Kirkhill heard her declaration with no apparent astonishment.
“He did tell me as much,” he said quietly. “But unless Will was weaker than my uncle is now, I doubt that you could have overpowered
him, my lady.”
“That is kind of you,” she said. “I’m nearly sure I didn’t kill him.”
His eyebrows arced upward, drawing her to note that they were darker than his hair and that his heavily lashed eyes were golden
brown. “Nearly sure?” he said.
With a shrug, she said glibly, “My good-father has accused me so often that I’ve almost come to believe him. The reason he
sent for you is that he wants to learn the truth before he dies, so that he can hang the guilty person, whoever it is.”
“I do understand his wanting that,” he said, nodding.
“He will be gey pleased by your understanding, I’m sure. But mayhap, before you inform him of it, you should know one thing more.”
Pausing, she added, “He also suspects you, my lord.”
Kirkhill saw that she expected him to express astonishment that Old Jardine suspected him. In truth, though, he would feel
little surprise to hear that his uncle suspected nearly everyone he saw of murdering Will. The old man was even more despicable
than Lady Kirkhill had led him to expect, but his disgust stirred strongest when he recalled Jardine’s treatment of the lass
watching him so intently now.
To be sure, he had seen for himself that the lady Fiona was likely less than dutifully submissive to her good-father. Recalling
the angry flash in her eyes earlier when he had asked her if she and Will had properly married, and her stiff resistance in the sickroom to accepting a guardian for
by characters who jump off the pages and grab your attention… Captivating!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Another great Scottish medieval romance… Filled with fourteenth-century history, the story line is fast-paced from the moment
Mairi and Rob meet and never slows down.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“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… Political intrigue adds a level of tension to this wonderful
Scottish romance… 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
“Remarkable… Soars with intrigue, exciting characters, and a wonderful setting.”
—MyShelf.com
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and entertaining stories.”
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the essence of the era of the main players.”
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“Scott is able to make settings and history come to life… for a read brightened by suspense, wit, and love, Tamed by a Laird is a great choice.”
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complex plots, and, above all, historical and geographic accuracy in the days of ancient Scotland.”
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—Midwest Book Review
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“5 Stars! A thrilling tale, rife with villains and notorious plots… Scott demonstrates again her expertise in the realm of
medieval Scotland.”
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“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.”
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“Delightful historical… Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
Annandale, Scotland, 5 June 1377
His first slap made her left ear ring.
“Now see what ye’ve made me do!” he shouted over the rush and roar of the river below. A half-moon lit the grassy track and revealed
white foam on the water.
Holding a hand to her stinging cheek, seventeen-year-old Fiona Jardine scowled at the tall, powerful-looking man who had struck
her and said stubbornly, “Clouting me won’t change the truth, Will Jardine. It was your fault, not mine!”
He loomed over her, terrifying in his fury. “By God,” he snapped, putting the face she had once thought so handsome close
to hers, “ye’ll no talk to me like that!”
“You’re ape-drunk,” she said. In the crisp night air, she could smell the whisky on him, so powerful that it made her dizzy
just to inhale its fumes.
When he drew back his hand to slap her again, she tried to get away, to protect herself. But his left hand shot out then,
and with bruising strength, he caught her by an arm and whipped her back to face him.
“Let me go!” she shrieked. But he did not let go, and he was one of the strongest men she knew.
“Aye, I’ll let ye go. After I’ve taught ye a lesson.”
Struggling frantically and screaming with fear as she tried to break free, she managed to duck the next slap, only to suffer
a backhanded blow instead that made her right ear throb with pain.
Before she could catch her breath, he hit her again, a hard smack of his calloused palm right across her mouth. Had he not
held her upright, she would have fallen. As it was, she tasted blood and feared that he had loosened a tooth.
He laughed. “Ye should ken fine by now, lass, that what I say, I mean.”
His next blow flew at her belly, but by twisting hard, she took it instead on her side just above her waist. Gasping at a
pain so sharp that it took her breath away, she continued to fight him anyway, out of pure terror. But the pain was overwhelming,
her strength fast waning, and his next blow sent her reeling to the ground.
