PRAISE FOR
MARGARET MOORE

“Margaret Moore’s characters step off the pages into your heart.”

—Romantic Times

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms. Moore.”

—Harriet Klausner, Under the Covers

“Ms. Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armor.”

—Rendezvous

“Her writing is full of humor and wit, sass and sexual tension.”

—Heart Rate Reviews

“Margaret Moore has a captivating writing style…that lends itself to pure, fluid prose and vivid characterizations.”

—Heartstrings Reviews

“…an author who consistently knows how to mix just the right amount of passion and pageantry.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

Dear Reader,

I’m delighted to be part of HQN Books, and thankful for this opportunity to write longer books for Harlequin. I’m especially thrilled that my first HQN novel is set in the medieval time period, my particular favorite.

Why does that time period appeal to me so much? My usual answer to this question is, “There’s just something about a man with a broadsword.” However, what really appeals to me is the emphasis on honor and duty.

If you’re familiar with my Harlequin Historicals books, you know I generally hang my medieval heroes’ helmets in Wales. So why go to Scotland with Bride of Lochbarr? I wanted to venture into what is relatively new territory for me—and I can no longer ignore the allure of men in kilts.

So now you know why that time and place. What about the story? How did I come up with that? I thought, What if a hero comes riding to the rescue and the heroine says “Are you nuts? Go away and leave me alone.” A chivalrous yet flummoxed hero, a defiant woman and a rescue gone awry. I was off and running.

But I don’t write just for myself or my editors. I write for you, the readers. Every time I sit at my computer, my goal is to tell a story that entertains you. As always, I hope I’ve succeeded.

MILLS & BOON

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margaret Moore
Brideof Lochbarr

With special thanks to

Amy Wilkins and Melissa Endlich

for their excellent editorial suggestions,

and to Tracy Farrell for another

wonderful opportunity.

CONTENTS

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 ONE

Scotland, 1235

MARIANNE WAS in purgatory.

Or so it was easy to believe as she looked out over the sodden landscape from the arched window in her brother’s fortress.

Of course it was raining again, the downpour effectively hiding the jagged hilltops surrounding Beauxville like a veil, making the courtyard a mess of mud and puddles, and soaking the scaffolding erected around the half-completed walls of the castle. It had rained every day since she’d arrived in this wilderness at the edge of the civilized world.

If she were in Normandy now, the sun would be shining and the leaves of the trees would be bright green. She’d be beneath their shading branches, whispering with a gaggle of young women her own age, trying to stifle her laughter as the farm laborers went past the convent walls heading home after a day working in the fields. The young men would be singing their bawdy songs, well aware that behind the white walls of the convent, girls would be listening. The nuns would be scurrying about and twittering like a flock of startled birds, chiding their charges and trying to get them to go inside.

If she were back in Normandy, she would be warm. Here, even wearing a linen shift, a gown of indigo blue wool, a bliaut of light red with gold trim and with a bright green woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she was still cold.

If she were in Normandy, she would be warm and happy, not lonely, cold and utterly, completely miserable.

She should have asked more questions when her brother arrived at the convent and told her he was taking her to his estate. Instead, she’d been too happy to be free of the confines of the religious house and too proud of her noble brother and impressed by his bearing and arms to question him. Even the Reverend Mother had seemed intimidated by Nicholas, and Marianne had believed the pope himself couldn’t intimidate the Reverend Mother.

Yet if the Reverend Mother had known Nicholas was going to bring his sister here, to this mass of unfinished stone and masonry, where she would live among savages with wild hair and bare legs, surely she would have said that Scotland was the last place on earth suitable for a young Norman woman of noble birth and education. She would have suggested to Nicholas that Marianne be allowed to remain in the place that had been her home for the past twelve years until a suitable husband could be found.

The door to her chamber crashed open. Startled, she turned from the window and watched as her brother, new-made lord of Beauxville, strode into the room. As always, Nicholas was plainly attired in black wool without a bit of embroidery at cuff or collar. His only ornamentation was the bronze buckle of his sword belt. His scuffed boots were caked with mud, his hair was damp, and his taciturn expression gave no hint as to why he’d decided to visit her here, where he rarely ventured.

