Submit To The Warrior

Scotland, 1541

The bastard son of a Spanish pirate, Stefan Navarro has had to fight hard for his revered position at court. Now he needs a wife and an estate to hold on to it. By the command of the King, Stefan must marry Lady Morag Stenholm—but first he has to remove her husband.

Morag feels nothing but relief after the death of her cruel laird. Her freedom is short-lived, for she is to be wed at once to the fearsome warrior known as The King’s Arrow. Yet it is not fear that her bridegroom inspires within her on their wedding night…

Submit to the Warrior

Tatiana March

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Submit to the Warrior is the second book in my miniseries Hot Scottish Knights. In the first book, The Virgin’s Debt, the most feared warrior in Scotland is thwarted in his attempt to wed a woman who’ll bring him lands. Now, King James V offers him another bride, and this time the hero is determined to succeed, even if it means marrying a woman who’ll consider him the enemy.

I wanted to write about a hero who due to his birth is an outcast among the people he serves, and let him find a home. I wanted to allow a man who is known as a cruel killer to prove that sometimes we need to look behind the circumstances to see the man himself.

Medieval Scotland is a wonderful place to set a romantic story. Unlike England, under Scots Law women are allowed inherit noble titles and the estates that go with them. This can make women coveted prizes in marriage, or pawns for forming political alliances.

I’ve enjoyed researching the series: castles and knights, armour and destriers, weapons and warfare. Food, social customs, dress and travel. Religion and politics. Architecture and commerce. For this title, I spent a great deal of time understanding the legal system. The Internet is a wonderful resource, and the original court documents from the 1540s are available to study.

Although I wish to avoid turning my romantic stories into history lessons, I strive to enrich them with period details and make the background as authentic as I can.

I hope you’ll enjoy the story of The King’s Arrow and his bride.

Best wishes

Tatiana March

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

About the Author

Chapter One

Scotland, Early 1541

Fury twisted inside Stefan Navarro as he stared at his king. ‘You are offering me a bride who is married to another man?’

‘Lady Morag is married now, but I expect her to be a widow after you finish your siege of Stenholm Castle.’ King James dipped the quill in the inkwell and scrawled his signature on the parchment in front of him. ‘I’ll give you a letter approving your betrothal to her. You can insert the date when you know her husband is dead. Do your duty, and the lands will be yours.’

‘If I kill the laird, I get to marry his wife?’

The king leaned back behind the walnut desk. He called to the knights standing guard outside his private rooms at Holyrood Palace to alert them that his guest was about to leave. Then he turned to Stefan. ‘You want a wife who can bring you lands. Although women are allowed to inherit under the laws of Scotland, most noblemen sire sons, who take precedence. I don’t have an unmarried woman with estates to offer you.’

‘And you want Stenholm dead,’ Stefan said bluntly.

The king gave a grim nod. ‘Last month alone, three messengers rode from Stenholm Castle to King Henry’s court. I believe the laird is plotting against me with the English.’

Stefan hid his unease at the news. Suspicious of mind, distrustful of the nobles, the king had more than once condemned an innocent man. ‘You could be mistaken.’

King James folded the parchment and threw it across the desk. ‘I don’t care to find out. I want him dead, but I don’t want his vassals in an uproar if he hangs for treason. He must perish in battle, with the honour due to a laird.’

The doors swung open, and four sentries stepped out to flank the exit, broadswords clanking at their sides.

‘Go,’ the king ordered. ‘Send a message to me as soon as the deed is done.’

Holding on to his anger, Stefan reached down to collect the letter. He didn’t need to ask if the king meant Stenholm’s death, or his marriage to the widow. The king wasn’t interested in his wedding festivities, only in removing the threat of a traitor.

Stefan shrugged his shoulders. Best to accept life as it was. The bastard son of a Scottish mother and a Spanish father, he’d grown up with hatred. Blood and guts had carved him a position of power in Scotland. The King’s Arrow. People said King James dispatched him when he wanted to shoot an enemy through the heart, although in truth the name owed its origin to the pair of crossed arrows that decorated his battle standard.

