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Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series Praise Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue Copyright
Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series
LION’S LEGACY
“Suzanne Barclay certainly takes her place amongst the finest of Medieval writers...”
—Romantic Times
“Magical!”—the Literary Times
“...a most wonderful tale of love...”
—Old Book barn Gazette
LION OF THE NORTH
“Pure gold! Read a Barclay Medieval and you’re reading the best.”
—The Medieval chronicle
“...brimming with the atmosphere and drama of the times.”
—Affaire de Coeur
LION’S HEART
“...a special and unforgettable work. 5
—Affaire de Coeur
“...characters so compelling they will pull you into the story and not let go...5♥s.”
—Booklovers
“Again and again, Ms. Barclay proves that she is one
of the best authors today in historical romance!”
—The Literary Times
“...richly detailed, completely believable and
totally satisfying...”
—The Gannett News Service
“...page-turning adventure...seduces your
senses and lays siege to your heart.”
—Author Theresa Michaels
“A rare treasure!”
—Rendezvous
“...a great superstar.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“...a magician with words...”
—Romantic Times
“...pure magic...a glorious tapestry of love
and redemption.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
Discover the magic.
Read Suzanne Barclay today!
Dear Reader,
If your mother didn’t tell you about Harlequin Historical, this Mother’s Day might be a good time to let her in on the secret. The gift of romance can enhance anyone’s life, and our May list promises to be a spectacular introduction. Award-winning author Suzanne Barclay returns this month with Lion’s Lady, the fourth title in her highly acclaimed SUTHERLAND SERIES. Intrigue, betrayal and passion abound in this medieval tale of a newly widowed noblewoman who travels to Blantyre Castle to secure her son’s inheritance and is shockingly reunited with the valiant warrior who is her child’s natural father.
A feisty young adventuress with dreams of the West heals the haunted soul of a handsome wagon train leader in Jeb Hunter’s Bride, the newest title from the versatile Ana Seymour. And in The Wilder Wedding, a compelling Victorian by Lyn Stone, a young heiress who believes she is dying proposes to a jaded but irresistible private investigator she’s only just met.
Rae Muir’s Twice a Bride is the second book of her captivating WEDDING TRAIL series about four friends who find love on the road to California. In this Western, a trail scout’s daughter marries a rugged hunter to fulfill her father’s dying wish—only her father doesn’t die....
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical. Happy Mother’s Day!
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont- L2A 5X3
Lion’s Lady
Suzanne Barclay
SUZANNE BARCLAY has been an avid history buff all her life and an inveterate dreamer since she was very young. “There is no better way to combine the two than by writing historical romances,” she claims. “What other career allows you to journey back to the time when knights were bold and damsels distressed without leaving behind the comforts of central heating and indoor plumbing?” She and her husband of twenty-one years recently moved into a new house with a separate office where Suzanne can dream in blissful peace...when not indulging her passion for gourmet cooking or walking their two dogs, Max and Duffy.
Suzanne has prepared a comprehensive Sutherland family tree, detailing the marriages and progeny of all the Sutherlands, even those who did not star in their own stories. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.
Prologue
Highlands, July, 1384
He wasn’t coming.
Rowena MacBean closed her eyes, her head bowed by a pain so sharp it was physical. Her hand fell reflexively to her belly. Flat still, it was, but if old Meg was right about what she’d told Rowena this morn—and the midwife usually was about such matters—it would not be flat much longer.
Rowena was pregnant with Lion Sutherland’s baby.
The joy she’d felt on hearing the news had faded to fear and finally gnawing panic as the hours waned and Lion didn’t arrive. A shudder worked its way through her as she imagined the confrontation to come when she returned home.
“Fool,” her mother would cry. “What were ye thinking, carrying on with the likes of him? He’ll not wed ye, ye know. When he takes a wife, the heir to the high-and-mighty Sutherland clan will wed a lass as wealthy and noble as himself, not a lowly MacBean. And why should he, since ye’re willing to give it away free?”
