The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

Book 0: The Secret Clan

by Amanda Scott

Genres: Historical Fiction; Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

The complete four-book series-in one collection! Fans of Outlander won't want to miss the lush, romantic, epic Scottish romance of Amanda Scott. Abducted Heiress : Molly Gordon was the wealthiest lass in Scotland-before she and her sister were spirited away and separated. On the misty island where she's held captive, Molly longs for a hero brave enough to rescue her. Hidden Heiress : Elspeth can recall nothing of her past. Her lonely life of drudgery in Farnsworth Tower is interrupted when a mysterious man seeks refuge at the estate . . . and helps her uncover her true identity. Highland Bride : On her way home to the Highlands, Barbara McRae is kidnapped. A masked swordsman known as the Black Fox comes to her rescue-and leaves her with a kiss that haunts her dreams . . . Reiver's Bride: When reivers swoop down on Lady Anne Ellyson one moonlit night, she discovers that she knows their devilishly handsome leader as a man from her clan-a man who has been declared dead.

Release date: September 3, 2013

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 1368

Sample

When I moved to Warner Books, now Hachette Book Group, USA, and began planning my first two books with my editor there, she said she wanted me to put fairies in them. Harry Potter was taking the world by storm, and her thinking was that adding magic would sell more books. She also said she was sure that I knew everything there was to know about Scottish folklore. I didn’t, but I told her I would do the research and if I could find a grumpy old lady fairy in the folklore—and events in history that might have had some sort of intervention to happen they way they did—I’d do it. I didn’t want to recreate Tinkerbelle.

By the time I began writing Abducted Heiress I had found Maggie Malloch, a rather cantankerous creature from Border folklore, and a sixteenth-century attack on Eilean Donan Castle in the Highlands by forty galleys full of MacDonald Islesmen, during which three men successfully defended the castle, an event that definitely qualified. I had also discovered the vast difference between Highland folklore with its Celtic, often mischievous, irresponsible, gauzy fairies, and that of the Borders with its down-to-earth household spirits, brownies, and their ilk.

That led me to create the Secret Clan with its factions of mischievous Highland Merry Folk and their practical Border cousins, the Helping Hands, to provide an added dose of conflict. I still wondered if I could make the wee folk seem plausible, but after talking with a dear friend who was born at Eilean Donan and who speaks with assurance about the castle and its the wee folk (right down to describing where they congregate and how one sees them), I knew that I could.

Although I write fast, by the time I finished the manuscript, my editor had left the publishing house and I had a new one who’d had nothing to do with planning the book. To say that I was nervous when I turned in the manuscript is to put it mildly, right up to the day she called me and said that the wedding night scene in Abducted Heiress was the funniest one she’d ever read. She also loved Maggie Malloch and her always-well-meaning but utterly hapless son, Brown Claud.

Those first two books soon became four books, and the wee folk play a “helpful” role in all of them. In fact—and a first for me—the wee folk provide a thread other than general Scottish history that continues through all four books.

As for the stories, Hidden Heiress is basically what might have happened to Cinderella had she been born in sixteenth-century Scotland; the hero of Highland Bride derives from the masked avenger Zorro with bits of the Scarlet Pimpernel; and, the plot for Reiver’s Bride is based on Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night… as are a few of its characters, including Countess Olivia and Sir Toby. Other wee folk characters throughout include the wily Catriona, her rival Lucy Fittletrot, the villainous Jonah Bonewits, and my favorite: Fergus Fishbait.

That gentleman floated into being about five o’clock one summer morning, while I was staying in Southern California with the booksellers I sign for at Scottish games. I was alone on their patio with a cup of coffee, a pen, and a notepad, just doodling and scribbling whatever came into my head. Suddenly, up popped Fergus Fishbait, and I had a new member of The Secret Clan.

The end of the fairies’ tale came to me in much the same way, about halfway through Reiver’s Bride, and surprised me as much as it surprises Brown Claud.

Days like that are golden. Also golden is the fact that this Secret Clan Omnibus contains all four books at a price that delights my Scottish soul.

Enjoy, and Suas Alba!

