Pride Of Lions

“Get out of my bed,” Allisun snapped. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three 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

“Get out of my bed,” Allisun snapped.

Hunter shook his head, his midnight brown eyes glowing with sympathy. “There’s only the one, and my ankle—”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” She made to bolt from the bed, but he was quicker, one hand snagging her wrist. She tried to wrench free. “You’re hurting me.”

“Nay, you are hurting yourself by struggling.”

Allisun stilled, but her pulse beat wildly as she stared at her enemy. His eyes bored into hers with an intensity that stripped away everything but this moment. She was vividly conscious of his superior strength, held in check by the force of his will. Inside her, a primitive fear stirred. He could do with her whatever he wanted. None of the tactics her father and brothers had taught her could help her now. She was utterly powerless. But she would not beg. Lifting her chin, she snapped, “Attack me and have done with it.”

Dear Reader,

If you’ve never read a Harlequin Historical novel, you’re in for a treat. We offer compelling, richly developed stories that let you escape to the past—written by some of the best writers in the field!

We are very excited about Pride of Lions, a new Scottish medieval novel and the latest in THE SUTHERLAND SERIES by Suzanne Barclay. Critics have described her work as “Pure gold!”, “Magical!” and “Totally satisfying.” In her latest, a knight and a warrioress from enemy clans join forces and fall in love when they are lost within the territory of an evil laird. Don’t miss it!

Be sure to look for The Heart of a Here, a darling Western by Judith Stacy. Here, a bad boy turned rancher has thirty days to prove he’ll be a good father to his niece and nephew, and enlists the help of the new schoolmarm. The Knight’s Bride by rising talent Lyn Stone is a heartwarming and humorous tale of a very true knight who puts his honorable reputation on the line when he promises to marry the beautiful widow of his best friend.

Rounding out the month is Burke’s Rules, book two of THE GUARDSMEN series by Pat Tracy. Set in Denver, this story features a perfectly mannered schoolmistress who falls for the “protective” bachelor banker who helps her fund her school. Don’t miss this wonderful, sensuous story!

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® novel.

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Pride Of Lions

Suzanne Barclay

SUZANNE BARCLAY

Suzanne Barclay considers herself sublimely lucky to be writing historical romances. What other career would allow her to watch old Errol Flynn movies and call it research? Or daydream and call it work?

On those rare moments when she can tear herself away from the stories she is creating, she enjoys walking in the woods with her two dogs, Max and Duffy, whipping up exotic meals for her husband of twenty-three years and pawing through the local antique marts for special pieces to decorate her office/study.

Be sure to watch for the next installment in the Sutherland series, Taming the Lion, coming out in June, 1999.

Suzanne freely admits that she has trouble keeping track of all the Sutherlands and Carmichaels who people her stories, and has prepared an updated family tree detailing the various characters, their marriages and their children. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.

To my family,

a constant source of pride and joy.

Prologue

Luncarty Tower, the Scottish Borders

July, 1381

The setting sun bathed the crests of the Cheviot Hills in red fire and deepened the shadows in the woods along the creek that flowed past the tower. Soon it would be full dark, and everyone knew the land about was wild and dangerous.

So why in the world was his aunt leaving the safety of Luncarty’s stout walls?

His belly tight with apprehension, Hunter Carmichael crept after her, careful to stay well back as she negotiated the steep trail down to the edge of the burn. Her movements were quick and jerky, which was not at all like his graceful aunt, his favorite among his father’s five brothers and sisters. But then, she had not been acting like herself all day.

Hunter frowned. Could it be Uncle Jock’s fault?

Last night Hunter had heard Brenna and her husband arguing. The sounds of raised voices and weeping had roused him from sleep. He’d lain there in the dark, in the little wall chamber down the hall from theirs and wondered what to do. His parents sometimes disagreed, but they never shouted, and his father would not have made his mother cry.

A shaft of longing knifed through him. He’d enjoyed his summer here with his beloved aunt, but he wished he was home at Carmichael Castle with his parents. He missed his mother’s gentle smiles, his father’s sage advice and even Father Matthew’s lessons in reading and writing and scripture. Uncle Jock didn’t hold much with book learning, and had allowed Hunter to roam about, fishing and riding and doing as he pleased. He’d liked that very much indeed, but just now, thinking of home made his throat tighten and his eyes prickle.