Rowena would likely get her ears boxed for good measure and have to endure the pain in her older brother’s eyes and the sneers of the lads she’d snubbed.
“Lion isn’t like that, Mama,” she whispered now, pressing her back against the aging pine for support. For two months—ever since their meeting at the clan gathering in May—they’d secretly trysted here, in the woods halfway between Tarbert Keep and the Sutherlands’ fine castle at Kinduin.
He’d come. Lion always came. Though born into wealth and privilege, he was a man who put honor before all things. He’d said he loved her. He’d promised to wed her in three years when he returned from France with the education his father insisted upon. “You’ll be ten and eight then,” Lion had said, holding her close to his naked body as their racing hearts slowed. “Together we’ll rule my wee tower at Glenshee.”
The memory of their loving warmed her chilled blood, gave her heavy spirit a glimmer of hope.
Lion loved her. He would come. He was just late.
He had never been late. Not once in two months. More often than not, he’d met her just out of sight of Tarbert, being so anxious he’d come all the way instead of half. He’d have come to her front gate if she’d allowed it, but fearing her mother’s wrath, Rowena had insisted they meet in secret.
Preparations for the journey to France must have delayed him, for he was due to depart in a fortnight.
What would her announcement do to his plans?
Her faith faltered, then steadied as she recalled Lion’s face when he kissed her, his mouth curved in a heart-stopping smile, his brilliant amber eyes warm with love. He’d not fail her, her rugged, black-maned Lion. He would convince his parents to let them wed. He’d take her with him to France. The court would surely be grander even than Kinduin’s fine hall, but with Lion beside her, she’d brave the stares of the foreign nobles. She’d sew herself velvet gowns of the sort worn by Lady Elspeth, Lion’s mother. Rowena would even tame her unruly blond hair beneath a stiff headdress such as fine noble women wore. She’d work hard to become a lady so she would not shame her Lion.
Her Lion.
Aye, he was that. Recklessly brave, hot of temper, quick to anger, quicker to forgive. Yet so incredibly gentle and tender with her. The memory perked up her spirits. He loved her.
Rowena pulled her cloak a little tighter and watched the trail. An hour passed. And then another. Her shoulders slumped. Four hours she’d been waiting. Soon it would be nightfall. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be riding home in the dark.
As the sun sank slowly behind the majestic mountains, Rowena untied her pony’s reins from the branch and mounted. She felt as creaky and stiff as an old woman, as though someone had been beating her. Well, she’d get that beating soon enough, when her mother found out she was carrying a bastard child.
It was fully dark by the time she approached the wooden gates of Tarbert. Toothless Will poked his head over the wall and scowled down at her.
“Out late ye are, lass.”
“Aye.” She was so cold it seemed her feet were made of ice as she dismounted in the courtyard. Tarbert Tower glowered down at her in the gloom, stern and disapproving. Light shone from the narrow arrow slits in the great hall a story above. Her kinfolk were at supper. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t face them. Instead, she sneaked in through the kitchens and up the back stairs to her small wall chamber.
Shivering, she undressed in the dark and crawled under the scratchy blanket. Then and only then did she let fall the tears that burned the back of her eyes. She wept as she hadn’t in years. When the storm had passed, she dozed, awakening at first light.
What was she going to do? Huddled under the covers, she devised and discarded a dozen plans. Only one course made sense. She must ride to Kinduin and see Lion. Only then could she decide what must be done.
Though it was summer, the room was icy cold as she washed and dressed quickly in her feast-day best. She took extra pains with her hair, brushing out the snarls, then braiding it. Her hands shook as she pinned the braids atop her head, as she’d seen the fine ladies do. The only piece of jewelry she possessed was a broach in the shape of a swan, which her father had given her the year she turned thirteen. She used it to fasten her cloak, then crept from the room.
No one was about when she saddled her pony. To the guard at the gate, she lied about having an errand in the village. The five-mile ride to Kinduin passed too quickly and too slowly, with her stomach in knots, her nerves ajangle. By the time she reached Kinduin’s gates, she was dizzy with dread. Her voice shook as she gave her name to the guard in the gatehouse. After a long wait, the small door set in the drawbridge opened, and a soldier in dark Sutherland plaid motioned her forward.
