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Synopsis
DUTY BOUND Lady Andrena MacFarlan has been different since the day she was born. Possessing the power to sense others' most intimate desires, she knows her duty is to marry the man who will take the MacFarlan name as his own and help her father regain the chiefdom of their clan. But her unique gifts don't prepare her for the day when a mighty warrior suddenly enters her life. The attraction between them is undeniable -- and insatiable. DESIRE UNLEASHED Hunted by brutal enemies, the wounded Magnus Galbraith washes up on MacFarlan land where he is rescued by a laird's lovely daughter. Andrena is like no one Magnus has ever known. She has the uncanny ability to both calm and enflame him in ways he never dreamed possible. But she has other unknown-and dangerous-powers. Now, as Magnus seeks to avenge a brother and protect a king, the young beauty could prove his greatest ally-or his ultimate undoing . . .
Release date: December 18, 2012
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 396
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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The Laird's Choice
Amanda Scott
“4½ stars! The last of the Scottish Knights trilogy is Scott’s reward to her fans. The exquisite, yet subtle portrayal of her characters, coupled with their budding romance, hastens the reader’s emotional involvement with the novel. Excellent melding of historical events and people into the sensuous love story greatly enhances an excellent read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With multiple dangers, intrigues to unravel, daring rescues, and a growing attraction between Jake and Alyson, Highland Lover offers hours of enjoyment.”
—RomRevtoday.com
“A rollicking tale… will grab your attention from the very beginning… Ms. Scott’s unique storytelling ability brings history to life right before your eyes… Adventure on the high seas, passion, treachery, pirates, danger, visions, suspense, history, humor, and romance run rampant in this exciting, swashbuckling tale. If you are looking for a great Scottish romance, look no further than Amanda Scott!”
—RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“The latest Scottish Knights romance is a wonderful early fifteenth century swashbuckling adventure. As always with an Amanda Scott historical, real events are critical elements in the exciting storyline. With a superb twist to add to the fun, readers will appreciate this super saga.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
“4½ stars! Scott’s story is a tautly written, fast-paced tale of political intrigue and treachery that’s beautifully interwoven with history. Strong characters with deep emotions and a high degree of sensuality make this a story to relish.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[A] well-written and a really enjoyable read. It’s one of my favorite types of historical—it’s set in medieval times and interwoven with actual historical figures. Without a doubt, Amanda Scott knows her history… If you enjoy a rich historical romance set in the Highlands, this is a book to savor.”
—NightOwlRomance.com
“[A] gifted author… a fast-paced, passion-filled historical romance that kept me so engrossed I stayed up all night to finish it. The settings are so realistic that the story is brought to life right before your eyes…”
—RomanceJunkiesReview.com
“Scott, known and respected for her Scottish tales, has once again written a gripping romance that seamlessly interweaves history, a complex plot, and strong characters with deep emotions and a high degree of sensuality.”
—RT Reviews
“Ms. Scott is a master of the Scottish romance. Her heroes are strong men with an admirable honor code. Her heroines are strong-willed… This was an entertaining romance with enjoyable characters. Recommended.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Deliciously sexy… a rare treat of a read… Highland Master is an entertaining adventure for lovers of historical romance.”
—RomanceJunkies.com
“Hot… There’s plenty of action and adventure… Amanda Scott has an excellent command of the history of medieval Scotland—she knows her clan battles and border wars, and she’s not afraid to use detail to add realism to her story.”
—All About Romance
“4½ stars! Top Pick! Scott demonstrates her incredible skills by crafting an exciting story replete with adventure and realistic, passionate characters who reach out and grab you… Historical romance doesn’t get much better than this!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Captivates the reader from the first page… Another brilliant story filled with romance and intrigue that will leave readers thrilled until the very end.”
—SingleTitles.com
“4½ stars! Top Pick! Tautly written… passionate… Scott’s wonderful book is steeped in Scottish Border history and populated by characters who jump off the pages and grab your attention… Captivating!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Readers fascinated with history… will love Ms. Scott’s newest tale… leaves readers clamoring for the story of Mairi’s sister in Tempted by a Warrior.”
—FreshFiction.com
“4½ stars! Top Pick! Scott has crafted another phenomenal story. The characters jump off the page and the politics and treachery inherent in the plot suck you into life on the Borders from page one. This is the finest in historical romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Scott creates a lovely, complex cast.”
—Publishers Weekly
Arrochar, Scotland, early August 1406
They’re coming, my love! I must go.”
The woman lying on the ground—nearly hidden by darkness, shrubbery, the thick bedding of pine boughs on which he had laid her, and the fur-lined cloak that he’d spread over her—opened her eyes and smiled wearily.
“Keep… safe.”
Had his hearing been less acute, he would not have heard his beloved wife’s soft murmur. As it was, he feared that he might never see her again.
“I’ll come back for ye, mo chridhe,” he said. The certainty in his voice was as much for himself as for her.
“Aye, sure,” she said. “I wish I could keep the bairn with me, though.”
“Ye ken fine that it wouldna be safe. If she cried, they’d find ye both, and I’ll take her straight to Annie. She has a wee one of her own and milk aplenty for two.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But guard our wee lassie well.”
“I will, aye.”
With that, he drew more shrubbery over her, but he could linger no longer. Sounds of pursuit from the north were louder, too loud. In the distance to the south, he could hear the raging river that might be their salvation. Reluctant though he was to leave her, he dared not let them catch him or all would be lost.
Turning toward the last stretch of hillside he had to climb before descending to the river, he shifted the strap of his baldric and felt the reassuring weight of the sword and spear across his back. In the cloth sling he carried across his chest, his wee daughter nestled, sound asleep, one tiny ear near his beating heart.
Cradling her in one large palm, he moved through the woods with the silence gained only by a hunter-warrior’s lifetime practice in such an environment. Pale rays of a slender summer moon slipped through the canopy to light his way.