Her head struck something hard. Blearily, she saw him step toward her.
Then, looming above her, he drew back his foot.
Through the stunning ache in her head, distantly, she heard him say, “Mayhap, now, ye’ll remember to keep your place, madam wife.”
After that, she knew nothing more.
Spedlins Tower, Annandale, 20 June 1377
The leather-clad, booted traveler approaching the open kitchen doorway on the pebbled path running behind Spedlins Tower paused
at hearing a soft feminine voice inside:
“‘I expect I should be spinning, too, aye,’ the maiden said sadly. ‘But it would be t’ nae purpose. I could never finish so
great a task in time.’”
The traveler took a step closer as the voice went on, creaking now with age, “‘Och, but I could spin it all for ye, aye,’
the old woman said.”
“Gey good o’ the auld crone!” cried several childish voices, as if they had many times heard the story and exclaimed always
at the same place.
The traveler smiled, recognizing the tale from his own childhood. He moved nearer, trying to muffle the sounds that his boots
made on the pebbles of the path.
He saw the speaker then, seated on the stone floor of the scullery with her back to him. Six fascinated children of various
ages sat in a semicircle before her.
Beyond, in the dim, vaulted kitchen, the traveler discerned bustling movement and heard sounds indicative of preparations
for the midday meal.
The storyteller went on in a soft, clear voice—doubtless her own, “So the maiden ran to fetch her lint and laid it in her
new friend’s hand. Then she asked the old woman for her name and where she should call that evening for the spun yarn.”
One child, a dark lad of perhaps eight or nine, looked right at the traveler.
The man put a finger to his lips.
Although the boy obediently kept silent, he continued to stare.
The storyteller continued, “But the maiden received no reply, for the old woman had vanished from where she stood. The lassie
looked long for her until at last she became so tired that she lay down to rest.”
Three of the children eyed him now as a fourth, the smallest lass—blue-eyed with curly auburn hair—piped up, “Aye, and when
she awoke, it was gey dark!”
“So it was, Tippy,” the storyteller agreed. “The evening star was shining down, and as the maiden watched the moon rise, a
rough voice startled her from—”
“Who is he?” the same small lassie demanded, pointing at the traveler.
The storyteller, turning, started and winced as she saw him. She began awkwardly to get to her feet, saying, “Good sakes,
wherever did you spring from?”
He noted first that she had black hair and light blue eyes, and was stunningly beautiful, with delicate features, rosy cheeks,
and plump, creamy breasts, their softness rising above the low neckline of her loose, blue kirtle. As she straightened, he
saw with a surge of unexpected disappointment that she was heavy with child.
“Forgive me for interrupting you, mistress,” he said. “They told me at the stable that I should come this way as it was quicker,
and none would mind. But if you will bid someone take me to Old Jardine, I shall leave you to finish your tale.”
“This is a good place to stop for a time,” she said, raising a hand to the short veil she wore over her long, shiny, thick
plaits, as if to be sure the veil was properly in place. “I can easily finish the story later.”
To a chorus of indignant protests, she replied firmly, “Nay, then, you must all go now to Cook and ask how you can help him.
Davy, you and Kate take care to see that the wee ones know what they must do.”
“Aye, we will,” the largest of the three lassies said. The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy who had first noted the stranger nodded
his agreement, still eyeing him.
As the children scrambled to obey her, the young woman turned her lovely eyes to the stranger again, adding, “Surely, someone
must have told you that Jardine of Applegarth lies on his deathbed and refuses to see anyone.”
“He will see me,” the traveler said confidently, noting that the dark rims of her irises made them look transparent, as if
one might see right through to her thoughts.
“Mercy, why should he see you? Have you no respect for a dying man?”
“I doubt that the old fustilugs is really dying. But he will see me nevertheless, because he sent for me. Sithee, I am his
heir.”