“What do you want?” the man inquired warily.
“I—I’ve come to see L-Lion Sutherland.”
“Alone?” He scowled and looked about, as though expecting men to sprout from the rocks at her back.
“A-aye. Could—could I speak with him?”
“He’s not here.”
“Not here? Where...?”
“France,” the soldier snapped. “He’s gone to France.”
“But—but he was not supposed to leave for a fortnight.”
“Plans changed.”
Nay. He can’t have gone...not without a word. Stunned, Rowena swayed in the saddle. “Why?” she whispered.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“R-Rowena MacBean. I—”
“MacBean!” His eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, shoving his scruffy face into hers. “Now what would a worthless MacBean be doing asking after our Lion? Did ye think to lure him into yer bed and trap yerself a rich husband? Get ye gone before I drive ye away with the point of my sword.”
Rowena wheeled her horse and sent it careening down the steep trail, more to outrun the terrible pain than to escape the man’s threats. At the bottom of the hill she gave the pony its head, but the rush of wind in her face did not scour away the anguish in her heart. He’d left. He’d left her without a word. The dreadful finality seemed to pound in her head in cadence with the pony’s hoofbeats. By the time she reached Tarbert, the pain had hardened to anger.
She’d never been one to trust easily. With a lethal combination of intelligence, gentleness and sensual seduction, Lion had cajoled her into trusting him. How he must have crowed over his triumph when she finally surrendered her innocence. Angry as she was with him, she was furious with herself. She should have known better.
Worthless MacBeans, the guard had called them, and Tarbert was certainly not much to look at—a huddle of dilapidated buildings, a few scruffy cattle. For generations, the MacBeans had earned what they could training other men’s horses. It put food on the table, clothes on their backs, but not much more. Still, the keep was clean, her kinfolk honest. Which was more than could be said for the Sutherland heir, she thought.
The MacBeans were at the noon meal when she cantered into the courtyard. No one came to take her pony, so she led it into the stables herself. She unbuckled the girth, then braced to slide the heavy saddle off.
“Let me,” commanded a gravelly voice.
Rowena squeaked and turned. “Oh, ’tis you, Laird Padruig.” She inclined her head in greeting to him, a customer come to pick up the ponies her brother, John, had broken to saddle.
“Where’ve ye been?” he demanded. The gloom in the stables emphasized the lines in his weathered face and the harshness of his features. His eyes were hard; his mouth never smiled.
“R-riding.” The last thing she wanted now was company. “I should get inside.”
“A moment.” He plucked the saddle from the pony’s back as though it weighed nothing and set it in the straw. “The stable lad can see to her when he’s finished eating.” He took Rowena’s arm and escorted her from the barn. But when she started toward the tower, he steered her around the stark stone edifice and into the kitchen garden.
“Laird Padruig?” She was not frightened, for he’d been a frequent visitor to her father, then her brother.
“I’ve been waiting on ye.”
“Why?” Rowena stopped, fear clutching at her battered nerves. “Is it Mama? John?”
“Yer mother and brother are well, far’s I ken.” He stopped in the shadow of the huge rowan bush by the back door, yet still kept hold of her arm, as though fearing she’d run off.
“What is it, then?”
“Ye’ll not have noticed, but I’ve had me eye on ye.”
“I—I had not.” She’d been too caught up in her feelings for Lion and in making the most of the time they had. “Why?”
“I’m in need of a wife,” he said bluntly.
Rowena blinked. Padruig held the Highland record for most handfasts, having contracted himself to no fewer than fifteen women over the years. None of the unions had lasted more than the prescribed year and a day, for none had produced what Padruig needed more than anything—an heir to rule the Gunns after him. She recalled John saying it had something to do with Padruig’s mistrust of his half brother, Eneas, who would be the next chief if Padruig failed to get a son.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked warily.