He allowed his pursuers to see him only once, as he hurried across a clearing in the moonlight. He knew they would easily spot his movements there from below.
In the trees near the crest of the hill, he heard the river’s roar, still distant but louder. However, sounds of pursuit were louder, too. His enemies numbered a dozen or more, all warriors like himself. Doubtless, others hunted him all across his lands.
His mind raced. Thanks to a late thaw, snow still capped nearby mountain peaks. But the days had been warmer for a fortnight.
Although he had not seen the river for weeks, experience told him it would be running high, still in snow spate. The glen that it had cut was steep-sided and narrow, but below where he stood, the river’s course flattened for a short way.
With luck, he could cross it there in a manner that his pursuers would be unlikely to emulate. His primary concern was the babe he carried.
She was silent, still sleeping. But if she cried, they would hear her. Also, the river would be too deep and too turbulent—in its long, plunging course—to cross without swimming. That fact was the very one that might save them, though. He tried to imagine how, carrying her, he could get them both safely across.
The answer was plain. He could not. But safety lay only on the other side, on the sacred ground of Tùr Meiloach.
He carried his dirk, his sword, and his spear. He had also brought his bow from the castle but had left it with his lady wife. She had kept her dirk, too.
Although she had assured him she would keep safe until his return, he held no illusions. In such matters, he had never doubted her, nor had she ever proven wrong. But as weak and exhausted as she was now, she could not defend herself against so many had she every weapon in Scotland at her disposal.
Her only hope, and thus his own, was that he succeed in getting their bairn to safety. Then he could return for her.
Reaching the swiftly flowing river at last, unable to hear his pursuers over its roar, he wasted no time in deliberation but untied the sling. Then he pulled his spear from its loop on his baldric, uncoiled the narrow rope he’d wound around his waist against any such need, and fashioned a knotted cap with it for the blunt end of the spear. Working swiftly, he found two suitably curved lengths of bark, bound the swaddled babe inside a bark shell and then securely to the center of his spear. Then, hefting the result, he gauged the distance, hesitated only long enough to hear male voices above the din of the river, and let fly with the spear.
He knew he had chucked it far enough, that his arc was high enough, and that his aim would be true despite the added weight of the babe. But if the high end of the spear struck a tree branch, or if he had misjudged the position of the babe on the spear, she might land too hard. The spear might also hit a boulder. He knew that the thicket where he had aimed it boasted little such danger. But the Fates would have to be in a gey gracious mood for such a daring act to succeed.
If it did, the spear’s point would bury itself in pine duff and soft dirt, the knotted rope cap at its top end would prevent the babe in her swaddling and sling from hitting the ground, and the bark shell would prevent any other damage.
Then, if he made it across the river to her, all would be well. Muttering prayers to God and the Fates, he hurried to the upper end of the river’s flat section, arriving just as the sudden, unmistakable baying of a wolf struck terror into his soul.
His pursuers’ shouts were loud enough to tell him they were topping the rise, so he knew they had not seen him throw the spear. Also, he could at least be hopeful that the river’s noise would prevent their hearing the babe’s cries when she squalled. And she surely would, if not now then later, unless…
That thought refused to declare itself. He had to focus on his own actions now and draw his pursuers as far from his lady as he could. If they thought he was dead, so much the better. But they would have to see him in the river first.
Accordingly, he waited until he saw movement on the steep hillside above him. Then he leaped onto a moonlit boulder that jutted into the roiling flow.
Hearing a shout above, knowing that they had seen him, he flung himself into the torrent. Although the shock of the icy water nearly undid him, he ignored it and swam hard. Letting the current carry him, he also fought it to swim at an angle that would, he prayed, carry him to the opposite bank before it plunged him over the hundred-foot waterfall into the Loch of the Long Boats and out to sea.
When the river swept him around a curve, he swam much harder for the distant shore. His pursuers could not move as fast as the water did. And, if anyone was daft enough to jump in after him, he would see the fool coming. He also knew, though, that if he mistimed his own efforts, the sea gods would claim him.
Minutes later, nearing the shore and battered by unseen rocks beneath the surface, he dragged himself out and lay gasping in unfriendly shrubbery to catch his breath. Then, creeping through the shrubs, he prayed that the hilt of the sword still strapped across his back would look like a branch if anyone saw it moving. As fast as he dared, he made his way to the shelter of the trees and back up the river glen.
He heard only the water’s roar. Then, as that thought ended, he heard the wolf bay again, a she-wolf by its cry. Finding a path of sorts, he increased his pace.
The usual fisherman’s trail lay underwater. So this was a deer trail or a new one to the river from Malcolm the sheepherder’s cottage. In any event, the warrior’s finely honed sense of direction told him that the cottage stood not far away.
He soon reached the clearing, where he saw a pack of wolves gathered close around the spear. The weapon with its precious burden had landed perfectly.
The wolves’ heads turned as one at his approach, their teeth viciously bared.
He halted, terror for his child again clutching his throat. When the leader lowered to a crouch and crept slowly toward him, he could almost hear its growl. The others watched, their narrowed eyes gleaming reddish in the pale moonlight.
The warrior stood still. Hearing a faint sound above the river’s rushing roar, he recognized it for his daughter’s wail of hunger… or pain.
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
The lead wolf stopped, too, still in its threatening crouch, ready to spring.
The warrior drew his sword and took a step forward, mentally daring the beast to charge him. He had counted a half-dozen in the pack. But now he saw other dark, beastly shadows moving through the trees behind them, too many to count and far too many to kill before the pack would take him down.
The lead wolf, unmoving, bared its teeth again.
The man stood watching it, sword ready, long enough for the icy chill of his wet clothing to make him shiver.
Then, abruptly, the wolf rose, turned away, and vanished into the forest.
The others followed.
The baby remained silent.