Instead of the hasty apology he had every right to expect from a servant who had spoken so pertly to him, she stiffened, saying,
“You must have taken that notion from a tale of the same sort that I’ve just been telling the bairns.”
His temper stirring, he said, “Mind your tongue, lass, lest—”
“Why should I? Do you dislike being told you are wrong?” she asked. “For so you are if you claim to be heir to Old Jardine’s
estates.”
Doubt stirred. No servant of the old man’s would dare speak so boldly.
Despite their kinship, he barely knew Jardine. But if even half of what he had heard about the contentious old scoundrel was
true, Jardine’s minions would tread lightly and with great care—especially when speaking to another nobleman.
“Who are you, lass?” he asked.
She gently touched her belly. “I am his heir’s mother, or mayhap his heir’s wife. Whichever it may be,” she added, squaring
her shoulders and giving him look for look, “I can tell you without hesitation that you are not his heir.”
Stunned, he realized that Old Jardine’s lie came as no surprise to him. He had suspected some deception but only in that he
doubted the old man was really dying. Ruthlessly stifling the unexpected anger that leaped in response to her near disdain,
he said, “I expect, then, that you must be Will Jardine’s wife.”
“Aye, of course, I am—or his widow,” she added. “But who are you?”
“Kirkhill,” he said.
She frowned. “Should I know you? Is that all anyone ever calls you?”
“People call me several different things. Some call me Seyton of Kirkhill. But most folks hereabouts know me as Kirkhill.
My family has lived in upper Annandale for two centuries. However, as I am Will’s cousin, you and I are clearly kin by marriage,
so you may call me Richard if you like, or Dickon.”
“I will call you Kirkhill,” she said firmly, but almost as if her thoughts had briefly flitted elsewhere. “I warrant it must
be Lord Kirkhill, though,” she added.
“More to the purpose, my mother has the misfortune to be that old scoundrel’s sister,” he said.
“Good sakes, I did not know that Old Jardine had a sister!”
“I think she’d liefer not be one,” he said with a wry smile. “But he did send word to me that he was dying and bade me hie
myself to Spedlins Tower.”
“Then I expect that I should go and tell him you are here and see if he will receive you,” she said. “I will get someone to
take you to a more comfortable—”
“Nay, my lady—Lady William, I should say—”
“‘My lady’ is sufficient,” she said. “No one calls me Lady William.”
“’Tis the usual way, so forgive me if I have irked you,” he said. “In any event, I did not come here to kick my heels whilst
my crusty uncle takes his time to decide that he does indeed want to see me. You will take me to him. First, though, I want
to hear about what happened to Will.”
“So do we all,” she replied.
“God’s troth, do you not know? Jardine’s messenger told me that my uncle was on his deathbed and that I was to be his heir, so I assumed Will must
be dead. But as you have that said you are either the heir’s wife or his mother…” He paused.
“Aye,” she said, touching her belly again. “I do not know which it is. See you, Will was here; then he was not. He has been
gone for over a fortnight.”
“Then I hope you will forgive my asking if you and he were legally married. I am sure that no one informed my mother of such
a grand occasion, because she would certainly have told me.”
“Aye, sure, we were legally married,” she said with a flash in her eyes and deep flush to her cheeks. “If my good-father did
not tell his sister of our union, it was through no fault of mine.”
“It would not have been your fault in any event,” he agreed.
Looking away, she added, “He has plainly called you here to no benefit of your own, sir. Doubtless, you would be wise to turn
round and go home.”
He waited until she met his gaze again, this time with wariness in her eyes.
“Do I look like the sort of man who would do that?” he asked.
Fiona did not think that Kirkhill looked like a man who would go away just because she’d suggested that course. In truth, she was not sure
what to make of him.
He was taller and even more powerful looking than Will was, taller than she was by a head, and he looked as if he might be
twice as broad across the shoulders. He had dressed for riding in leather breeks, boots, and a leather jack over a loose,
snowy white shirt, similar to clothing that Will and many Border lords wore. But his features were more rugged than Will’s,
so Kirkhill was not as handsome.