“Because I need a wife, and I think ye need a husband.” He looked at her belly, and she fancied those muddy brown eyes of his could see through her gown and shift to her womb.
Rowena shifted uncomfortably. “I do not know what you—”
“Aye, ye do. And ye’re a clever lass and sensible...for the most part. Ye’ll not be wanting to tell yer family ye’re breeding and no husband in the offing.”
“How can you know?” she demanded.
“Over the years, I’ve watched other men’s wives and sweethearts swell with child. Watched and envied. Ye’ve the glow of a lass who’s well and truly caught.” A hint of a smile tilted his lips. “And I chanced to overhear yer conversation with old Meg the other morning.”
“Oh.” Rowena wanted desperately to sit down.
“Here.” Padruig grabbed her arm and led her to a wooden bench. “Can’t have ye tiring yerself and risking my babe.”
“You—you’d claim another’s child as your own?”
“Aye, I would, and if ye’ve listened to half the gossip that goes around, ye know why.”
“But the child has no Gunn blood.”
“It comes of good stock. Ye’re a fine lass, gentle and clever...if a bit foolish about love. But then, most lasses are. And the father...” Padruig Gunn gritted his teeth. “’Tis better if his name is never spoken between us, lest we be heard, but I’ve learned good things about him. Courageous in battle, dedicated to his clan and honorable... I could die easy knowing a lad with those qualities would inherit and safeguard all I’d worked so hard to build.” His expression turned as stark as the mountains beyond Tarbert’s walls. “I’d do almost anything to keep Eneas from becoming chief after me. He’s ruthless and so hungry for power he’d drag our clan into hell with him.”
Tom, Rowena studied her hands.
“Ye’re thinking mayhap that he might change his mind and come back for ye.”
“How do you know he’s gone away?”
“I made it my business to know everything about him. His father has great plans for him. He’s to be educated in France, trained and groomed as befits Highland nubility. They’ll marry him off to a great heiress. What with the way the English killed off the French nobles, there are wealthy, titled daughters and widows aplenty over the narrow sea for him to choose from.”
Rowena sighed and hung her head. His words mirrored the fears she’d had when Lion had first taken an interest in her. If only she’d listened to her inbred caution and ignored the attraction that had leaped between them from the instant their eyes had met. “What if the babe is a girl?”
“I’ll take that chance, raise her to be strong and wed her to a man of my choosing. It’s settled, then?”
Nay, her heart cried out. But for the first time in two months, she listened instead to her mind. “Aye.”
Chapter One
Highlands, May, 1390
The night was as wild and unruly as the times. A bank of clouds hid the moon and deepened the natural shadows in the little wooded glen where Lionel Sutherland lurked. The wind blew briskly from the west, whipping the pines and barely budded oaks into a rustling frenzy.
How much he missed this, the raw land, the damp weather, the sweet, sweet smell of home. As he lifted his head to sample the air, the wind tugged at his shoulder-length hair like an impatient lover.
Aye, ’twas a perfect night for the things Highlanders did best—for skulking about in the brush, for executing a raid or meeting in secret. And Lion was about all three. Appreciating the irony of the situation, he smiled. The twinkle in his pale eyes and the dimple that softened his lean face had earned him the undying devotion of more than a few lasses. But not the one he’d wanted most.
Lion’s smile dimmed. How ironic that he had braved the spring storm to try and save the life of the man he hated above all others. If he did nothing and Padruig Gunn died, Rowena would be free... Nay, he’d not be able to live with the guilt.
Sensing his restlessness, Turval pawed the ground.
“Steady, lad. It’ll not be long now.” They’d left Blantyre Castle well ahead of his quarry, and Padruig had to take this trail on his homeward journey. He’d be along any moment; Lion would do his duty, then ride off.
His horse started, long ears pricking forward.
“Is he come?” Gathering the reins to steady his mount, Lion leaned low and peeked between the branches of a sheltering pine. Sure enough, a single man guided his horse along the rocky banks of the creek swollen with late spring runoff.