Tùr Meiloach, Scotland, mid-February 1425
Dree, what’s amiss?” fifteen-year-old Muriella MacFarlan demanded as she stopped her spinning wheel and pushed an errant strand of flaxen hair off her face.
Tawny-haired Andrena, now six months into her nineteenth year, had stiffened on her stool near the fireplace in the ladies’ solar. Dark blue eyes narrowed, head atilt, listening but with every sense alert, Andrena remained silent as she set aside the mending she loathed.
“Dree?”
Standing, holding a finger up to command silence, Andrena moved with her usual athletic grace to the south-facing window, its shutters open to let in fresh, sun-warmed afternoon air that was especially welcome after the previous night’s fierce storm. She could see over the barmkin wall to the steep, forested hillside below and others rolling beyond it to the declivity through which the river marking their south boundary plunged into the Loch of the Long Boats and on out to the sea.
When Muriella drew breath to speak again, the third person in the room, their seventeen-year-old sister, Lachina, said quietly, “Murie, dearling, possess your curiosity in silence for once. When Dree knows what is amiss, she will tell us.”
After the briefest of pauses, and not much to Andrena’s surprise, Lachina added, “Is someone approaching the tower, Dree?”
“I don’t know, Lina. But the birds seem distressed. I think someone has entered our south woods—a stranger—nay, more than one.”
“Can you see who they are?” Muriella demanded. Resting her spindle in its cradle, she moved to stand beside Andrena at the window.
“I cannot see such a distance or through trees,” Andrena said. “But it must be more than one person and likely fewer than four. You see how the hawks soar in a tight circle yonder. Such behavior is odd even for goshawks. Forbye, if you look higher, you’ll see an osprey above them. I’m going out to have a look.”
In the same quiet way that she had spoken to Muriella, Lachina said, “The woods will be damp after such a furious storm, Dree. Mayhap you should tell our lord father what you suspect, or Malcolm Wylie.”
“What would you have me tell them?” Andrena asked with a wry smile. “Would either of them send men out to search for intruders merely because I say the birds are unsettled?”
Lina grimaced. They had had such discussions before, and both of them knew the answer to the question. Andrew Dubh MacFarlan would trust his men to stop intruders. And his steward, Malcolm Wylie, would look long-suffering and declare that no one could possibly be there. By the time either decided, for the sake of peace, to send men out to look, there would be no one. Andrena had suggested once that their men had made more noise than the intruders did. But her father had replied only that if that was so, her intruders had fled, which was the best outcome.
“I’m going out,” Andrena said again.
“Surely, men on the wall will see anyone coming,” Muriella said, peering into the distance. “Both of our boundary rivers are in full spate now, Dree. No one can cross them. And if anyone were approaching elsewhere, watchers would blow the alarm. In troth, I think those birds are soaring just as they always do.”
“They are perturbed,” Andrena said. “I shan’t be long.”
Her sisters exchanged a look. But although she noted the exchange, she did not comment. She knew that neither one would insist on going with her.
Instinct that she rarely ignored urged her to make what speed she could without drawing undue attention to herself. Therefore, she hurried down the service stairs, deciding not to change from her green tunic and skirt into the deerskin breeks and jack that she favored for her solitary rambles. It occurred to her that she would have no excuse, having announced that strangers had entered the woods, to say that she had not thought anyone outside the family would see her in the boyish garb.
Andrew did not care what his daughters wore. But he did care when one of them distressed their mother, who had declared breeks on females to be shameful. Moreover, the mossy green dress would blend well with woodland shrubbery.
From a rack by the postern door, Andrena took her favorite cream-colored wool cap and twisted her tawny plaits up inside it. Then she donned the gray wool shawl hanging beside it and took down the dirk that hung by its belt under the shawl.
Fastening the belt so that the weapon lay concealed beneath the shawl, and leaving her untanned-hide boots where they lay on the floor, she went outside barefoot and crossed the yard to the narrow postern gate.
Four of the dogs, anticipating a walk, sprang up and ran to meet her.
Catching two by their collars, she said to the wiry redheaded lad eyeing her as he raked wood chips near the gate, “You must keep them in for now, Pluff. If anyone should ask for me, I’m going for a walk. But I don’t want to take the dogs.”
“Aye, m’lady,” the boy said with a gap-toothed grin. Setting aside the rake, he ordered the dogs back to their naps and unbolted the gate for her, adding, “Just gie a shout when ye come back and I’ll let ye in.”
Smiling her thanks, she went through the gateway and heard the heavy gate thud shut behind her and Pluff shooting the bolts. Looking skyward as she crossed the clearing between the barmkin and the woods, she saw that the circling birds had moved nearer. Whoever it was, was still two hills away but was definitely moving toward the tower.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw one of their men on the wall and waved.
He waved back.
Satisfied that her sisters and at least two of their people knew she was outside the wall, she hurried into the woods. She had her dirk and the wee pipe she always carried in the pocket that Lina had cunningly woven for it in the shawl.
Thanks to Andrew’s teaching, Andrena was skillful with the dirk and, if necessary, could use the wee pipe to summon aid. Since she did not expect anyone in the woods to see her, she doubted that she’d need any help.
He was out of breath from running. But he knew that in dashing away from his pursuers earlier, he had left evidence of his flight for a regrettable distance before he was far enough ahead of them to take precautions.
As it was, he needed to find cover and catch his breath. That his pursuers lacked dogs to track him was a rare boon from the ever fickle Fates.
He had been both careless and foolhardy, and it irked him. He had sensibly managed to keep his wool plaid with him, even as he swam, knowing he would need its warmth. Scaling the cliff from the stormy loch had been necessary, since he could not stay on the shore and in the rainy darkness he’d seen no safer way to go.
After reaching the top of the hurtling waterfall, sleeping for a time, and waking in foggy dawn twilight, it had come as a shock to find that he could not travel farther south without fording the damned river.
