His Lady of Castlemora

Praise for Joanna Fulford:

‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages

is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’ The Flame and the Flower. A suspenseful plot, well-developed characters and a passionate romance combine to keep readers engaged from start to finish. The authentic depiction of the historical setting adds to the enjoyment of this short but evenly paced story.’ —RT Book Reviews on THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

‘The sequel to THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

is a well-crafted portrait of the era, combining

strong characters with the classic romance elements

of a battle-of-wills love story. Fulford’s keen awareness

of the time period allows her heroine to be

a woman of her time as well as a character

who appeals to modern sensibilities.’

—RT Book Reviews on THE VIKING’S TOUCH

Her heartbeat quickened. The courteous greeting was at distinct variance with the boldness of his manner and his present state of undress.

Darting a swift look around her, she became more acutely aware of her present isolation and the remoteness of the stream. If she screamed no one would hear. Besides, it was a mistake to show fear.

Ban saw the dainty chin tilt. Far from being embarrassed or afraid, the look in her eyes was bold—challenging, even. It satisfied him. His gaze travelled downwards, mentally removing the cloth again. When she saw this, the colour rose in her face.

‘How long have you been watching me?’

‘Long enough.’

The blush deepened and the hazel eyes sparkled with anger. ‘How dare you spy on me?’

‘Unforgivable, I know,’ he admitted, ‘but impossible to look away.’

JOANNA FULFORD is a compulsive scribbler with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles. Visit Joanna’s website at www.joannafulford.co.uk

Recent titles by the same author:

 THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

(part of the Mills & Boon Presents … anthology, featuring talented new authors)

 THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS

 THE LAIRD’S CAPTIVE WIFE

 THE COUNTERFEIT CONDESA

 THE VIKING’S TOUCH

 THE CAGED COUNTESS

 REDEMPTION OF A FALLEN WOMAN

(part of Castonbury Park Regency mini-series)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

His Lady of

Castlemora

Joanna Fulford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

Isabelle threaded her way among the trees and came at length to the wall at the far end of the orchard. It afforded a fair view of the wood and the hills above Castlemora, though in truth it was not these she saw. All she could think about was the last interview with her mother-in-law …

‘Had you fulfilled your wifely duty and produced an heir, you would have retained your place among us. As it is, my son’s death removes any requirement for you to remain.’

Isabelle stared at her in stunned disbelief. Alistair Neil’s demise in a hunting accident had been shock enough, but this was beyond everything. ‘But this is my home.’

If she hoped to appeal to Lady Gruoch’s compassion the notion was wide of the mark. The blue eyes regarding her now were cold, the stern face pitiless.

‘Not any longer. A barren wife has only one future open to her: to take the veil and disappear from the world of men.’

Isabelle’s stomach knotted. ‘It is not my fault that I am childless. My late husband must share the responsibility for that.’

The furrows in Gruoch’s brow deepened. ‘How dare you attempt to cover your own failings by besmirching the name of the dead? My son was eager for an heir. I have good reason to know that he never neglected his duty to you.’

Isabelle’s hands clenched at her sides. So they had discussed this behind her back. She could well imagine what spiteful and lying tales her late husband had told to cover his own ineptitude. Mortification vied with anger.

‘Since he was assiduous in undertaking his part,’ Gruoch continued, ‘it is only reasonable to expect that you should have done yours.’

Isabelle bit back the heated reply that leapt to her tongue. Alistair was dead; what use to recount the embarrassed fumbling that had blighted the marriage bed in the early part of their relationship; fumbling that became frustration and, eventually, violence when he took out his failure on her?

Seeing her hesitation Gruoch nodded. ‘I note that you do not deny it. The shame is doubly yours. You were married a year. Any self-respecting wife would have a babe in arms and another in her belly by now.’

‘I wanted that as much as my husband did. How can you doubt it?’

‘It may be so. However, that does not alter the fact of your failure as a woman and as a wife. You will go back to your father and he may dispose of you as he sees fit. If he has any sense he will place you in a convent as soon as possible.’

Isabelle didn’t care to think about her father’s response to this development. Quite apart from the insult, her return would be a burden that he would scarcely welcome. Nevertheless, it would have to be faced. Knowing that further argument was useless, she lifted her chin. ‘In that case I demand that my dowry be returned to me.’

‘You are in no position to make demands. It is our family that has been wronged. We made a bargain in good faith and we were cheated.’

‘This isn’t just.’

‘Do not speak to me of justice.’

The words created the first fluttering of panic. ‘Keep part if you will, but return the rest.’