Bah, he was ten and three, nearly a man. And it was a man’s duty to protect his family, particularly the woman-folk, his father, Ross, had taught him. The memory of those lessons drove Hunter from his warm bed and down the chilly, dark corridor to knock on the door of the master chamber.

“Who the hell’s there?” Uncle Jock demanded.

“H-Hunter.”

There was some grumbling and cursing, but the door opened. Jock McKie’s burly body filled the doorway, clad in loose breeks and a rumpled tunic. “What do ye want?” he demanded.

“I...I heard voices.” Hunter peered around his uncle to where his aunt stood by the hearth, her eyes red, her hair tumbling like a black curtain to the waist of her tightly belted bed robe. She looked no older than he, though she was near thirty. The sight of her, so small and unhappy, roused his protective instincts. Pushing past Jock, he went to take her icy hands.

“Are you all right?” Hunter whispered.

“Of course she is,” Jock snapped, coming up behind him. “We were just discussing something, were we not, Brenna?”

“Aye, that’s true,” she said at once.

Hunter was relieved not to see any bruises on her face. They’d had a soldier at Carmichael who had beaten one of the maids. Bram was his name, and he’d claimed women needed to be hit to keep them in line. Hunter’s father had disagreed vehemently. Ross had whipped the man and dismissed him, but the lesson had stayed with Hunter. Though Jock was a head taller than him and weighed twice as much, Hunter decided that if he’d been beating Brenna, he’d thrash Jock. Or try to.

“We were having words, as married people sometimes do, and lost our tempers,” his aunt added. “I’m sorry we woke you.”

Hunter had pondered that for a moment. “Papa says the rest of us are cursed with Grandfather Lionel’s hot temper.”

“Meaning Ross does not have one?” she had teased.

“He does, but Mama says it takes longer to come to the boil.” Hunter had grinned. “He’s trying to teach me to master mine, but...”

“Bah, a bit of fire in a man’s gut is what makes him a man,” said the Borderer whose clansmen jumped when he spoke. Aye, Jock McKie ruled Luncarty with an iron fist, but in the two months he’d been here, Hunter had never seen him raise his voice or his hand to his wife.

It must be as she’d said, an argument.

Hunter had returned to his room, but he had kept his door open and his ears, too. There’d been no repeat of the loud voices, but after a short time, he had heard hoarse, rhythmic groans. Before this summer, he’d not have known what they were, but two weeks ago, he’d chanced upon a stable lad and a maid trysting behind the barn.

Feeling hot, flustered and a little ashamed to think they were doing that at their advanced ages, Hunter had closed his door. His aunt and uncle had obviously made up their quarrel.

But come morning, his aunt had behaved strangely. She’d been too busy for their usual walk, too busy even to sit and talk with him. At first, Hunter had felt as dejected as an abandoned pup. Then he feared that Aunt Brenna knew he’d overheard them coupling last night. But she didn’t act embarrassed, more like nervous and preoccupied. She snapped at her maids and harried the servants into what seemed to him, and apparently to them, an unwarranted cleaning spurt.

The mattresses were dragged out to air, the old rushes scraped off the floor of the great hall and a party sent out to cut new ones from along the creek bank. There would be no hot meal that day, declared Brenna the tyrant, for the cook and his helpers were scrubbing down the kitchen.

Jock, chased from the hall by the army of cleaners, had gathered his troopers and ridden off in search of a tavern where they could drink and dice in peace. And doubtless do a bit of wenching, too, judging from the remarks some of the men made.

“Take Hunter with you,” Brenna had commanded.

Jock had readily agreed. “’Bout time the lad completed his education,” he’d said, winking lewdly.

The notion had been tempting, indeed, for lately Hunter had found himself fascinated by the maids at Luncarty. Young or old, pretty or ugly, the sway of their hips and breasts caused a wild, uncontrollable stirring in his lower body. A longing he was more than curious to satisfy, but his sense of duty was stronger. Hunter had pleaded a bad belly and stayed behind to watch his aunt. For what? He did not know.