To be sure, he had seen this area from the water, including the distant sharp ridge of peaks beyond its cliffs and forested hills. The two great waterfalls had been full even then, but he had assumed he’d be able to cross the river somewhere.
However, it raged furiously down through its bed, tumbling over and around boulders and rocks in its path—too deep to ford, too wide and dangerous to swim.
He had followed it inland until he had seen and recognized the three men.
Now the fog had cleared, and the sun shone in a cloudy sky. He was well away from the river, deep in ancient woods—a magnificent mixture of tall beeches, oaks, thickly growing conifers, and where it was dampest, spindly birches and willows. The woodsy scents filled him with a heady sense of freedom. But his pursuers were not far enough behind yet for safety.
Although he had not entered such dense woodland for nineteen long months, he had hunted from the time he could keep up with his lord father and knew that he retained his skills, had even heightened most of them. Quietly drawing deep breaths and releasing them, he forced himself to relax and bond with the forest while he listened and waited for its creatures to speak to him.
Thinking of those creatures and the fact that he had come ashore north of the waterfall, he was nearly sure that he must be in Tùr Meiloach woods. He had heard men warn that the place was rife with danger, either haunted or bewitched. Some swore that it was a sanctuary for true MacFarlans, others that it was a taste of hell for unwary strangers. Wondering which it was would do him no good now, though.
It occurred to him that although he had moved carefully and in near silence for the past quarter-hour, the denizens of the forest remained remarkably still. He had not listened for them earlier, knowing that the din of the river would cover any sound they made and being more concerned about eluding his pursuers.
As if it had intercepted his thoughts, a hawk shrieked above. Then an osprey replied with its shrill whistle, declaring the woods its territory. It would, he thought, have better luck taking fish from the nearby Loch of the Long Boats and should leave the woods to the hawks, which were better-suited for hunting in dense foliage.
All thought ceased then, because he sensed someone in the woods north of him moving as silently as he did. Had one of the devils got round him? Was one north of him now and the other two south? He had seen only three men earlier on the far side of the devilish river. They had swung across it on a rope tied to a high branch of an ancient beech rooted in what looked from a distance like solid rock.
The three carried swords and dirks. When he’d recognized them as Pharlain’s men, he knew they were seeking him.
A soughing of leaves above drew his glance to a female goshawk on a high branch. The canopy above her was thick. But he knew that hawks, even big ones like the gos, with two-foot wingspans, were perfectly at home in the Highland woods. He had occasionally delighted in watching one take prey by flying at speed between trees that left insufficient room for it. To fit through, the bird seemed to fold itself, wings and body, into a thinly compressed, arrowlike shape and to do it without missing a single sweeping beat.
The hawk above him fixed a fierce yellow eye on him. Then, as if that glance were all it required, it opened its wings and swooped down and away.
He eyed the gos’s erstwhile perch. It was high, but in the dense canopy above it a man might rest unseen for hours. A rustle of disturbed shrubbery south of him, accompanied by a man’s muttered curse, made the decision easy. He paused only to conceal his plaid in the shrubbery.
Andrena heard the curse, too, and froze in place to listen. She had sensed the trespassers’ approach more easily with each step, because the woods were her home, their every sound familiar. She had noted the eerie silence, had seen the goshawk as it shot through the trees in front of her without making a sound.
The hawk’s presence might have frightened nearby small creatures to silence. But it would not account for the unusual quiet of the forest at large. It seemed to hold its communal breath, to be waiting as she was for the intruders to reveal their nature.
So still was it that in the distance to her right and far below, she could hear waves of the loch, unsettled from the storm, hushing against the rockbound shore.
The strangers were much closer.
Sound traveled farther through woodland than most people realized, and her ears were deer-sharp. The intruders were a score of yards away, perhaps more, but an effortless bowshot in the open. She would soon see them.
Noting movement in shrubbery near the ground, she saw that at least one creature had managed to follow her from the tower. Lina’s orange cat eyed her curiously through slender branches sprouting new leaves.
Without a sound, the cat glided off ahead, doubtless prowling for its supper.
Andrena moved on, too. She heard no noises specific enough to identify but she knew now that there were at least two or three men. Careful to stay hidden but watchful, she also knew that her sweeping gaze would detect any movement.
A large shadow passed between two large-trunked beeches ahead to her left.
Going still, she watched as a stranger stepped between the two trees. Two others followed. All three wore saffron tunics, kilted plaids of dull red and green, swords slung across their backs, and dirks at their belts.
So much, Andrena thought, for Murie’s certainty—and their father’s—that no one could ford the wild river south of their tower without plunging into the loch and out with the tide. Either the three men had forded it or they’d found other means of trespassing onto Andrew’s land without his or his men’s knowledge.
The man in the tree suppressed a curse when he saw the lass. Who the devil, he wondered, would be daft enough to let a girl wander out alone in such dangerous times? His eyes narrowed as she carefully shifted her shawl and he saw the long dirk in its sheath suspended from her narrow leather girdle.
If she had an ounce of wit she would at least try to keep it hidden, because if the louts searching for him saw it, and they would, they might kill her just to teach her a lesson.
Knowing that they might sense his presence as easily as he had sensed hers, he decided that he ought to do what he could to prevent that. Fixing his gaze on a leaf midway between the three men, now only five or six yards away, and the girl moving toward them—ten paces from his tree—he let his mind go blank.
The last thing he wanted was for anyone to sense him watching them.
The men had moved much faster than Andrena had expected, stirring irritation with herself as well as with them. Having expected to get her first look at them from the next rise, she realized now that she had taken longer than she had intended. In truth, she had paid more heed to the forest creatures’ silence than to its most likely cause, that the men were nearer than she had judged them to be.