Stefan didn’t mind that he had been ordered to deliver death. Killing was a way of life for a soldier, and he did it well. Only this time he wished the king had sent someone else to lay siege to Stenholm Castle.

Slaughtering a woman’s first husband was not a good way to start a marriage.

* * *

Lady Morag knelt before the altar at Stenholm Castle. Her lips moved in a soundless Paternoster, her fourteenth since she’d sunk to the polished flagstones without the benefit of a cushion to ease the strain on her knees.

Something crashed into the castle wall. The chapel windows rattled. Around her, shards of breaking glass rained to the floor. Lady Morag pinched her eyes shut, but a tear escaped to roll down her cheek. Was it the leaded window that depicted Madonna and the child, or the one of Christ with the crown of thorns? She didn’t want to look, couldn’t bear to see the destruction that the month-long siege had brought to the few things she held dear in life.

‘God, please,’ she prayed. ‘Let me be the target of a well-aimed arrow. Let the roof cave in and crush me. Let me leave this world of suffering and ascend to heaven.’

A hand fell upon her shoulder, drawing a cry of alarm to her lips.

‘It is only me, milady.’

She stole a quick glance behind her and saw the tall frame of Brother Thomas.

The chaplain leaned down, his weathered face lined with concern. His bony fingers clasped her shoulder through the thick velvet of her gown. ‘‘Do not despair,’ he said, his tone reassuring. ‘Life can’t get any worse, can it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Morag replied. ‘Will the castle fall?’

‘Aye. It’s only a matter of time.’

‘In which case, I must see to practical things.’ She scrambled to her feet.

‘Practical things?’ asked the monk.

‘Pack what I can carry with me, assuming the invaders will let us live.’

‘Milady! Milady!’ William dashed in with the long, loping strides of an adolescent, the locks of sandy hair flapping about his shoulders.

Morag’s heart clenched. She had found him hiding in the stables like a frightened animal when she first arrived after her marriage to the laird three years ago. She had tried to build a place of safety for the boy, had sacrificed her pride, sometimes her dignity, to earn him opportunities that would let him flourish.

And now, all her efforts would be wasted. Another tear coursed down her cheek. A gust of freezing wind blew in through the open chapel doors, chilling the wet trail on her face, and she knew that the castle keep had been breached.

‘He is dead, milady.’ William blurted out the words, his voice frantic. ‘I saw him fall. An arrow pierced through the visor on his helm. He roared out with pain, and then he tumbled down from the castle wall.’ The boy stopped to draw a breath. ‘The laird is dead and on his way to hell.’

‘Dead?’ Morag whispered. Her mind was too numb for any other reaction but a quick glance at Brother Thomas, to discourage the chaplain from disciplining the boy for the blasphemy.

The monk’s throat moved as he swallowed, and then he said, ‘Let us pray.’

The three of them knelt side by side—a man of cloth, a wife, and a boy training to be a knight—and gave thanks to the Lord that their laird was dead.

* * *

Her head bent in prayer, Lady Morag listened to the shouts and the thunder of footsteps that echoed through the castle. She knew she ought to leave the chapel. The duty fell upon her to reassure the servants, and plead with the invaders to spare the lives of those under her protection. And she would see to the task, once she’d enjoyed her first moments of peace since she became the wife of the Laird of Stenholm three years ago.

‘Milady!’ her maid, Alice, called from the door, ignoring the need for silence in the chapel. ‘He is waiting in the great hall to speak to you.’

Morag rose and crossed herself, the gesture offering the solace it always did. Her faith was like a coat of armor to a knight, a shield to provide protection against enemies. ‘I’m ready,’ she said, and turned on her soft leather shoes.

Then she caught sight of Alice and halted. ‘What is it?’

Tall and fair, the girl descended from Viking settlers, and possessed the reckless courage of her ancestors. Despite her brave nature, she wrung her hands now, her blue eyes darting wildly. ‘It’s him, milady. We’re doomed. He eats babies for breakfast and kills women for no other reason but the fun of it.’