She had spent a long time sequestered in Uncle Jock’s counting room. When she’d emerged, she was carrying a covered basket. Upon spotting him lurking about, Brenna had sent Hunter on an errand to the blacksmith. He had pretended to go, ducking around a corner to watch for her. When she’d donned her cloak, taken a small basket and headed out of Luncarty, he’d followed covertly.

“I am going down to gather water betony plants,” he’d heard her tell the guard on duty at the gate. The man had waved her past with a reminder not to linger too long. After all, Lady Brenna was answerable only to Jock.

Hunter had felt no such strictures. He was her closest kin, and with Jock away, it was up to him to guard his aunt. Especially since she seemed to have gone a bit mad, he thought.

Pulling himself from his musings, Hunter concentrated on his quarry. From Wee Wat Carmichael, the wizened tracker who must be a hundred years old, he had learned the art of following someone without being caught.

Hunter made a game of it, crawling from rock to rock, and bush to bush. But when his aunt entered the woods, her black cloak blended with the shadows, and he nearly lost her. The cracking of a twig to his right gave her away, and he was soon behind her again. Careful to stay back, he watched as she worked her way along the creek bank. She did not pause to look for herbs, but moved quickly through the trees.

The terrain grew rougher and steeper, huge rocks blocking the path as though tossed there by a careless giant. Hunter crawled over and around them, worried because he could not hear Brenna up ahead over the gush of rushing water. The moon had risen, its light peering through the thick canopy of leaves to light the way. Likely Jock was back by now. He’d be worried. Hunter quickened his pace, determined to catch her and coax her into abandoning this search or offering to help her.

He rounded a towering boulder and stopped in his tracks, transfixed by the sight of his aunt...caught fast in a man’s arms.

The man was tall and broad shouldered, his red hair gleaming like fire in the moonlight. Some of the McKies were redheaded, but this man was a stranger to Hunter.

Who was he? What was he doing here with Aunt Brenna?

She suddenly moved, pushing free of the man’s embrace to stare up at him. Even at this distance, the distress on her face was plain. “Nay. I cannot go with you.”

“You must.” The man grabbed hold of her shoulders.

“Nay.” Brenna twisted in his grip.

Hunter didn’t wait to see more. Pulling the sword from his scabbard, he clambered up the rocks. He wished he had more than a light practice blade, but his father had declared he was not yet strong enough to yield a two-handed claymore. Just now, he felt capable of hefting two in her defense. “Let her go!” he cried.

The man whirled, shoving Brenna behind him and drawing his own weapon. The huge claymore gleamed ominously in the half light. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“’Tis my nephew!” Brenna tried to step around the man, but he caught her wrist with his left hand.

“Release her,” Hunter shouted, surprised his voice didn’t come out a squeak. His opponent was not only larger and better armed, he held the high ground. To reach him, Hunter would have to fight uphill over the rocks. But he’d do it.

“Bloody hell!” the man exclaimed.

“Please.” Brenna extended a beseeching hand. “Please go, Hunter, I do not want anything to happen to you.”

“I cannot leave you here.” Hunter took a step forward, but was stopped by the press of cold steel against his throat.

“Well, well, what have we here?” a deep voice growled in his ear.

Brenna cried out.

“Do not harm him, Owen,” ordered the other man.

“Why the hell not?” this Owen grumbled.

“’Tis her nephew. Drop the weapon, lad.”

Hunter hesitated, weighing his chances.

“Alex told ye to drop it,” Owen repeated, his blade pressing the point.

Whispering a curse, Hunter let his sword clatter to the stones. His eyes locked on his aunt’s wide blue ones across the short distance separating them. I’m sorry, he mouthed. Then he transferred his gaze to the man who held her.

Alex’s eyes were a paler shade of blue than Aunt Brenna’s but sharp and canny. He was well dressed in a wool tunic and leather breeks. His weapon was costly, his speech less coarse than Owen’s. But for all that, he was a fiend bent on abducting a beautiful woman.

“I’ll fight you, man to man,” Hunter growled.

Behind him, Owen laughed, the sound cold and ugly. “Cheeky lad. I say we run him through and get out of here.”

“Nay.” Brenna broke free of her captor and started forward, hands stretched out. “Run, Hunter! Get away from here!”