“Ah, here you are, Marianne,” he said, as if he honestly expected her to be somewhere else. He scanned the small room with its simple, crude furnishings and her painted chest, his gaze lingering for a moment on the embroidery frame neglected in the corner. “What are you doing?”

“I was thinking about the convent.”

His response to that was a dismissive sniff, his usual reaction when she mentioned her life there, or spoke of her companions or the sisters. Yet why shouldn’t she think of the past and her life in Normandy? Did he think she could forget it? Did he think she wanted to?

Some of her annoyance seeped out. “Shouldn’t you be supervising the masons at the south wall? Or entertaining that elderly Scot who arrived this morning?”

“The masons are waiting for drier weather, and Hamish Mac Glogan has taken his leave.”

“If the masons need the weather to be dry, they may never finish your castle,” she remarked as she glanced out the window again. To her surprise, it wasn’t actually raining at the moment, although heavy gray clouds still lingered, like a bad smell. “The delays must be costing you a pretty penny.”

“I didn’t realize you knew anything about building castles.”

“Masons sometimes came to work at the convent, and I once heard the Reverend Mother complaining about the cost,” Marianne replied. “You’re doing much more than repairing a few loose bricks, so I can only assume—”

“You don’t have to assume anything,” Nicholas interrupted. “I can afford the masons now that I don’t have to pay the good sisters for your care.”

His tone was no longer dismissive. It was surprisingly resentful, as if paying for her years at the convent represented serious hardship. Yet her family had never suffered for want of money, and the sisters had never implied that she was there out of charity, like some of the more unfortunate girls. “Was it so very costly to keep me there?”

“Costly enough,” he replied. “But I didn’t come here to talk about money.”

Telling herself his resentment must have another, more mysterious source, she lowered herself onto the stool and thought of a reason he might have come to her chamber. “Have you had word from Henry?”

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Nicholas frowned. “A soldier doesn’t have time to send messages to his family.”

From the sound of it, things were still no better between her brothers. They’d fought constantly as children; indeed, some of her earliest memories involved hiding from them when they argued and wrestled.

“So, what do you wish to talk about?” she asked, confused by his obvious reluctance to come to the point. Nicholas was usually extremely direct, and this prevarication was making her nervous.

Then she thought of one explanation why a brother might seek out a sister. “Is it something about women?” she asked hopefully. “Is there a woman you wish to woo and you came for my advice?”

Nicholas looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve got more important things to do right now than court a woman, and I wouldn’t come to you for advice if I were.”

Marianne tried not to feel hurt at his brusque response. “I was only trying to be helpful, Nicholas,” she replied. “I was twelve years among girls and women. There’s probably not much I don’t know about them, so if you ever do want to ask me anything—”

“It’s your marriage I’ve come about, not mine.”

A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She’d been expecting this since the day he’d come to take her from the convent. It was, after all, the fate of most noblewomen and she dearly wanted children. Her happiest times at the convent had been helping the younger girls. So what reason could he have for taking so long to tell her that was why he had come to her chamber, unless he thought she wouldn’t be pleased?

In spite of her increasing dread, she tried to sound calm when she answered. “Oh? To whom?”

He strolled toward the brazier and studied the glowing coals. “It’s a very good match, Marianne,” he said after a moment that seemed to last an eternity. “Your husband has great wealth and power.”

His words brought absolutely no comfort; they only increased her uneasiness. “Who is he?”

“Hamish Mac Glogan.”

She stared at her brother with horrified dismay. “Isn’t that the old man who came here this morning?”

“That old man is rich and influential, related to the king of Scotland.”

Hearing the underlying impatience in his voice, she instantly recalled Nicholas’s rages when they were children. He was ten years older than she, and although he never struck her, she’d been terrified nonetheless. She certainly didn’t want to rouse that fierce ire.