‘Calm down.’ Morag hurried the rest of the distance and laid her arm around the maid’s shaking shoulders. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The warrior who conquered the castle.’ Alice paused, as if reluctant to force out the words. ‘We’ve been taken by the King’s Arrow.’

‘Dear God.’ Every drop of blood in Morag’s veins turned to ice. How could fate be so cruel? Their lives depended on the mercy of the invaders, and based on the reputation of Stefan Navarro, there would be none.

As Morag descended the narrow stone staircase, fear coiled inside her on each step. The King’s Arrow. Hated by all and trusted by no one. The English and Spanish rejected his Scottish heritage, and the Scots and French distrusted his Spanish blood. The fearsome knight answered to the king alone, and left a trail of death and destruction in his path.

She would face him with courage. Morag raised her head and stepped into the great hall. It had always been her favorite room in the castle. Wainscoting in golden oak covered the lower half of the walls, and tapestries lined the upper sections. The massive fireplace generated enough heat for the occupants to live in comfort through the winter months.

Now, battle scenes unfolded beneath the vaulted ceiling. Three men with raised swords kept the male servants penned into a corner. The rest of the knights were shedding their layers of steel, the discarded sections of armor hitting the stone floor with hollow clunks.

A few wounded warriors lay on the benches that circled the inside of the room. The female servants tended to their injuries under the watchful eye of the invaders. Acrid smoke rose from the fireplace that someone had overloaded with logs to get the neglected flames leaping.

Morag’s attention fell on a huge knight who stood aloof, silently observing her approach. He had removed his helm but not his armor, and the pair of crossed arrows that decorated the broad breastplate made terror rise in her throat. The only thought she found in the turmoil of her mind was relief that she was dressed to befit her station as the lady of the castle. Anticipating the need to flee, she had selected her warmest clothing, a thick gown in dark green velvet, finished only a few days before the battle broke out. Fur edged the wide sleeves, and the golden embroidery at the bodice matched her amber eyes.

Morag managed to cross the floor without fainting. She came to a halt in front of the King’s Arrow, her eyes downcast. ‘I beg you to spare the lives of those who fought against you by their laird’s command. If you release them, they’ll go and swear not to return.’

‘And if I wish for them to stay?’

Her gaze flew up, startled by the deep voice, with a vibrant richness that one would expect from a troubadour singing ballads of everlasting love instead of a soldier bringing death. She found the knight regarding her with an odd intensity. His bold scrutiny pierced the shield of serenity she’d been hiding behind.

She had seen men appraising horses like that.

And gold and jewels. And castles. And armor. And women.

Anything they intended to possess.

Physical awareness rippled through her, stirring feminine longings she’d almost forgotten and didn’t want to remember. She’d grown up a scholar’s daughter, knowing little about knights, even less about men, and now that she was widowed, she wished to learn nothing more. She hoped she’d been mistaken about the flare of masculine interest that wrapped around her like a snare might trap an animal.

On the benches, one of the injured warriors groaned in agony. Turning to speak to the man, the King’s Arrow released Morag from his burning gaze. She used the moment to take inventory of his features.

Stubble shadowed his square jaw. His nose was straight and his mouth full, bracketed by vertical creases that spoke of exhaustion. The sharp blades of his cheekbones added to the craggy, slightly foreign appearance. The solid gray of his eyes beneath the thick dark brows matched the steel of his armor, hard and impenetrable but with a sense of heat smoldering beneath. Long lashes framed his eyes like a sooty fan, and black hair fell in a sweaty tangle to his shoulders.

Why had creation wasted such eyelashes on a man? Morag thought fleetingly. Then Navarro turned to face her again, and she jerked her straying mind to attention. She made a gesture to indicate the castle servants huddled in the corner. ‘If you invite the men to stay, they’ll serve you with loyalty and obedience, as long as you remain their master.’

‘And you? Will you serve me with loyalty and obedience?’ the knight asked in a low murmur that could not be heard by others.

‘No,’ Morag replied. Beneath his assessing gaze, an odd sense of tightness flared in her abdomen and spread through her, leaving her breasts tingling and her lungs straining to draw a breath. ‘I shall be cloistered,’ she told him. ‘I may need to beg you for some of my jewels to provide a dowry to an abbey. Beyond that, I wish to make no claim on my late husband’s estates.’