He also lacked that air of menace that Will had worn so casually, but Will had not shown that side of himself to her at first
either. There was something unnerving about Kirkhill, though, a sense of power, perhaps.
Will had strutted about like a cock in its hen yard, chin jutting and with an expression that dared anyone to cross him. Looking
at Kirkhill, she realized that Will’s posturing had missed the mark. His cousin did none of that, but no one could doubt his
confidence in himself or his belief that he would get what he wanted.
Despite his kinship with Will and a slight—albeit much neater—similarity of taste in attire, Kirkhill did not look at all
like the dark Jardines. His curly hair was the color of dark honey, and his face showed darker stubble, as if no one had shaved
him for a day or two. But he moved with feline grace, spoke well, and seemed perfectly at ease with himself. She envied him
his air of certainty, recalling a time when she had enjoyed similar self-assurance.
But to ask her if she was “truly married”! What a question! A true gentleman would not challenge a lady so—although, in truth, she had not met many gentlemen.
The only ones that came to mind were her deceased father; her sister Mairi’s husband, Robert Maxwell; and her cousin Jenny’s
husband, Sir Hugh Douglas. Sir Hugh was Fiona’s maternal uncle as well, although she barely knew him, and she had met Maxwell
but once. If Jenny and Mairi had married them, they must be gentlemen, but she certainly did not count her cantankerous good-father
as one, or her husband, if Will even counted still amongst the living.
Gentleman or not, Kirkhill did not strike her as a patient man. And, if he was kin to Old Jardine and Will, she knew that
she would be wise to do as he bade her.
“Come this way, my lord,” she said quietly, and turned toward the kitchen.
They passed through that vaulted chamber and up a wheel stairway to the main entryway and the great hall, crossing the west-to-east
length of that hall to the inner chamber entrance near the north end of the dais.
Fiona paused at the closed door, glancing at her unwanted companion. “His chamber is no pleasant place,” she told him. “He
has a vicious, smelly mastiff with him nearly all the time, and my good-father will be in no pleasant humor, either.”
“I’ll charm him into one,” he said, leaning past her to open the door and gesturing for her to precede him inside.
Grimacing, she did. The room reeked as it always did of sickness, dog, and old man, the combination almost overpowering, and
she wanted the business over quickly. The babe moved within her, pushing against the rib that still ached from twisting to
see Kirkhill when he’d arrived.
He showed no sign of minding the noisome air of Jardine’s bedchamber or the huge, deep-chested mastiff that surged to its
feet, growling, when they entered.
The inner chamber was the sort of large room wherein many a laird still held audiences, tended business, and slept with his
wife if he had one. Old Jardine’s bed frame, large, elaborately carved, and draped with dark blue curtains tied back at its
posts, stood at the center of the wall opposite the doorway, its foot end facing them.
The fat old man was awake, propped on pillows, glowering at Fiona through piggy eyes. Hod, his personal servant, hovered at
his side, holding out a cup to him.
The mastiff growled again.
“Quiet, Dobby! Hod, take that poison away!” Waving dog and manservant away, he returned his scowl to Fiona. “What d’ye want,
lass? I told ye afore to rap on yon door and wait till Hod admits ye. Ye’re lucky the dog didna savage ye.”
“That was my doing, Uncle,” Kirkhill said, urging Fiona farther into the room with a touch to her back but putting himself
between her and the dog.
Jardine exclaimed, “Richard! ’Tis yourself then? But so it must be, for ye’re the spit o’ your fiendish father, and forbye,
ye’d be the only man to call me ‘Uncle.’”
“I warrant I was no more than seven when last we met, for I’ve not been nigh the place since,” Kirkhill said. “And now, apparently,
I’ve come on a fool’s errand.”
“’Tis no foolish thing to answer the cry of a dying man,” Jardine muttered, his voice suddenly much weaker.
Fiona nearly rolled her eyes. She did not believe the old man was any feebler than he had been the moment before.