Dunsithe Castle, the Scottish Borders, 1527

When they came for her, she was sleeping. Her dreams were untroubled, for she did not yet clearly understand that her father—the
big, laughing, teasing man she adored with all her heart—was gone from her life forever.


Powerful Adam, Lord Gordon, having against all odds survived the Flodden bloodbath at fourteen, had died at twenty-eight of
a knife wound suffered at the hands of a common reiver—and that after he had granted the villain the mercy of branding rather
than death. After his death, Gordon’s men had rectified their master’s error, but that had made no difference to Gordon, for
by then he was beyond caring, and he did not know what a quandary his dying would create. Things might have been different
had he left a male heir, but he had not.


“Wake up, lassie.” The strange voice was insistent. “Ye mun come wi’ us.”

Ineffectively, Molly tried to shrug away the big hand that shook her shoulder. She was five years old and sleeping the heavy,
deep sleep of an innocent child, so waking was not as easy for her as the man seemed to think it was.


“For Christ’s sake, just pick her up, Davy.” Another voice, another stranger. “His lordship wants her straightaway, below.”

“But she’ll need proper clothing,” protested the first.

“Whisst! D’ye think the wee lass kens where her clothes be kept? Take her up, man. She’s sleepin’ like the dead.”

Cold air enveloped her when one of them threw back the coverlet, but she was still too sleepy to care, even when he picked
her up. He cradled her small body against his broad chest, but hard points jabbed her tender skin through the thin shift she
wore as a bed gown, making her squirm to avoid them.


She blinked groggily. It was dark in the room, but where was her nurse? Her father’s men did not look after children.

“She’ll be cold,” the man holding her said. “Mayhap I should take along the blanket, too.”

“His lordship will say what the lass needs,” the other said gruffly.

She was more awake now and feeling querulous. “Put me down, you,” she muttered. “Who are you? You should not touch me.”

“Hush, lass,” growled the man who carried her. “Ye’re tae do as ye’re bid.”

His curt command silenced her, but it did not ease her annoyance. She was not accustomed to rudeness.

The stranger was carrying her down the torchlit, wheel stairway, into the great hall. It was cold there, too, for although
several torches burned in their holders on the arras-draped walls, the hall fire had burned down to embers. She shivered.
She should not be here.


“Here be the Maid, m’lord,” the man carrying her said.

“Put her down.”

That voice was one she recognized. It was her uncle, the Earl of Angus.

More disoriented than ever, because Angus rarely visited them, she watched him, trying to gauge his mood, as the man who held
her set her on her bare feet.


Then, seeing her mother in the shadows near the great fireplace, and being a well-trained child, she curtsied hastily and
said, “Good evening, Uncle.”


Though she stood on a carpet, her feet were cold, and she knew that her mother would condemn her untidy appearance and the
fact that she had come downstairs in her bed gown. Nonetheless, her gaze fixed itself on her uncle.


Angus was a handsome, fair-haired man in his late thirties, but his penetrating blue eyes were as cold as the hall, and they
stared unwinkingly at her. When he did not respond to her greeting, apprehension stirred within her.


His expression was stern and his voice grim when at last he snapped, “Where the devil are your clothes?”

Swallowing hard past a sudden ache in her throat, and trying to ignore the tears welling in her eyes, she said, “N-no one
fetched them to me.” She did not dare even glance at her mother.


To her surprise, Lady Gordon said tartly, “Pray, Archie, what did you expect? The child is not yet six years old. Truly, sir,
I do not know why you are bent on this dreadful course, for she is far too young to be taken from her home.”


Molly tensed and rubbed one cold foot against the other, but she did not protest. Although she was young, she knew better
than to complain. Her mother was as unpredictable as Uncle Archie and would not thank her for voicing an opinion.


The earl regarded her mother with disfavor. “You will not set yourself in opposition to me, Eleanor,” he said. “You will do
what is best for your family, and I will determine what that must be. I have a new husband in mind for you, and although he
is willing to take a woman born on the wrong side of the blanket if she is my sister, he is not a man I can allow to control
the Maid of Dunsithe or her present heir. I shall control their destiny myself.”


“You cannot take Bessie, too,” Lady Gordon protested. “She’s but a bairn.”