Lina would say, and rightly, that having formed an image in her mind of what would happen, Dree had let her thoughts wander and, thus, had failed to think through all the possibilities of what might happen before coming out to investigate.
Hoping that Lina would not learn what had happened, Andrena considered what to do next. She was close enough to the tower for people on its ramparts and wall to hear her pipe if she blew it, so she slipped it out of its pocket into her hand.
The hawks still lingered nearby, as well.
It occurred to her that she would offer help without hesitation had the men simply been storm-tossed onto the shore and missed their way. Perhaps if she…
What the devil was she doing now?
He tensed as he watched her step out into the path of his three pursuers. At lea. . .
—RT Book Reviews
“With multiple dangers, intrigues to unravel, daring rescues, and a growing attraction between Jake and Alyson, Highland Lover offers hours of enjoyment.”
—RomRevtoday.com
“A rollicking tale… will grab your attention from the very beginning… Ms. Scott’s unique storytelling ability brings history to life right before your eyes… Adventure on the high seas, passion, treachery, pirates, danger, visions, suspense, history, humor, and romance run rampant in this exciting, swashbuckling tale. If you are looking for a great Scottish romance, look no further than Amanda Scott!”
—RomanceJunkiesReviews.com
“The latest Scottish Knights romance is a wonderful early fifteenth century swashbuckling adventure. As always with an Amanda Scott historical, real events are critical elements in the exciting storyline. With a superb twist to add to the fun, readers will appreciate this super saga.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
“4½ stars! Scott’s story is a tautly written, fast-paced tale of political intrigue and treachery that’s beautifully interwoven with history. Strong characters with deep emotions and a high degree of sensuality make this a story to relish.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[A] well-written and a really enjoyable read. It’s one of my favorite types of historical—it’s set in medieval times and interwoven with actual historical figures. Without a doubt, Amanda Scott knows her history… If you enjoy a rich historical romance set in the Highlands, this is a book to savor.”
—NightOwlRomance.com
“[A] gifted author… a fast-paced, passion-filled historical romance that kept me so engrossed I stayed up all night to finish it. The settings are so realistic that the story is brought to life right before your eyes…”
—RomanceJunkiesReview.com
“Scott, known and respected for her Scottish tales, has once again written a gripping romance that seamlessly interweaves history, a complex plot, and strong characters with deep emotions and a high degree of sensuality.”
—RT Reviews
“Ms. Scott is a master of the Scottish romance. Her heroes are strong men with an admirable honor code. Her heroines are strong-willed… This was an entertaining romance with enjoyable characters. Recommended.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Deliciously sexy… a rare treat of a read… Highland Master is an entertaining adventure for lovers of historical romance.”
—RomanceJunkies.com
“Hot… There’s plenty of action and adventure… Amanda Scott has an excellent command of the history of medieval Scotland—she knows her clan battles and border wars, and she’s not afraid to use detail to add realism to her story.”
—All About Romance
“4½ stars! Top Pick! Scott demonstrates her incredible skills by crafting an exciting story replete with adventure and realistic, passionate characters who reach out and grab you… Historical romance doesn’t get much better than this!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Captivates the reader from the first page… Another brilliant story filled with romance and intrigue that will leave readers thrilled until the very end.”
—SingleTitles.com
“4½ stars! Top Pick! Tautly written… passionate… Scott’s wonderful book is steeped in Scottish Border history and populated by characters who jump off the pages and grab your attention… Captivating!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Readers fascinated with history… will love Ms. Scott’s newest tale… leaves readers clamoring for the story of Mairi’s sister in Tempted by a Warrior.”
—FreshFiction.com
“4½ stars! Top Pick! Scott has crafted another phenomenal story. The characters jump off the page and the politics and treachery inherent in the plot suck you into life on the Borders from page one. This is the finest in historical romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Scott creates a lovely, complex cast.”
—Publishers Weekly
Arrochar, Scotland, early August 1406
They’re coming, my love! I must go.”
The woman lying on the ground—nearly hidden by darkness, shrubbery, the thick bedding of pine boughs on which he had laid her, and the fur-lined cloak that he’d spread over her—opened her eyes and smiled wearily.
“Keep… safe.”
Had his hearing been less acute, he would not have heard his beloved wife’s soft murmur. As it was, he feared that he might never see her again.
“I’ll come back for ye, mo chridhe,” he said. The certainty in his voice was as much for himself as for her.
“Aye, sure,” she said. “I wish I could keep the bairn with me, though.”
“Ye ken fine that it wouldna be safe. If she cried, they’d find ye both, and I’ll take her straight to Annie. She has a wee one of her own and milk aplenty for two.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But guard our wee lassie well.”
“I will, aye.”
With that, he drew more shrubbery over her, but he could linger no longer. Sounds of pursuit from the north were louder, too loud. In the distance to the south, he could hear the raging river that might be their salvation. Reluctant though he was to leave her, he dared not let them catch him or all would be lost.
Turning toward the last stretch of hillside he had to climb before descending to the river, he shifted the strap of his baldric and felt the reassuring weight of the sword and spear across his back. In the cloth sling he carried across his chest, his wee daughter nestled, sound asleep, one tiny ear near his beating heart.
Cradling her in one large palm, he moved through the woods with the silence gained only by a hunter-warrior’s lifetime practice in such an environment. Pale rays of a slender summer moon slipped through the canopy to light his way.
He allowed his pursuers to see him only once, as he hurried across a clearing in the moonlight. He knew they would easily spot his movements there from below.
In the trees near the crest of the hill, he heard the river’s roar, still distant but louder. However, sounds of pursuit were louder, too. His enemies numbered a dozen or more, all warriors like himself. Doubtless, others hunted him all across his lands.
His mind raced. Thanks to a late thaw, snow still capped nearby mountain peaks. But the days had been warmer for a fortnight.