‘We will keep what is ours.’

Isabelle swallowed hard. With no dowry, and a reputation as a barren woman, she would have no chance of remarriage. Sick with repressed shame and fury she made a last desperate attempt.

‘It is not yours to keep. The Neils have wealth enough; they have no need of more.’

‘Do not presume to tell the Neils what they need.’ Gruoch’s voice grew quieter. ‘You may count yourself fortunate to leave here at all, my girl. There are those at Dunkeld who favoured a quicker and neater end to the embarrassment you represent.’

Isabelle experienced a sudden inner chill. When first she came to her husband’s home she was accorded courtesy, albeit not warmth. Her new kin were not given to displays of affection. However, as time went on and she failed to conceive a child, their attitude changed until their scorn was scarcely veiled. The thought that they might do her physical hurt had not occurred, until now.

‘Would the Neils risk incurring the wrath of Castlemora?’ she demanded. ‘My father would not let such a deed go un-avenged.’

Gruoch’s lips tightened to a thin line. ‘We have no fear of Castlemora.’

‘You would be wiser if you had.’

For all that the words were defiant Isabelle knew they were futile. In this argument all the weight was on the other side of the balance.

Gruoch’s lip curled. ‘We are content to put it to the test. You leave first thing in the morning.’

And so she had, under the disdainful gaze of her erstwhile kin. The recollection was bitter. All the high hopes she’d set out with at the start of her marriage were ashes, and her pride lay among them. At the same time it was hard to regret leaving a place where she was so little valued or wanted. The trouble was that she couldn’t imagine how the situation was going to change in the foreseeable future. Unwilling to let the Neils see any tears she contrived to put a brave face on it.

She’d worn a brave face when eventually she had to confront her father. Archibald Graham was fifty years old. Formerly a strong and active man his health had failed in his later years until even small exertions tired him and any significant effort brought on the pains in his chest. However, his grey eyes were bright and shrewd, his mind as sharp as it had ever been. He made no attempt to hide his anger and disappointment. When he learned that they had refused to return her dowry his wrath increased tenfold.

‘Those scurvy, double-dealing Neils are no better than thieves.’

Her brother growled agreement. At sixteen Hugh was grown to manhood and, as the only surviving son, was now the heir. He also possessed a keen sense of what was due to kin.

‘This is an insult to our entire family. It should be avenged. Let me take a force to Dunkeld and burn out that nest of rats.’

‘The rats are numerous and strong, boy. We’ll bide our time.’

‘You mean we’re to swallow this outrage?’

‘This outrage will not be swallowed or forgotten, I promise you.’ Graham paused. ‘However, revenge is a dish best tasted cold. If you’re to be laird one day you need to remember that.’

Hugh nodded slowly. ‘I’ll remember.’ He turned to Isabelle. ‘You’re well rid of the scum, Belle.’

That much was true, but it didn’t change the fact that she was now a dowerless widow. It hung there, unsaid, like the subject of her alleged barrenness. Her brother was fond of her and would never throw such an accusation in her face, but it wasn’t going to go away …

Being thus lost in gloomy reflection, she was unaware of the approaching figure until she heard him speak.

‘Well met, Lady Isabelle.’

Recognising the voice she turned quickly. ‘Murdo.’

The master-at-arms was standing just feet away. She eyed him uneasily, repressing a shiver. The black-clad figure was entirely shaven-headed. A scar seamed the left side of his face from cheek bone to chin, though it was partially hidden by a beard close-trimmed and dark as night, as dark as the predatory gaze watching her now. He reminded her of nothing so much as a hunting wolf, lean, powerful and dangerous. A strong odour of stale sweat enhanced the impression of lupine rankness.

He bared his teeth in a smile. ‘I thought I might find you here.’

Suddenly she was aware that the orchard was some way from the house and that it was entirely private. Apprehension prickled. Unwilling to let him see it she remained quite still and forced herself to meet his gaze.

‘What do you want?’

‘To speak with you, my lady.’

‘Very well, what is it you wish to speak about?’

‘The future.’

The knot of apprehension tightened a degree. ‘What of it?’

‘Your honoured father is a sick man. He cannot live long. That must weigh upon your mind.’

‘It does,’ she replied, ‘but you did not come here to tell me that.’

‘When he dies you will need a strong protector, Isabelle.’

She knew what was coming now and sought desperately for the means to evade it. ‘My brother will protect me.’

‘A new husband would perform the role better.’ His expression became intent. ‘I would be that man.’