Clasping her hands, she lowered her voice to a more beseeching tone. “Nicholas, I appreciate that you’re my older brother and stand in place of our father. I realize that it’s your duty to find a suitable husband for me. But I thought I would marry a Norman. So did the holy sisters, and that is what they had in mind when they taught me.”

“I told you, Hamish Mac Glogan is rich, he’s noble and he’s related to a king. That’s all that matters.”

She rose and went toward her brother. “But he’s so old, and he’s a Scot. I don’t know anything about these people, except that their land is harsh and cold and wet, and they wear those odd clothes. Surely there must be somebody else, a Norman nobleman, who—”

“You misunderstand, Marianne,” Nicholas replied with a coldness that chilled her to the marrow of her bones. “The agreement has already been made, the contract signed. Hamish Mac Glogan will be a powerful ally, and I need allies here.”

He spoke as if she was something for him to use as necessary, no more to him than the brazier beside him.

Anguish filled her as she saw not a brother who loved her, but a man who would do anything to fulfill his own plans.

“The wedding will be in a se’en night,” he announced.

So harsh, so cold, so cruel.

Seven nights, and she would be married to that old Scot and forced to live in this wilderness forever.

“Nicholas, I’ll willingly marry any man you like, as long as he’s a Norman. Surely that’s not too much to ask.”

“Yes, it is. I told you, Marianne, the agreement has been made, and there’s an end to it. Since I’m your oldest male relative, you have to do as I say.”

Her dismay and disappointment fled, to be replaced by firm resolution. This was her life, her future, in the balance. If no one else would look out for her interests, she must.

“I have rights, Nicholas. I learned all about them in the convent. Father Damien told us we had to agree to our betrothal. A woman can’t be forced into marriage. It’s against the law of the church.”

Nicholas looked utterly unimpressed. “The Reverend Mother told me you were headstrong and selfish. I see she wasn’t exaggerating. No wonder she was relieved to be rid of you.”

Marianne wouldn’t let his words hurt her. “I’ll go to the church for sanctuary.”

“Which church? How will you get there?”

“I’ll write to Rome, to the pope himself. I assure you I’ll do whatever’s necessary to see that—”

Nicholas grabbed her shoulders and in that moment, she saw the man his opponents in battle feared—the fierce, determined warrior who had survived when so many others had fallen.

“Are you forgetting who paid to keep you in that convent?” he demanded. “Do you think staying there came cheap? We may be nobly born, but our family’s poor and has been for years, since before our parents died.”

Refusing to believe him, she twisted out of his grasp. “You’re lying. You’re lying to try to get me to do what you want. I’d remember if we’d been poor.”

“It’s the truth, Marianne. You just didn’t know it. Our parents sent you away so you wouldn’t suffer, and sacrificed much to keep you there, as I did, because before they died they made me promise I would. I kept that promise, and while you were sleeping on clean sheets and eating like a princess, I was risking my neck and killing other men before they could kill me. Wearing secondhand armor. Sleeping in stables rather than pay for a place at an inn. Going hungry more times than I can count. And now I’ve arranged it so that you’ll never suffer from want, keeping my promise still, for which you should be grateful.”

Marianne stared at him, aghast, hearing the truth in his angry words. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. Scot or not, Hamish Mac Glogan is rich. You’ll be living in luxury, while I try to get some income out of this place.”

She went to him and put a placating hand on his powerful forearm. “Nicholas, I’m truly sorry you suffered for my sake, and I wish I’d known and been able to do something to help, but please, don’t make me repay you with this marriage. Don’t make me suffer for the rest of my life because of your ambitions. I can’t live in this country.”

“You can’t!” he scoffed, wrenching his arm from her grasp. He strode across the room, then turned to face her. “Maybe that’s what I should have said when it came time to send the annual fee to the convent, instead of going without meals and decent armor and a bed to sleep in. ‘I can’t pay it, Reverend Mother. Throw her out into the streets and let her fend for herself.”’

Marianne clasped her hands together, beseeching and desperate. “Nicholas, please, I’m begging you. I’ll marry any Norman nobleman you like. Surely there must be one who’ll want me, one just as rich and powerful as that ancient Scot.”