As if he could do that. But her bid for freedom caught their captors off guard. Wrenching the knife from his belt, Hunter spun and leaped for Owen’s throat.

The man was big and bulky, with a barrel chest, long black hair and a blunt-featured face Hunter would never forget. “What the hell!” Owen put up a beefy arm to deflect the blow. With the other arm, he caught Hunter in the chest and sent him flying.

Hunter landed in the rocks. His head struck something hard. The night went bright, then dark. The last thing he heard before the inky blackness sucked him down was Aunt Brenna’s scream...high, wild and anguished.

The scream still echoed in Hunter’s brain when he clawed his way back to consciousness.

“Aunt Brenna?”

Only the burbling of the burn answered.

His head pounding, Hunter sat up. He was alone beside the creek, his sword and knife gone.

“Aunt Brenna?”

Nothing.

His stomach rolling, his vision blurry, he crawled to the creek and submerged his aching head in the icy water. It cleared his head but did not ease the guilt strangling his very soul.

He had to find her. Pulling himself up on a rock, he took two staggering steps, tripped and rolled down the hill. The rocks battered him all the way to the bottom. Vaguely. he heard someone screaming and realized it was him. He landed in a heap against a huge boulder and lay there, too hurt to move. There was blood in his mouth, a sharp pain in his left leg.

“Hunter! Hunter, by all that’s holy!” Uncle Jock materialized out of the woods, a dozen McKies at his back. “Bloody hell, what happened to ye?”

“Aunt Brenna...kidnapped,” Hunter said weakly.

“The hell ye say.” Jock roared the orders that sent his men crashing through the woods. “Do ye know who it was? Where they might have taken her?”

“Two men ... Alex ... tall ... a nobleman, I think... red hair. The other...” Hunter turned his head and spat out blood. His uncle’s face was hazy, and he knew he was likely to faint again. “Black hair...ugly...Owen. Owen’s his name.”

Jock McKie cursed, leaped up and kicked a nearby rock. “’Tis Alex and Owen Murray. Bloody hell, I should have known, what with the way Alex was sniffing around my Brenna at the last Truce Day.”

“She knows him?” That made an odd sort of sense to Hunter’s battered brain. “Mayhap he won’t hurt her.”

Jock cursed again. “Faithless jade. I should have seen this coming.” He seized hold of Hunter’s shoulder. “Did she have anything with her? A ledger? Tally sticks?”

“Nay.” Memories dipped dizzily in and out of focus. “Wait. She... she was in your counting room for a time. When she came out, she was carrying the basket.”

“Dod! Where is it now?” Jock rose with a roar. He shouted for his men, and when they’d assembled, gave orders for some to carry Hunter back to Luncarty while the rest came with him. “Alex Murray’ll rue this night’s work.”

“You’ll get Aunt Brenna back, won’t you?” Hunter whispered.

“Aye, that I’ll surely do, then I’ll make certain Alex Murray pays for taking what’s mine.”

Chapter One

Scottish Middle Marches

August, 1393

A thin crescent moon shed pale light on the Cheviots. Desolate and treeless, the hills stretched toward the horizon like a great rumpled quilt, pocked by narrow valleys and steep bluffs. Atop the most prominent sat Luncarty Tower, its stark stone walls blending with the hillside that plunged fifty feet to the Lune Water.

Stretched out on her belly in the coarse grass of a neighboring hillock, Allisun Murray scanned the fortress domain of her clan’s most hated enemy. Jock McKie’s ancestors had chosen the site well.

Small ravines guarded the approaches on either side of the tower, and the only entrance was a winding trail up the face of the bluff to a drawbridge spanning a deep ditch. On the other side stood the tall gatehouse, its stout door tightly shut, a pair of arrow slits staring out like giant, malevolent eyes. A single McKie manned the open battlements above, his round helmet and long spear gleaming in the moonlight as he paced to and fro.

“It’ll no’ be easy getting in and back out again with our stock,” muttered Owen Murray.

Allisun sighed and shifted fractionally on the hard ground, her muscles cramped, her bones jarred by the hard ride from their hideaway at Tadlow. But she dared not let her fatigue show. Though the death of her brother, Daniel, had made her head of their small clan, no Scot would follow a woman into battle. She was here only because she’d insisted and Owen, Daniel’s captain, had backed her. “We must find a way,” she said.