Evidently, Kirkhill agreed, because his voice took on an edge as he said, “But why did you declare yourself at the point of death and me your heir when you sent for me? Even if the first part should prove
true, the second is patently false.”
“D’ye think so? I’m thinking that only God kens if it be false.”
Fiona gritted her teeth. She would have liked to remove herself from the old man’s presence, but curiosity and a suspicion
that Old Jardine might have met his match in Kirkhill bade her stay as long as the two allowed it.
Kirkhill said, “Your good-daughter is obviously with child, Uncle. And she assures me that she and Will were properly wed.”
“Aye, ’tis true he did marry her, the young fool, thinking he could gain much thereby. He should ha’ had better ken o’ how
matters stood.”
“From your message, I thought he must be dead,” Kirkhill went on with a new note in his voice, a harder one that made Fiona look quickly at him and try to
judge if a harsh temper was another trait he shared with his uncle and cousin.
Not that she counted herself a good judge of men, for experience had proven she was not. But she had learned to recognize certain important things about them. So she studied Kirkhill carefully as he continued to gaze sternly
at his uncle.
Old Jardine continued to look at him as if he, too, were sizing Kirkhill up.
The dog growled again, low in its throat.
When the old man’s silence made it clear that he had forgotten the question or did not choose to reply, Kirkhill added softly,
“Is Will dead, Uncle?”
“He must be, aye.”
“Even if he is, why did you say that I was to be your heir? I don’t like liars.” As soft as Kirkhill’s voice was now, it sent a chill right through Fiona.
Old Jardine said in his usual curt way, “Nor do I tell lies. We’ve no seen my Will now for over a fortnight, so he must be dead. Nowt but a grave would keep that lad away this
long without a word to me.”
“The English have been restless for more than a month now, breaking our so-called ten-year truce by sending raiding parties
across the line,” Kirkhill said. “Mayhap Will got himself killed or captured.”
“Not captured. D’ye think he’d ha’ kept his name to himself? He’d ha’ said right off that he were my son, and I’d ha’ got a demand for his ransom. I’d ha’ paid it, too, for
Will. He’s naebody’s prisoner,” Jardine added. “It has been too long.”
“Even if he is dead, you’d still have an heir or an heiress, and soon, too, by the look of her,” Kirkhill said, gesturing
toward Fiona.
“Faugh,” Jardine snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see the bairn. Sithee, her mam lost more bairns than anyone else I’ve
ever heard tell of.”
“I won’t lose my child,” Fiona declared.
“Aye, well, whether the bairn comes or no, Richard, I want ye to find out what became o’ my Will. I knew that if I told ye
ye’d stand to inherit Applegarth, ye’d come here. And so ye did. The fact is, I’ve willed it so that if Will doesna come home,
ye’re to look after the place when I die. Ye’ll do that right enough, I’m thinking, for a tithe from the rents.”
“I will, aye,” Kirkhill said. “I’d do that for anyone, tithe or none.”
“I’ve named ye lawful guardian for the bairn, too,” Jardine said with a darkling look at Fiona.
Stiffening, she said, “My child will need no guardian but me.”
“Even an I believed that, which I do not, ’tis my duty to name a suitable man to guard the bairn’s interest, aye—and yours, too, lass,” the old man said grimly.
Wondering if that were true, she looked at Kirkhill.
He met her questioning gaze with a stern look that somehow reassured her even as he gave a curt nod and said, “That is true, my lady. However, you should have someone whom you trust to look after your interest, a kinsman of your own.”
“Should I?” Fiona said. “My father is dead, and my good-brother lives much of the year in Galloway. My uncle, Sir Hugh Douglas,
lives nearer, in Nithsdale—”
“They ha’ nowt to do wi’ her, and I dinna want any o’ them setting foot on my land,” Jardine snapped. “Get hence now, lass. I would talk wi’ Kirkhill alone.”
Glancing again at Kirkhill and receiving another curt nod, Fiona obeyed.
When the lady Fiona had gone, Kirkhill faced his uncle. “I expect you think I should just drop everything else I might be
doing and stay here with you.”