Although he had not seen the river for weeks, experience told him it would be running high, still in snow spate. The glen that it had cut was steep-sided and narrow, but below where he stood, the river’s course flattened for a short way.
With luck, he could cross it there in a manner that his pursuers would be unlikely to emulate. His primary concern was the babe he carried.
She was silent, still sleeping. But if she cried, they would hear her. Also, the river would be too deep and too turbulent—in its long, plunging course—to cross without swimming. That fact was the very one that might save them, though. He tried to imagine how, carrying her, he could get them both safely across.
The answer was plain. He could not. But safety lay only on the other side, on the sacred ground of Tùr Meiloach.
He carried his dirk, his sword, and his spear. He had also brought his bow from the castle but had left it with his lady wife. She had kept her dirk, too.
Although she had assured him she would keep safe until his return, he held no illusions. In such matters, he had never doubted her, nor had she ever proven wrong. But as weak and exhausted as she was now, she could not defend herself against so many had she every weapon in Scotland at her disposal.
Her only hope, and thus his own, was that he succeed in getting their bairn to safety. Then he could return for her.
Reaching the swiftly flowing river at last, unable to hear his pursuers over its roar, he wasted no time in deliberation but untied the sling. Then he pulled his spear from its loop on his baldric, uncoiled the narrow rope he’d wound around his waist against any such need, and fashioned a knotted cap with it for the blunt end of the spear. Working swiftly, he found two suitably curved lengths of bark, bound the swaddled babe inside a bark shell and then securely to the center of his spear. Then, hefting the result, he gauged the distance, hesitated only long enough to hear male voices above the din of the river, and let fly with the spear.
He knew he had chucked it far enough, that his arc was high enough, and that his aim would be true despite the added weight of the babe. But if the high end of the spear struck a tree branch, or if he had misjudged the position of the babe on the spear, she might land too hard. The spear might also hit a boulder. He knew that the thicket where he had aimed it boasted little such danger. But the Fates would have to be in a gey gracious mood for such a daring act to succeed.
If it did, the spear’s point would bury itself in pine duff and soft dirt, the knotted rope cap at its top end would prevent the babe in her swaddling and sling from hitting the ground, and the bark shell would prevent any other damage.
Then, if he made it across the river to her, all would be well. Muttering prayers to God and the Fates, he hurried to the upper end of the river’s flat section, arriving just as the sudden, unmistakable baying of a wolf struck terror into his soul.
His pursuers’ shouts were loud enough to tell him they were topping the rise, so he knew they had not seen him throw the spear. Also, he could at least be hopeful that the river’s noise would prevent their hearing the babe’s cries when she squalled. And she surely would, if not now then later, unless…
That thought refused to declare itself. He had to focus on his own actions now and draw his pursuers as far from his lady as he could. If they thought he was dead, so much the better. But they would have to see him in the river first.
Accordingly, he waited until he saw movement on the steep hillside above him. Then he leaped onto a moonlit boulder that jutted into the roiling flow.
Hearing a shout above, knowing that they had seen him, he flung himself into the torrent. Although the shock of the icy water nearly undid him, he ignored it and swam hard. Letting the current carry him, he also fought it to swim at an angle that would, he prayed, carry him to the opposite bank before it plunged him over the hundred-foot waterfall into the Loch of the Long Boats and out to sea.
When the river swept him around a curve, he swam much harder for the distant shore. His pursuers could not move as fast as the water did. And, if anyone was daft enough to jump in after him, he would see the fool coming. He also knew, though, that if he mistimed his own efforts, the sea gods would claim him.
Minutes later, nearing the shore and battered by unseen rocks beneath the surface, he dragged himself out and lay gasping in unfriendly shrubbery to catch his breath. Then, creeping through the shrubs, he prayed that the hilt of the sword still strapped across his back would look like a branch if anyone saw it moving. As fast as he dared, he made his way to the shelter of the trees and back up the river glen.
He heard only the water’s roar. Then, as that thought ended, he heard the wolf bay again, a she-wolf by its cry. Finding a path of sorts, he increased his pace.
The usual fisherman’s trail lay underwater. So this was a deer trail or a new one to the river from Malcolm the sheepherder’s cottage. In any event, the warrior’s finely honed sense of direction told him that the cottage stood not far away.
He soon reached the clearing, where he saw a pack of wolves gathered close around the spear. The weapon with its precious burden had landed perfectly.
The wolves’ heads turned as one at his approach, their teeth viciously bared.
He halted, terror for his child again clutching his throat. When the leader lowered to a crouch and crept slowly toward him, he could almost hear its growl. The others watched, their narrowed eyes gleaming reddish in the pale moonlight.
The warrior stood still. Hearing a faint sound above the river’s rushing roar, he recognized it for his daughter’s wail of hunger… or pain.
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
The lead wolf stopped, too, still in its threatening crouch, ready to spring.
The warrior drew his sword and took a step forward, mentally daring the beast to charge him. He had counted a half-dozen in the pack. But now he saw other dark, beastly shadows moving through the trees behind them, too many to count and far too many to kill before the pack would take him down.
The lead wolf, unmoving, bared its teeth again.
The man stood watching it, sword ready, long enough for the icy chill of his wet clothing to make him shiver.
Then, abruptly, the wolf rose, turned away, and vanished into the forest.
The others followed.
The baby remained silent.
Tùr Meiloach, Scotland, mid-February 1425
Dree, what’s amiss?” fifteen-year-old Muriella MacFarlan demanded as she stopped her spinning wheel and pushed an errant strand of flaxen hair off her face.
Tawny-haired Andrena, now six months into her nineteenth year, had stiffened on her stool near the fireplace in the ladies’ solar. Dark blue eyes narrowed, head atilt, listening but with every sense alert, Andrena remained silent as she set aside the mending she loathed.
“Dree?”