“Jesu, he’s daft, riding in the open as though he hadn’t a care in the world,” Lion grumbled. He should leave him to his own devices, but his sense of justice wouldn’t let him.
As Padruig rode abreast of his hiding place, Lion urged his horse out from cover.
“What the...?” Pale light shimmered on deadly steel as Padruig lifted the sword from across his thighs. “Who are ye?”
“A friend.” Lion held both empty hands aloft.
“Friends dinna creep up on a man in the dark.” Padruig was a big, rawboned man of some five and forty years, with thinning hair and a warrior’s scarred face. How could Rowena have wed him? It hurt thinking of him with his Rowena, kissing her, lying with her, getting her with child.
“You left Blantyre in rather a hurry. And given the delicacy of my mission, it seemed best to meet you here.”
“Step into the open where I can see ye.”
Lion edged his horse out from under the canopy of branches.
Padruig’s widened as they focused on Lion’s face. “Lion Sutherland.” A brittle note underscored his surprise.
“Aye.” They had not been introduced during the brief hours Padruig had spent at Blantyre, come in answer to the summons of Lion’s current overlord, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan. “How is it you know me?”
Padruig shrugged. “I’d reason enough to learn yer name.”
Had Rowena spoken of him? Had she told her husband that because of Lion she’d come to him no maid? It gave Lion savage satisfaction to know he’d been the first to taste her sweetness. It was not nearly enough, but it was all he had to ease the ache of yearning and regret “I see,” Lion said edgily, wondering if he faced a jealous husband. It would be his first time for that, for he was no poacher.
“I doubt ye do. Then again...” Padruig’s thin mouth lifted in what could have been a smile or a grimace. “Have ye come to kill me over it?”
Lion frowned. Although he seemed a blunt, uncomplicated man, there were unnerving layers of meaning in Padruig Gunn’s speech. Mysteries Lion had no time to unravel. “You rejected the earl’s request for men to help him subdue the outlaws that plague the Highlands,” he said, returning to the business at hand.
“Subdue outlaws?” Padruig cursed and spat. “’Tis an excuse to curb our independence and strip us of our property. Alexander Stewart’ll wipe out those clans that oppose him and take over their lands. He’ll make himself king of the Highlands, mark my words.”
Lion was amazed at how well Padruig understood the situation. Most of the clan leaders who had agreed to follow Alexander had either been fooled by his high-sounding mission or thought to gain power themselves. Those who had not joined him were of two groups—the lawless ones who did, indeed, need to be controlled and a few clans like the Sutherlands who guessed the earl’s darker purpose and wanted to stop him.
It was a dangerous, mayhap impossible task. One that had cast Lion in the role of spy in Alexander’s court. “If Alexander is as ambitions and ruthless as you say—” and Lion knew firsthand that he was “—then you were a fool to defy him so openly.”
“Bah. He’ll not miss the few Gunns I could have brought to his army. We’re a small, isolated clan.”
“He’s not a man who takes kindly to being told nay.”
Padruig snarled a curse.
Lion sighed. He couldn’t imagine his young, sunny Rowena wed to this cold, gruff man. Trying to do so hurt. “It would have been better to pretend to fall in with his plans.”
“Lie?”
“What harm in a lie that saves lives and buys us time?”
“Time to do what?”
“Find a way out of this damnable situation,” Lion replied.
“By agreeing to side with a rogue and murderer? Wolf, I’ve heard men call him behind his back. And it seems most apt, given the relish with which he raids and murders.”
Lion admired his convictions, if not his stubbornness. “Have you no care for your clan? For your...your wife?” The word stuck in his throat.
“Ah, my wife.” Padruig’s searing gaze raked Lion from his bare head to his leather boots, then back up. “I’ve a care for her—and for the lands I’d leave my son. Which is why I’ll not dirty myself by associating with that bastard. But I thank ye for the warning. Were our positions reversed, I wonder if I’d do the same.” He tugged on his horse’s reins and urged the beast into motion.