‘Then you know that your husband is dead?’

‘Aye.’ Morag kept her tone bland. ‘He was seen falling to his end.’

Navarro pointed to the dull midday light that shone through the small windows. ‘You may send your servants out to bury the dead. When they’re done, I expect them to return to their duties. As long as they accept their new master, there’ll be no punishments.’

‘And the Stenholm knights?’ she asked. ‘Are they free to go?’

‘None survived,’ he informed her flatly.

Morag controlled the urge to weep. Mourning those who had perished defending her home could wait. ‘Will you allow me enough of my jewels to gain refuge in an abbey?’ she asked the dark knight.

‘No.’

‘I see.’ A spark of rebellion lifted her chin. ‘Everyone else is granted mercy. What fate must I face?’

‘You and I shall be married as soon as the dead are in the ground.’

‘Married!’ The terror that had eased inside her flared anew. Morag stared at the man before her. She no longer saw the rugged face with beautiful eyes, but a body trained for warfare, packed with brutal force. Inside the armor, his shoulders were broad, his legs like tree trunks, his arms powerful enough to crush any resistance. She saw the hand that rested by his hip. She imagined it clenched into a fist, hurtling through the air, pummeling at her flesh until she was so covered in bruises that it hurt to even wear clothes.

‘No!’ she cried. She couldn’t. She could not enter the purgatory of marriage again, having only just been released. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t force me.’

She saw his jaw stiffen and his eyes turn cold. ‘It’s the king’s command.’ Navarro nodded to an elderly man in a plain tunic who sat at the long trestle table scribbling. The man stood and handed an unfolded sheet of parchment to Morag.

She took the letter and scanned the few lines that confirmed her fate. The ink on the date by the king’s signature hadn’t quite dried, and she knew that she’d been bartered like an animal while her husband remained alive.

To her right, the fire crackled. Acting upon instinct, Morag clutched the letter in her hand and tensed her arm. From the corner of her eye, she caught Navarro’s signal and, before she managed to toss the parchment into the flames, another knight moved to stand between her and the fireplace.

‘It will be easier for you if you don’t fight me,’ Navarro warned her. ‘I want your lands, and this time I won’t be denied.’

‘This time?’ she echoed. ‘Have there been others who managed to escape?’

The silence lasted so long she thought he wouldn’t reply, but finally he gave a brief nod, his expression grim.

‘The Countess of Glenstrachan was promised to me, but she married another while I was on my way to claim her.’ He reached out and curled his hand over her elbow. ‘With you, I’ll not take such chances. You’ll stay by my side until we are wed, and your chaplain will remain under guard.’

He raised his arm. Upon his gesture, two knights lined up behind Brother Thomas, who knelt in prayer at the center of the room, his solemn voice mingling with the moans of the injured.

As Navarro’s steely fingers captured her, an odd sense of disappointment niggled inside Morag, dulling her bitter defeat. Why would it matter to her that Navarro had planned to marry someone else, and had won her as a consolation prize? The Countess of Glenstrachan was rumored to be a beauty, with long golden hair, and eyes the color of a summer sky. Suddenly, it appeared to Morag that her own short auburn locks and hazel eyes were woefully lacking in charm.

Despite her reluctance to marry, it hurt her pride to know that the knight only wanted her because of the lands she could provide him.

She followed meekly as Navarro ushered her across the room and propped her into a chair at the end of the long table. Then he sat down beside her, called over the scribe and dictated a letter to inform the king about Stenholm’s death. Morag flinched at the words that confirmed her betrothal. And yet, even as she gritted her teeth to hold back a pointless cry of refusal, curiosity swirled inside her, mixing with her fear. She had heard enough gossip to know that some women enjoyed what took place in the bedchamber.

Each time Navarro glanced in her direction, a knot of apprehension tightened inside her. Once before, she’d been taken in by masculine beauty and a charming smile. All her girlhood dreams had been shattered. She didn’t want to be drawn to this man, didn’t want to hope it would be different this time, didn’t want to feel the forgotten yearnings.