“Nay, I’m none so daft as that,” Old Jardine retorted. “Ye’ll ha’ your own business to attend afore ye can see to mine. Moreover,
for a time yet, I’m still good to look after things here. I just wanted ye to know how ye stand. All of Applegarth will be
yours if Will be dead and the bairn also dies. The estates will be yours to run in any event until the bairn turns five-and-twenty.
I’d like a lad o’ Will’s to inherit them, but I’m none so sure I’d want one wi’ that vixen-lass as his mam. Still, he’d be the heir o’ me
own blood and Will’s, and in the end, God will decide the matter.”
“He will, aye,” Kirkhill agreed, not bothering to conceal his disgust.
“Aye, sure, but I’ll be damned afore I’ll see any daughter o’ hers take Applegarth, so ye’ll see to it that that doesna happen,” Jardine said with a straight look. “I’ve willed it so that only a male wi’ Jardine blood shall get me lands,
but others may try to deny my will. I want ye to see that they dinna succeed.”
“If I did not know better, I might think you mean me to do away with the bairn if it’s born female, or even to do away with
its mother beforehand,” Kirkhill said bluntly, noting that every sign of the old man’s weakness had vanished.
“Aye, well, if I thought ye’d do it, we might make a bargain, for I’ve nae use for her,” Jardine retorted. “Our Fiona be too
hot at hand for any man but Will, and she doesna take well to schooling. Doubtless, a daughter o’ hers would be the same.
Moreover, I’ve a strong notion that if my Will’s dead, she killed him. Sithee, she were the last to see him alive, and he
were gey displeased wi’ her, too.”
Kirkhill, finding it hard to think of the spirited lass as a murderess, said only, “I’ll see what I can learn of Will’s whereabouts.
I should perhaps seek out someone from the lady Fiona’s family, too, to look after her interests.”
“Nay, for I’ve willed it so that ye’ll look after Applegarth and after her, too. Mayhap we’ll talk more anon, lad, but I’m
dead tired now. Ye’ll stay the night.”
Mayhap he would, Kirkhill decided. He had no interest in talking further with Old Jardine, but he did want to learn more about
Will’s intriguing lady.
To his surprise, she was waiting outside the door to Jardine’s chamber, on the great hall dais. “He thinks I killed his son,”
she said without preamble.
Knowing that the old man would have lost no time in expressing the suspicion he had already made clear to her, Fiona had blurted
the statement, ignoring a pair of gillies hurrying onto the dais and away again with baskets and platters of food for the
midday meal.
Kirkhill heard her declaration with no apparent astonishment.
“He did tell me as much,” he said quietly. “But unless Will was weaker than my uncle is now, I doubt that you could have overpowered
him, my lady.”
“That is kind of you,” she said. “I’m nearly sure I didn’t kill him.”
His eyebrows arced upward, drawing her to note that they were darker than his hair and that his heavily lashed eyes were golden
brown. “Nearly sure?” he said.
With a shrug, she said glibly, “My good-father has accused me so often that I’ve almost come to believe him. The reason he
sent for you is that he wants to learn the truth before he dies, so that he can hang the guilty person, whoever it is.”
“I do understand his wanting that,” he said, nodding.
“He will be gey pleased by your understanding, I’m sure. But mayhap, before you inform him of it, you should know one thing more.”
Pausing, she added, “He also suspects you, my lord.”
Kirkhill saw that she expected him to express astonishment that Old Jardine suspected him. In truth, though, he would feel
little surprise to hear that his uncle suspected nearly everyone he saw of murdering Will. The old man was even more despicable
than Lady Kirkhill had led him to expect, but his disgust stirred strongest when he recalled Jardine’s treatment of the lass
watching him so intently now.
To be sure, he had seen for himself that the lady Fiona was likely less than dutifully submissive to her good-father. Recalling
the angry flash in her eyes earlier when he had asked her if she and Will had properly married, and her stiff resistance in the sickroom to accepting a guardian for
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Tempted by a Warrior
Amanda Scott
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