“I’m for throwing our scaling hooks over the back wall, climbing in and fighting for what’s ours,” growled Black Gilbert, hunkered down behind a pile of rock to her left.

A murmur of agreement swept through the thirty Murrays sprawled along the hill’s summit, clad in riding leathers and armed for battle, their faces bleak with fury and frustration.

Allisun understood both. For twelve years the feud between the Murrays and the McKies had raged. She’d lost first her father, then her home and finally, her two brothers, Sandie and Daniel to Jock McKie’s punishing raids. Daniel’s death had cut the deepest, for he’d been only twenty and a gentle soul. “Aye, let’s give them a taste of Border justice,” she muttered.

Owen caught her arm with a wide, scarred hand. “Easy, lass,” he whispered. “I know how you feel, but ’twould be suicide. Getting ourselves killed will not bring Danny back.”

“Have you forgotten how that foul, deceitful old man lured Danny into meeting him with promises of a truce, then tortured and killed him?” She shuddered, torn by the memory of her peace-loving brother, lying broken and bloody in a high meadow twenty miles from here.

“Nay, I’ve not forgotten a single one of Jock McKie’s crimes against us. Each death is carved into my heart. But young Danny withstood Jock’s brutality for our sakes.”

Allisun nodded. She knew full well why Jock had tortured her brother—to learn the whereabouts of their camp so he might finish what he’d started so long ago.

“We cannot let his sacrifice be for naught,” Owen added. “You’ll be remembering Danny’s last words ere he rode out.”

She looked up at the weathered face of the man who’d been like a father to her since her own had been killed by the McKies five years ago. Before leaving to meet with Jock and, hopefully, forge a truce, Danny had ordered them not to avenge him if something went awry. “I cannot let it pass,” she said.

“You must. You and your sister are all that’s left of your family. What of her and the others waiting for us back at Tadlow Mountain?” Owen asked roughly. “Who will hunt for them, who will protect them, if aught happens to us?”

Duty dulled the hunger for revenge that clawed at her. Privately Danny had urged her to take Carina and leave the Borders if he was killed. That she could not do, but neither could she let Danny’s death pass. “They do outnumber us.”

“Pair of weak-willed women, ye are,” Black Gil taunted, his scowl as black as his hair. Though five years younger than Owen’s forty, he was as hard as the land, the wicked scar bisecting his cheek a memento of the feud. “I say we go in and kill as many McKies as we can.”

“Aye,” growled a chorus of Murrays.

“We’ve got to strike back,” muttered Wee Harry, the giant who served as their blacksmith. else they’ll keep picking us off one by one till there’s not a Murray left alive.”

That, Allisun knew, was Jock’s goal, his obsession. And Wee Harry was right. They had to do something to keep the McKies at bay. To do that, they needed food. Meat, preferably, to keep their fighters strong and their bairns alive through the long winter. They had no coin to buy sheep or cattle to replace those lost to McKie raids this year. Eighteen head, to be exact. Allisun was determined to get them back. “Where do you think he’s got the stock penned?”

“In the barmkin beyond yon walls,” snapped Black Gilbert. “Which is why we’ve got to go in.”

“What of that shieling we skirted on the way here?” Allisun asked, recalling the large huts they’d bypassed to avoid having anyone sound the alarm and alert the countryside to their presence. “I heard cattle near there. We could relieve the crofter of eighteen head to replace ours.”

“What of Jock McKie?” snarled Black Gil. “Does it not trouble yer conscience that he lives free and clear whilst yer father and brothers molder in the ground?”

“Of course it does.” Allisun felt the tears gather behind her eyes but blinked them back. “And we’ll have our revenge against the McKie. That I swear,” she added, looking around the circle of hard-faced men. She’d known them all her life, lived with them from the good days at Keastwicke Tower before the feud began and the McKies burned them out. They’d been driven from one hovel to the next, forced to take shelter in burned-out towers and abandoned huts. How hard she and Carina had worked to turn them into some semblance of a home, only to be forced out into the hills each time Jock found them.