“Of course, I will take her. Children die, madam, and if Mary dies, her sister becomes Maid of Dunsithe and inherits all of
this.”


Had he been anyone else, Molly would have told him quite firmly that she did not like to be called Mary. Her father had always
called her Molly.


“You do not care one whit about my daughters,” Lady Gordon said resentfully. “You care only about controlling Dunsithe and
its wealth, just as you have controlled the King’s grace these past years. I am Mary’s mother. Surely, I am the one best suited
to look after her and to tend to my late husband’s property as well.”


“Don’t be daft,” he retorted. “Dunsithe is a Border stronghold and requires a strong man to control it. The King has granted
me a writ of wardship and marriage for Mary, so you will do exactly as I bid you, or you will soon find yourself in sad straits
indeed.”


He paused, watching her, but the child was not surprised when her mother questioned him no further. No one argued with a man
when he spoke in that tone.


“That’s better,” Angus said. “Take the lass and see her warmly dressed. And see to the bairn, too.”

“What of their nurse?”

“Keep her here. I’ll provide them with nurses I can trust at Tantallon. Now, go, for I’ve other matters to attend to before
I can depart.”


Without another word, Lady Gordon snatched up her daughter, and Molly pressed her lips tightly together to keep from crying
out at such rough handling. As she was carried up the twisting stairway, she heard her mother mutter, “Other matters, indeed.
He wants only the fortune and control of Dunsithe’s heiress.”


Upstairs, Lady Gordon shouted for her woman, and when that worthy appeared, said angrily, “We’re to dress her to travel, Sarah,
so tell their nurse to give you warm clothing for Mary and to dress Elizabeth warmly, too, and to pack more for them to take
with them. They go with Angus.”


Tears sprang to Molly’s eyes at the thought of going away with her grim uncle.

“His lordship be takin’ both o’ the wee lassies then?”

“Aye, he is,” Lady Gordon said, “and I am to marry someone else of his choosing, if you please. Molly is an heiress now, after
all, and my esteemed brother does not consider me worthy to look after her. He wants Elizabeth, too, in case Molly should
die. By rights, that fortune should be mine to control until Molly is grown, but I am to have naught but what Angus and my
soon-to-be husband choose to allow me. Poor Molly will doubtless be married off soon, too.”


“Och, but she be gey young for marriage!”

“A girl with a fortune like hers is never too young to marry,” Lady Gordon said tartly. “Angus will use her and her fortune
to serve his own interest.”


“He willna let her go if Dunsithe’s treasure goes with her, I’m thinkin’.”

“No, but the course of history seldom runs smoothly, Sarah, and young King Jamie does not like my brother. For all that his
grace must answer to him now, in time, Jamie will win free, and when he does, Angus will no longer wield the great power he
wields now. What if something happens to Molly? What if someone should contest her claim?”


“But who would do such a thing?”

“Oh, think, woman!” Lady Gordon said impatiently. “Such things happen whenever men desire aught that belongs to someone else.
It would require only that someone declare her an imposter or suggest some other deceit or conspiracy afoot.”


“But ye’ll set matters straight if they do, madam. Ye’re her mother, after all.”

“Aye, but I’ll not be surprised if Angus forbids me any contact with her. This abduction—for it is no less than that—does
not mean he believes that he is better suited to raise her. He simply does not want me to control Dunsithe and her wealth.
Now go and fetch her clothing, or they’ll come and take her without it.”


The woman hurried away, and the child was left alone with her mother.

“Molly, listen to me,” Lady Gordon said. “You are going away with your uncle Archie, and you must be a good girl. Obey him
always, for he is very stern.”


“But I don’t want to go away,” Molly said, fighting tears again. “I live here, and I don’t like Uncle Archie.”


“You must go, so you can look after Bessie.”

“But why cannot we both stay here with you?”

“Because you can’t, that’s all.”

Her tears spilled over, and hastily she wiped them away. Only babies cried.

The door opened, and both child and mother turned to see the tirewoman enter with Molly’s clothing. Sarah looked distraught.

“What is it?” Lady Gordon demanded. “What’s amiss?”

“Men came and took the bairn, my lady! They just walked into the nursery and snatched Elizabeth from her cradle.”

“Faith, what can he be thinking?”