Isabelle’s stomach wallowed but she knew better than to anger him deliberately. ‘What you are asking is not possible, Murdo.’

‘Why not?’ He held her gaze. ‘Who better than me? I may be a younger son but I come of good family. I have risen to my present rank on merit and served your father well. Thanks to my efforts Castlemora is strong and feared.’ He paused. ‘And you cannot be entirely unaware of my feelings for you.’

‘I regret that I cannot return them.’

‘Not yet, but you might come to return them, in time.’

She shook her head. ‘I will never feel about you that way.’

‘You say so now but I know how to be patient.’

‘Time will not change this. Do not hold out hopes of me.’

‘If not me, who else, Isabelle? You are no longer the prize you once were, only a widow returned in disgrace to her father.’

Her chin lifted at once. ‘I wonder then that you should wish to make her yours.’

‘I have long wished it. The present circumstances change nothing, except to work in my favour since there will be no more suitors coming calling now.’

‘Never tell me you speak out of pity, Murdo.’

‘Far from it.’ He smiled. ‘I know the truth, you see.’

She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘That Alistair Neil was no man at all.’

‘You have no right to say such things.’

‘You don’t have to pretend to me, Isabelle. ‘Tis common knowledge among the local whores: your late husband was but meagrely endowed, and that he couldn’t get a cock stand either. If you have no children the fault is not yours.’

Had it been anyone else this vindication would have been balm to her spirit. As it was, her cheeks burned.

Murdo drew closer. ‘I can give you children.’

She stiffened. The thought of intimacy with him was utterly repellent. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Come now, would you not prefer to be ridden by a real man for a change?’ Seeing her outraged expression he laughed softly. ‘One night in my bed and you’ll forget Alistair Neil ever existed.’

‘I’ll never share your bed.’

If her reply had dismayed him it was not apparent for his expression did not change save that his gaze became more intense. ‘When I set myself a goal I always achieve it.’

Despite the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine goose bumps started along her arms, and she wanted nothing so much as to be free of his presence.

‘I regret that you will be disappointed this time.’

‘You’re wrong, Isabelle. This time you will be my wife.’

‘That I never shall.’ With that she turned to leave, but a strong hand on her arm prevented it.

‘I never take no for an answer,’ he replied. ‘You should know that well enough by now.’

She tested the hold but it didn’t alter. ‘Let go of me, Murdo.’

‘You escaped me once before but I’ll not let it happen again.’

The tone was casual but its implications were not. Her heart thumped unpleasantly hard but she forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘You forget yourself. You may have a trusted position in this household, but it does not give you the right thus to presume.’

‘Not yet perhaps,’ he replied, ‘but know this: I intend to have a husband’s rights over you soon enough.’

That quiet assertion snapped the last fragile strand of her self-control. ‘Never!’

Tearing herself free of his hold she turned on her heel and ran off through the trees. He watched but made no attempt to stop her.

‘Aye, run from me, Isabelle,’ he murmured. ‘You won’t escape.’

Chapter One

Three months later

Isabelle urged the horse to a canter, wanting only to put space between herself and Castlemora for a while. In theory she ought not to ride out alone but Murdo and her brother had gone out hunting earlier so there was no one to prevent her. All the same, freedom was going to be short-lived. Her father might have decided to bide his time over the Neils, but he had not been tardy in seeking another husband for her …

‘Glengarron is an old ally. Marriage will serve to strengthen the tie.’

Her stomach turned over. Somehow she managed to control her voice. ‘Forgive me, but I thought the Laird of Glengarron was already married.’

‘So he is. I was speaking of his brother-in-law, Lord Ban.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s a Sassenach but that canna be helped.’

‘A Sassenach?’

‘It’s not ideal, I admit. On the plus side he’s a respected warrior with strong family connections, but, having no land, he canna be so particular in his choice of a bride.’

Her jaw tightened. ‘Nor I so particular in my choice of a husband?’

‘You canna afford to be choosy now.’

‘Perhaps it is the Sassenach thane who will be choosy.’

‘Why should he be?’ He eyed her appraisingly. ‘You’ve looks enough and the Graham blood to boot. No doubt some small financial inducement could be found as well. It should be enough.’

With an effort she held fury in check. ‘And if it isn’t?’

‘There’s always a convent.’

‘I have no vocation for the religious life.’

He regarded her steadily. ‘Murdo looks at you a good deal. You could do worse.’

‘I hardly think so.’

‘In that case I advise you to put on your finest gown and make yourself agreeable when Lord Ban arrives.’