She closed her eyes and suppressed the tears of helpless defeat.

Her freedom from the control of a husband had lasted less than a day.

Chapter Two

Stefan Navarro settled at the long table in the great hall and tried to hide his impatience. After changing into a pair of woolen hose and a doublet in thick black velvet, he had toured the vast room, offering a few words of encouragement to each of his wounded knights. The steward had provided him with an account of the income and assets of the Stenholm estates. He had inspected the castle keep, including the chapel and the bedchambers on the two floors above.

All the while, upon his command, Lady Morag had followed him, as silent as a shadow, and as disturbing as a thorn lodged beneath a suit of armor.

Why hadn’t the king told him? Stefan had expected a matron with jowly cheeks and a sagging middle. Instead, he found an ethereal beauty, not much more than twenty. Lady Morag possessed a willowy grace that made his loins heavy and added to the restlessness he always felt in the aftermath of a battle, but beneath his desire stirred an unfamiliar need for acceptance that unsettled him even more.

‘How long must I wait?’ he asked. ‘When will the chaplain be done burying the dead?’

‘The ground is frozen. It will take time to dig graves for two dozen men,’ Lady Morag replied.

He shot a glance at her. The look of relief on her face told him she hoped the task would take until spring.

‘We’ll be wed by nightfall, whether the bodies are in the ground or not,’ he declared, frustrated by his baffling wish for her to be eager to become his wife.

Why shouldn’t she loathe and fear him? He’d killed her husband. And yet, from the moment he saw her walking across the great hall, he’d yearned to touch her. The urge had been so strong that he had barely dared to look at her, until he knew that he could control his impulse to pull her into his arms.

‘You have no children?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m thought to be barren.’ Her chin inched up in defiance.

‘It’s a mistake to think the prospect will keep me from taking you in marriage.’

‘I can’t give you an heir.’

‘I’ll worry about that after I’ve spent a year trying.’

The color drained from Lady Morag’s face. Stefan had expected her to blush with embarrassment at the reference to the marriage bed. Instead, she appeared to tremble with fear. He cursed his reputation for cruelty. He had never resented the macabre tales of murder and torture that circulated about him the length and breadth of the country. They gave him an edge in battle. Now, he wished his prowess in killing wasn’t such a legend.

‘I understand it is customary for a bride to be entitled to a boon on her wedding day,’ Lady Morag said. Her voice faltered, and Stefan knew she had forced herself to speak.

He leaned forward. ‘Aye. What is it you wish?’

‘The boy, William...’

‘What about the lad?’

‘He was sent to Stenholm when he was ten, to be trained as a knight.’

‘And how old is he now?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Almost old enough to join the men.’ Stefan cast his eye toward the benches where his knights rested, but couldn’t locate the boy. Rolf and Bruce, the most handsome of his knights, had a gaggle of girls flitting about them. He lifted his brows in amusement and received a pair of satisfied grins in return. ‘The lad must be outside, helping with the burials,’ he said, returning his attention to Lady Morag.

‘He isn’t ready to join the men.’

The vehemence in her voice made him frown. ‘What is it you wish from me?’

‘William is fearful.’ Her hands kneaded together on the scuffed tabletop. ‘He suffered cruelty when he was young, and the terror has never left him. I wish for you to take him in. Train him to be your squire, protect him from harm.’

Stefan narrowed his eyes at the unwelcome emotion that churned inside him. Jealousy. Never once in his life had he suffered the agony of longing for attention from a woman who showed no interest in him.

‘What is the boy to you?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Is he your husband’s bastard?’

‘No!’ The word exploded from her lips. Stefan studied her, puzzled. Her amber eyes burned bright, and a few freckles stood out against the pale skin. The thin line of her mouth spoke of determination. She seemed shaken, but not mournful. Afraid of him, but not too afraid to make demands to protect her servants.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of the boy, if it pleases you.’

She gave him a long look, then lowered her gaze. ‘It pleases me a great deal,’ she murmured, her words barely audible.