Sarah had tears in her eyes, and seeing them, Molly began to tremble. Tears trickled down her cheeks again, unheeded now.

Sarah began deftly to dress her as she said sadly to Lady Gordon, “Why would the earl take one as small as wee Bess, my lady?”

“Because if anything should happen to Molly, Bessie will become the Maid of Dunsithe, and he means to maintain control of
the Maid’s fortune. Indeed,” she added thoughtfully, “I would not put it past Angus to create his own heiress if both of the
girls should die. If he were to keep them secluded and shift them about from one of his castles to another, who would know
the difference? ’Tis likely that as the years pass even I would fail to recognize the true Maid of Dunsithe.”


“Surely, that could never happen!”

“We cannot let it happen,” Lady Gordon said grimly. “I can do nothing about Bess if Angus has already taken her, but I will know Molly,
one way or another.” Reaching for the ring of keys on her belt, she removed one of the smaller ones and handed it to Sarah.
“Stir up the fire and heat this red-hot. I mean to see that no one will ever have cause to doubt the identity of the true
Maid of Dunsithe.”


“Mistress, ye’ll no hurt the wee lassie!”

“Hold your tongue, woman, and do as I bid you. I’ll go and hurry Nurse with their clothing, but I’ll be right back. Molly,”
she added sharply, “you stop your weeping if you don’t want to feel my hand when I return.”


Her tummy clenched, her breathing came too fast, and her hands felt prickly, but dashing an arm across her eyes to wipe her
tears away, the child watched silently as the tire-woman stirred up the fire.


Sarah put another log on and blew expertly on the embers to encourage more flames. When the fire was burning lustily, she
slipped the little key onto the end of the poker and held it right in the heart of the flames. By the time Lady Gordon returned,
the key was red-hot.


“Find me something to hold it with then bare her chest for me,” she ordered. “I’ll do the rest myself.”

Only then did Molly realize her exact intent. Screaming, she tried to free herself from Sarah’s grip. Though she was tiny,
it took both of them to hold her.


The Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1539

Outside the little thatched cottage, wind blew and sleet-filled rain pelted down from a lightning-lashed black sky. The rain
pattered noisily against the straw thatch, and thunder rolled after each bolt of lightning, but the crofters inside the cottage
were used to such sounds. The single, crowded little room beneath the thatch was quiet except for the noise of the storm,
the rhythmic whir of a spinning wheel, the crackling and sizzling of the peat fire in the center of the hard-packed dirt floor,
and the voice of the long-bearded old man sitting in the place of honor.


“Years ago,” he said, “my father did tell me about a woman who were in a great hurry to ha’ her wool spun and made into cloth.”

Pausing to shoot a twinkling look at the woman seated at the spinning wheel, he drank thirstily from his mug. Then, cradling
the mug in his lap between two gnarled, liver-spotted hands, he went on in a more ominous tone. “One nicht,” he said, “against
advice, she made a wish for someone to help her, and next day six or seven fairy women in long green robes appeared at her
house, all chanting magical words that only they could understand. Taking up her wool-cards and spinning wheel, they set to
work, and by midday, the cloth were on the loom. When they finished, they asked her for more work, but she had nae more spinning
or weaving to do, and she began to wonder how she would get them out o’ her house.”


Seventeen-year-old Molly Gordon sat on her cloak on the dirt floor near a corner of the room, leaning contentedly against
the wall. Arms hugging her knees, she listened to the familiar tale, contented and filled with a rare sense of almost fitting
in, belonging, if only for a short time. She knew everyone in the room well, as well as the family that had raised her, and
she cared for them deeply.


The fragrance of burning peat wafted through the air, mixed with odors of food cooked earlier over the fire, the damp fur
of the dogs curled near their masters, and the wet wool smell of rain-damp clothing. Although everyone in the cottage had
heard the tale many times, each listened as intently as if it were the first time.


Everyone had brought food to share, and now that they had finished eating and darkness had begun to fall, the ceilidh, or folk gathering, had begun in earnest. While they ate, the conversation had been all gossip, as everyone shared any news
gleaned since the last gathering. Then men had heaped the peat higher, and as it flamed and then smoldered, the tales had
begun.