Her mouth dried. ‘When is he expected?’

‘Very soon now. See to it that all necessary preparations are made to welcome him.’

The recollection of that conversation filled Isabelle with roiling anger. Nevertheless, she didn’t dare to disobey. Castlemora was ready to receive the guest. Meanwhile, she needed time alone to gather her composure and ready herself to face what was coming. For that she required some peace and quiet.

Holding her mount to a steady pace she followed the burn until it widened out into a pool beneath a stand of trees. Although it was just within the bounds of Castlemora land it was a secluded place and, ordinarily, she would not have come here alone. If Murdo ever found out, the fat would be in the fire. Over the years the master-at-arms had evolved a highly efficient system of intelligence. Almost nothing happened at Castlemora without him knowing. The hunt was a fortunate distraction.

Isabelle dismounted and tethered her horse. The sun was high now and the day hot. Her clothing was sticking to her back and the water looked inviting. She glanced around but the land was still; there was no sign of human presence as far as the eye could see. The temptation grew stronger. It ought to be safe enough for a while at least.

Ban smiled and leaned back against the tree, glad to be out of the saddle for a while. He and his companions had been riding since early morning, albeit at an easy pace to spare the horses. Their mounts were dozing in the shade while the men, having partaken of bread and cheese and slabs of dried meat, stretched out awhile at their ease. A little way off among the trees Davy stood watch. For all that the country seemed peaceful it never paid to be complacent. Ban had learned that through long experience. For five years he had ridden with Black Iain of Glengarron, watching, learning, training, his body growing hard and lean and strong, his mind sharp and focused. The stripling youth who had been saved after the destruction of Heslingfield was long gone and in his place the man, now a respected warrior in his own right. Being Iain’s brother-in-law had won him no favours. Ban was expected to prove himself like all the rest. He applied himself wholeheartedly, for by concentrating on the new life he could forget the old. Here the past mattered not. He was judged by what he did now. Though he was treated with civility enough by his companions he knew they watched him, judged him. It had been a matter of pride to be found worthy, to win their trust and acceptance.

He glanced across at his companions: Ewan, Jock and Davy, good men all, men he trusted at his back in a fight. They would stand by him as he would by them. They had been through enough adventures together to know it. Not that he expected to do any fighting in the near future. Delivering some horses to an old friend was hardly likely to be fraught with peril. He did it as a favour to Iain. Of the other, more personal, matter he had said nothing to his men. After all, he had not positively decided yet; could not decide until he knew more. A few days at Castlemora would doubtless clarify matters.

Unbidden his mind returned to the conversation a week earlier. He was playing in the courtyard with his young nephews when Iain appeared on the scene. For a while Iain watched the boisterous game, an indulgent smile hovering on his lips. When eventually they stopped for breath he dismissed the two children with the intelligence that he wanted private speech with their uncle.

‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Ban when the youngsters had gone.

‘No, ‘twas merely that I would ask a favour.’

‘What kind of favour?’

‘I need someone to deliver some horses to Castlemora. Archibald Graham asked me for some good breeding stock a while ago. I told him I’d look out for some likely animals.’

‘The brood mares from Jarrow by any chance?’

‘The same.’

Ban nodded. They were fine animals. However, it wasn’t a challenging undertaking and any of Iain’s men could have delivered them, so why was he being singled out for the task? As so often he sensed there was more here than appeared on the surface.

‘Would you mind?’ Iain’s tone was casual. That more than anything else set off alarms in Ban’s brain and he couldn’t help but smile.

‘Of course not.’ The assertion was sincere. Castlemora was no more than two days’ ride and the weather fine. Besides, he owed his brother-in-law a great deal and was glad to return a favour when he could.

‘Good.’

Ban waited certain now that there must be more to come. He was right, though he could never have guessed its import.

‘The journey may be made to serve two ends,’ Iain continued. ‘Archibald Graham is an old friend and ally but, sadly, his health is failing.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’

‘He has a daughter. The last time I saw her she was a child, but she must be eighteen or thereabouts by now. She was widowed a while back and he seeks a new husband for her.’

Ban’s expression grew more guarded. When he’d guessed at some ulterior motive he could never have suspected anything like this. Yet it was typical of Iain that he should, with such unruffled ease, let drop some small but incendiary piece of information.

‘By that you mean me?’

‘Not at all,’ was the imperturbable reply. ‘I merely suggest you should go and take a look.’

‘She’s a widow so there will be children as well, Iain.’

‘Apparently not.’

Ban raised an eyebrow. ‘Not?’