Standing, holding a finger up to command silence, Andrena moved with her usual athletic grace to the south-facing window, its shutters open to let in fresh, sun-warmed afternoon air that was especially welcome after the previous night’s fierce storm. She could see over the barmkin wall to the steep, forested hillside below and others rolling beyond it to the declivity through which the river marking their south boundary plunged into the Loch of the Long Boats and on out to the sea.
When Muriella drew breath to speak again, the third person in the room, their seventeen-year-old sister, Lachina, said quietly, “Murie, dearling, possess your curiosity in silence for once. When Dree knows what is amiss, she will tell us.”
After the briefest of pauses, and not much to Andrena’s surprise, Lachina added, “Is someone approaching the tower, Dree?”
“I don’t know, Lina. But the birds seem distressed. I think someone has entered our south woods—a stranger—nay, more than one.”
“Can you see who they are?” Muriella demanded. Resting her spindle in its cradle, she moved to stand beside Andrena at the window.
“I cannot see such a distance or through trees,” Andrena said. “But it must be more than one person and likely fewer than four. You see how the hawks soar in a tight circle yonder. Such behavior is odd even for goshawks. Forbye, if you look higher, you’ll see an osprey above them. I’m going out to have a look.”
In the same quiet way that she had spoken to Muriella, Lachina said, “The woods will be damp after such a furious storm, Dree. Mayhap you should tell our lord father what you suspect, or Malcolm Wylie.”
“What would you have me tell them?” Andrena asked with a wry smile. “Would either of them send men out to search for intruders merely because I say the birds are unsettled?”
Lina grimaced. They had had such discussions before, and both of them knew the answer to the question. Andrew Dubh MacFarlan would trust his men to stop intruders. And his steward, Malcolm Wylie, would look long-suffering and declare that no one could possibly be there. By the time either decided, for the sake of peace, to send men out to look, there would be no one. Andrena had suggested once that their men had made more noise than the intruders did. But her father had replied only that if that was so, her intruders had fled, which was the best outcome.
“I’m going out,” Andrena said again.
“Surely, men on the wall will see anyone coming,” Muriella said, peering into the distance. “Both of our boundary rivers are in full spate now, Dree. No one can cross them. And if anyone were approaching elsewhere, watchers would blow the alarm. In troth, I think those birds are soaring just as they always do.”
“They are perturbed,” Andrena said. “I shan’t be long.”
Her sisters exchanged a look. But although she noted the exchange, she did not comment. She knew that neither one would insist on going with her.
Instinct that she rarely ignored urged her to make what speed she could without drawing undue attention to herself. Therefore, she hurried down the service stairs, deciding not to change from her green tunic and skirt into the deerskin breeks and jack that she favored for her solitary rambles. It occurred to her that she would have no excuse, having announced that strangers had entered the woods, to say that she had not thought anyone outside the family would see her in the boyish garb.
Andrew did not care what his daughters wore. But he did care when one of them distressed their mother, who had declared breeks on females to be shameful. Moreover, the mossy green dress would blend well with woodland shrubbery.
From a rack by the postern door, Andrena took her favorite cream-colored wool cap and twisted her tawny plaits up inside it. Then she donned the gray wool shawl hanging beside it and took down the dirk that hung by its belt under the shawl.
Fastening the belt so that the weapon lay concealed beneath the shawl, and leaving her untanned-hide boots where they lay on the floor, she went outside barefoot and crossed the yard to the narrow postern gate.
Four of the dogs, anticipating a walk, sprang up and ran to meet her.
Catching two by their collars, she said to the wiry redheaded lad eyeing her as he raked wood chips near the gate, “You must keep them in for now, Pluff. If anyone should ask for me, I’m going for a walk. But I don’t want to take the dogs.”
“Aye, m’lady,” the boy said with a gap-toothed grin. Setting aside the rake, he ordered the dogs back to their naps and unbolted the gate for her, adding, “Just gie a shout when ye come back and I’ll let ye in.”
Smiling her thanks, she went through the gateway and heard the heavy gate thud shut behind her and Pluff shooting the bolts. Looking skyward as she crossed the clearing between the barmkin and the woods, she saw that the circling birds had moved nearer. Whoever it was, was still two hills away but was definitely moving toward the tower.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw one of their men on the wall and waved.
He waved back.
Satisfied that her sisters and at least two of their people knew she was outside the wall, she hurried into the woods. She had her dirk and the wee pipe she always carried in the pocket that Lina had cunningly woven for it in the shawl.
Thanks to Andrew’s teaching, Andrena was skillful with the dirk and, if necessary, could use the wee pipe to summon aid. Since she did not expect anyone in the woods to see her, she doubted that she’d need any help.
He was out of breath from running. But he knew that in dashing away from his pursuers earlier, he had left evidence of his flight for a regrettable distance before he was far enough ahead of them to take precautions.
As it was, he needed to find cover and catch his breath. That his pursuers lacked dogs to track him was a rare boon from the ever fickle Fates.
He had been both careless and foolhardy, and it irked him. He had sensibly managed to keep his wool plaid with him, even as he swam, knowing he would need its warmth. Scaling the cliff from the stormy loch had been necessary, since he could not stay on the shore and in the rainy darkness he’d seen no safer way to go.
After reaching the top of the hurtling waterfall, sleeping for a time, and waking in foggy dawn twilight, it had come as a shock to find that he could not travel farther south without fording the damned river.
To be sure, he had seen this area from the water, including the distant sharp ridge of peaks beyond its cliffs and forested hills. The two great waterfalls had been full even then, but he had assumed he’d be able to cross the river somewhere.
However, it raged furiously down through its bed, tumbling over and around boulders and rocks in its path—too deep to ford, too wide and dangerous to swim.
He had followed it inland until he had seen and recognized the three men.