Nearly a score of people filled the room, adults and children, most of them sitting close together around the fire, albeit
leaving sufficient space between it and themselves for any wee folk who might care to join them and hear the stories. Girls
snuggled with family members or friends, and boys perched wherever they found space—three on the solid, square table pushed
against one wall and several more in a tangle beneath it.


Near Molly, a man twisted twigs of heather into rope to tie down his thatch while he listened. Another twined quicken root
into cords to tether his cows, and yet another plaited bent grass into a basket to hold meal.


At her spinning wheel, their hostess’s hands moved deftly through their familiar motions while her eldest daughter carded
wool beside her. Another teased the nap on a piece of finished cloth. Other women sewed, knitted, or tended small children.
Babies nursed or slept, and on a bench in the corner opposite Molly, an elderly man dozed, his snores occasionally punctuating
the fairy tale.


Molly had no task to occupy her hands, no knee to lean against, and no hand to hold. She sat apart from the others, but even
so, the evening warmed her heart and contented her restless soul.


The storyteller had reached the point in his story where the housewife complained to her neighbor about the exasperating fairy
women.


“ ‘Get ye inside,’ the neighbor said to her, ‘and tell them to go down to the sea and spin the sand into cloth. That’ll keep
’em busy and out o’ your house.’ And so it did,” the storyteller added. “For all we ken, they be there to this verra day.”


Chuckles greeted the end of the tale, just as they always did, and before they had died away, another man said matter-of-factly,
“Me father and grandfather knew a man wha’ were carried by the Host all the way from South Uist to Barra.”


“Aye, then, tell us aboot it, man,” murmured several members of the audience in a chorus.

After that, the old man told the tale of the Dracae, or water fairies, which was one of Molly’s favorites. Even the children were silent, eager to hear what happened to the woman
seized by the water fairies and taken to their subterranean depths to act as nurse to their brood of fairy children. Then
one small lad, who had been struggling to stay awake, fell asleep and toppled over just at the part where the now-escaping
captive acquired the ability to see the Dracae whenever they intermingled with men. The hoot of laughter from the lad’s brothers brought quick shushing noises from their
father and several of the other adults. Molly smiled.


As the water fairies’ tale reached its happy conclusion, she drew a deep breath of delight. It did not matter how many times
one heard the tales. Knowing how each would end only added to one’s enjoyment. She could even be grateful for the rain. No
one would expect her to walk back to Dunakin Castle until it stopped.




Despite the driving black storm from the Atlantic that raged with unabated fury around the flat-bottomed fishing coble, the
little boat’s oarsmen moved it with remarkable steadiness from the Kintail mainland toward the looming dense shape of the
Isle of Skye. Lightning flashed, revealing the boat’s six occupants, one hunched in the bow, one manning the tiller, and the
four others manning the long sweeps.


Thunder rolled and rumbled as driving sleet pelted them. The wind carried gusts so fierce and high that the coble’s square
lugsail was useless and was rolled up and strapped tightly to the beam of the mast.


The next flash of lightning revealed white sea foam billowing like snow around them. Then thunder crashed, and darkness enveloped
them again.


In the bow, his oiled woolen mantle gripped tightly around him and his head turned away from the wind, Sir Finlay Mackenzie,
Baron Kintail, enjoyed mixed feelings about the wintry weather. He was cold, and despite his heavy mantle, he was wet. This
was not the way he had imagined restoring stability to his life.


Earlier, horses had carried him and the five others to the village called Kyle from Eilean Donan Castle. From Kyle, they had
taken the coble into the teeth of the storm. Normally, the trip across the strait would have been quick, for the distance
was only half a mile. However, they headed almost due south, so the full fury of the Atlantic storm blasted them from the
right, and with the storm thus trying to force them off course, the journey was taking an eternity.


Fin glanced over his shoulder, ignoring the sting of sleet against his face as he searched the darkness ahead. Through the
black tempest, a tiny cluster of lights gleamed—their beacon, Dunakin Castle, perched high on its promontory. They were on
course despite the storm’s attempts to drive them back to Eilean Donan.


He hoped he was doing the right thing. To attempt his mission in such a hazardous way was perhaps foolhardy, especially with
so few men in his tail. He was a Mackenzie chieftain, after all, a baron with the power of the pit and the gallows, and therefore
a man of considerable authority. Perhaps he might have done better to await a calm day and transport horses to Skye along
with a full contingent of menat-arms to act as a proper chieftain’s tail.


However, by the time he could mount such an effort, every man on Skye would know he was coming, and not all were friendly
to the Mackenzies of Kintail.


Instead, he had decided that the mission he undertook was best done speedily and without warning, let alone any fanfare. He
would stir a hornet’s nest, even so, but that did not concern him. In truth, it pleased him that his greatest enemy, Donald
of Sleat—the very man who had brought such heavy responsibilities crashing down upon his shoulders—was about to lose one of
his most valued assets. The Maid of Dunsithe, greatest heiress in the land, was about to change guardians, and Donald of Sleat—known
in the western Highlands and Isles as Donald the Grim—knew nothing yet about the exchange.


The taking of the Maid would stand for little enough in the grand scheme of things, but it was something, and Fin Mackenzie
owed Donald the Grim much more. Only months before, in the depths of winter, Donald and others of his clan had murdered Fin’s
father in cold blood. Vengeance, in any form, was sweet.


It was hard to tell the difference between the seawater dousing him and the driving sleet, but as they drew nearer, the Isle
of Skye began to protect them from the worst of the storm. Now, compared to being on the open sea, they were sheltered, and
despite the roar of the wind, he could hear the creaking of the rowlocks and the lashing of water against the sides of the
boat. In lulls, he could even hear the labored breathing of his oarsmen. Being men who lived by the sea, they all were skilled
at rowing, but they were also experienced men-at-arms.


Lightning flashed again, and his gaze met that of Sir Patrick MacRae, his closest companion and best friend. In the Highlands,
the MacRaes were called the Mackenzies’ “shirt of mail,” and Patrick was a true MacRae. Much the same age as his master, he
had served Fin since childhood, even accompanying him to St. Andrews University, where they had enjoyed a good many adventures
together.


Patrick was grinning, as usual, and Fin automatically smiled back. But when thunder clapped and blackness swallowed them again,
his thoughts returned to the Maid of Dunsithe. Specifically, he wondered what he was going to do with her.


His greatest loves were his home and his people. James, fifth of that name and by grace of God High King of Scots, had granted
him the right to marry the Maid off wherever she could do him the most good. He could even marry her himself if he chose,
but he had no interest yet in marrying anyone.


Fin was more interested in the Maid’s fortune, because it could do much to protect his people and add to Eilean Donan’s fortifications.
There was a problem, though. Men everywhere, from the Borders to the Highlands, agreed that the Maid of Dunsithe was the greatest
heiress in all Scotland, which, under normal circumstances, would have meant that one of her earlier guardians—and she had
enjoyed several—would have married her off long since. The enticement for each, and the greatest deterrent, was her fortune.
It was said that no one had actually ever laid eyes on it, but that tale sounded apocryphal to him. If there was treasure,
he would find it, but even so, he was certain that over time men had exaggerated the size of it many times over. Still, whatever
it comprised, he would see it, touch it, and take control of it before he did anything else with her.


He could not help but wonder at his fantastic luck. After months of uncertainty and concern over whether he would succeed
in filling his powerful father’s shoes, he had somehow drawn the King’s notice and could now claim a connection to the powerful
Earl of Huntly, chief of the Gordons. Huntly ruled the eastern Highlands and was some sort of cousin to the Maid.


Thus, the heiress had grand connections in Edinburgh and elsewhere, but she belonged now to a Highland baron with few influential
connections outside the Highlands. Fin was uncomfortably aware that it would take a miracle to hold her if other, more powerful
men discovered what James had done and decided to claim her for themselves. He would have to fight to keep her unless those
others, including Donald the Grim, also believed that her fortune was mythical.


Unfortunately, the King was fickle in his choice of friends. He loved pitting his nobles against each other, but if there
was trouble, Fin believed he could hold his own. Even without the improvements the Maid’s fortune could provide, Eilean Donan
was a stronghold worthy of the name, and he was a warrior, able to guard what was his. W