Now the fog had cleared, and the sun shone in a cloudy sky. He was well away from the river, deep in ancient woods—a magnificent mixture of tall beeches, oaks, thickly growing conifers, and where it was dampest, spindly birches and willows. The woodsy scents filled him with a heady sense of freedom. But his pursuers were not far enough behind yet for safety.
Although he had not entered such dense woodland for nineteen long months, he had hunted from the time he could keep up with his lord father and knew that he retained his skills, had even heightened most of them. Quietly drawing deep breaths and releasing them, he forced himself to relax and bond with the forest while he listened and waited for its creatures to speak to him.
Thinking of those creatures and the fact that he had come ashore north of the waterfall, he was nearly sure that he must be in Tùr Meiloach woods. He had heard men warn that the place was rife with danger, either haunted or bewitched. Some swore that it was a sanctuary for true MacFarlans, others that it was a taste of hell for unwary strangers. Wondering which it was would do him no good now, though.
It occurred to him that although he had moved carefully and in near silence for the past quarter-hour, the denizens of the forest remained remarkably still. He had not listened for them earlier, knowing that the din of the river would cover any sound they made and being more concerned about eluding his pursuers.
As if it had intercepted his thoughts, a hawk shrieked above. Then an osprey replied with its shrill whistle, declaring the woods its territory. It would, he thought, have better luck taking fish from the nearby Loch of the Long Boats and should leave the woods to the hawks, which were better-suited for hunting in dense foliage.
All thought ceased then, because he sensed someone in the woods north of him moving as silently as he did. Had one of the devils got round him? Was one north of him now and the other two south? He had seen only three men earlier on the far side of the devilish river. They had swung across it on a rope tied to a high branch of an ancient beech rooted in what looked from a distance like solid rock.
The three carried swords and dirks. When he’d recognized them as Pharlain’s men, he knew they were seeking him.
A soughing of leaves above drew his glance to a female goshawk on a high branch. The canopy above her was thick. But he knew that hawks, even big ones like the gos, with two-foot wingspans, were perfectly at home in the Highland woods. He had occasionally delighted in watching one take prey by flying at speed between trees that left insufficient room for it. To fit through, the bird seemed to fold itself, wings and body, into a thinly compressed, arrowlike shape and to do it without missing a single sweeping beat.
The hawk above him fixed a fierce yellow eye on him. Then, as if that glance were all it required, it opened its wings and swooped down and away.
He eyed the gos’s erstwhile perch. It was high, but in the dense canopy above it a man might rest unseen for hours. A rustle of disturbed shrubbery south of him, accompanied by a man’s muttered curse, made the decision easy. He paused only to conceal his plaid in the shrubbery.
Andrena heard the curse, too, and froze in place to listen. She had sensed the trespassers’ approach more easily with each step, because the woods were her home, their every sound familiar. She had noted the eerie silence, had seen the goshawk as it shot through the trees in front of her without making a sound.
The hawk’s presence might have frightened nearby small creatures to silence. But it would not account for the unusual quiet of the forest at large. It seemed to hold its communal breath, to be waiting as she was for the intruders to reveal their nature.
So still was it that in the distance to her right and far below, she could hear waves of the loch, unsettled from the storm, hushing against the rockbound shore.
The strangers were much closer.
Sound traveled farther through woodland than most people realized, and her ears were deer-sharp. The intruders were a score of yards away, perhaps more, but an effortless bowshot in the open. She would soon see them.
Noting movement in shrubbery near the ground, she saw that at least one creature had managed to follow her from the tower. Lina’s orange cat eyed her curiously through slender branches sprouting new leaves.
Without a sound, the cat glided off ahead, doubtless prowling for its supper.
Andrena moved on, too. She heard no noises specific enough to identify but she knew now that there were at least two or three men. Careful to stay hidden but watchful, she also knew that her sweeping gaze would detect any movement.
A large shadow passed between two large-trunked beeches ahead to her left.
Going still, she watched as a stranger stepped between the two trees. Two others followed. All three wore saffron tunics, kilted plaids of dull red and green, swords slung across their backs, and dirks at their belts.
So much, Andrena thought, for Murie’s certainty—and their father’s—that no one could ford the wild river south of their tower without plunging into the loch and out with the tide. Either the three men had forded it or they’d found other means of trespassing onto Andrew’s land without his or his men’s knowledge.
The man in the tree suppressed a curse when he saw the lass. Who the devil, he wondered, would be daft enough to let a girl wander out alone in such dangerous times? His eyes narrowed as she carefully shifted her shawl and he saw the long dirk in its sheath suspended from her narrow leather girdle.
If she had an ounce of wit she would at least try to keep it hidden, because if the louts searching for him saw it, and they would, they might kill her just to teach her a lesson.
Knowing that they might sense his presence as easily as he had sensed hers, he decided that he ought to do what he could to prevent that. Fixing his gaze on a leaf midway between the three men, now only five or six yards away, and the girl moving toward them—ten paces from his tree—he let his mind go blank.
The last thing he wanted was for anyone to sense him watching them.
The men had moved much faster than Andrena had expected, stirring irritation with herself as well as with them. Having expected to get her first look at them from the next rise, she realized now that she had taken longer than she had intended. In truth, she had paid more heed to the forest creatures’ silence than to its most likely cause, that the men were nearer than she had judged them to be.
Lina would say, and rightly, that having formed an image in her mind of what would happen, Dree had let her thoughts wander and, thus, had failed to think through all the possibilities of what might happen before coming out to investigate.
Hoping that Lina would not learn what had happened, Andrena considered what to do next. She was close enough to the tower for people on its ramparts and wall to hear her pipe if she blew it, so she slipped it out of its pocket into her hand.
The hawks still lingered nearby, as well.
It occurred to her that she would offer help without hesitation had the men simply been storm-tossed onto the shore and missed their way. Perhaps if she…
What the devil was she doing now?
He tensed as he watched her step out into the path of his three pursuers. At lea. . .
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