Nicholas’s expression altered to a sarcastic smirk. “You haven’t met many Norman nobles, have you, sister? If so, you’d know they’d try to bed you, but they’d never wed you. You see, my dear beautiful sister, you have no dowry.”

She couldn’t believe it. “Even if we’re not rich, surely there must be something. Why, you’ve got this estate, this castle.”

“That doesn’t mean I intend to waste another ha’penny on you,” Nicholas replied as he crossed his arms. “What money I have will be used to build and maintain this castle, and my garrison and household as befits my rank. I’ve spent all that I care to—and more than I could afford—on you already.”

“But—”

“But nothing!” he roared, his temper breaking. “I’ve found a rich, titled man who’ll take you without a dowry and by God, woman, you’ll wed him and like it! And if you’re as clever as the nuns said—although they didn’t mean it as a compliment—you’ll give the old goat a son or two before he dies. Then you’ll have a claim to his wealth and his property.”

Her stomach churning, Marianne envisioned a life as the bride of Hamish Mac Glogan. Sharing his bed in a frigid hut somewhere. Eating rock-hard bread. Bearing his children in the mud like some sort of animal. Treated worse than a dog.

A cry sounded from the gates.

“Out of my way,” Nicholas snarled as he went to the window. He looked out and muttered a soldier’s earthy curse.

“What is it? What’s happening?” Marianne asked, fearing some new and different trouble.

“Nothing that need concern you,” he retorted as he gave her a scornful look. “We’ll speak of your betrothal later, when you’ve had time to calm yourself and think about where your obligations lie.”

Then he went out, slamming the door behind him.

Marianne sat heavily on her bed. No matter what she owed to Nicholas, she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her entire life to repay him for what he’d done for her.

Nevertheless, she wished she’d known of his suffering sooner. She could have left the convent and…what?

Perhaps she could have found a husband on her own somehow. A brother of one of her friends, perhaps. She was a beautiful woman, after all, and that was obviously worth something. She’d also been taught all the duties and skills of a chatelaine by the good sisters, and a Norman nobleman would appreciate that, if Nicholas did not.

Yet the chance to find a husband for herself among her friends had passed, and now she was facing a marriage to a Scot.

Telling herself there must be something she could do to prevent the marriage, trying not to give in to despair, she rose and went to the window.

A mounted party of unfamiliar Scots entered the courtyard through the thick oaken gates bossed with bronze. The man leading them had hair white as freshly fallen snow, and his garment’s colors were a reddish brown like dried blood and a green reminiscent of moss. Beside him rode another Scot. He was taller and younger than the other man, with long, dark-brown hair that spread over his broad shoulders, except for two narrow braids that framed his clean-shaven and surprisingly handsome face.

Handsome for a Scot, she mentally clarified. And although his nose was straight, his chin strong and his lips full, he wore that outlandish garment that didn’t cover his bare, muscular legs. His sleeveless shirt revealed arms just as powerful. She was relieved to see that he carried no sword or other weapons, yet she suspected he could uproot a small tree with his bare hands, or kill a man with a blow.

Even more unnerving than the physical power of the Scot was his expression as he looked around the courtyard. He was so grimly malevolent, she could believe he wanted to torch everything he saw, and attack every soldier single-handed.

It was no mystery now why her brother had cursed, and she was surprised he had allowed this band of Scots to enter Beauxville at all—unless he hadn’t realized the old man had brought his fiercest warrior with him.

Marianne drew back out of sight as the savage warrior continued to scan the yard and surrounding buildings. She didn’t want to encounter his venomous gaze directly. She’d endured enough lustful looks from men during her journey here to last a lifetime, and she was quite sure this barbarian would react to her beauty like the uncivilized beast he was.

Even so, and in spite of the dread and disgust he inspired, her heartbeat quickened and her body warmed as she continued to watch him. Against her will, she remembered that day she’d climbed the tree and looked over the convent wall. A well-formed young man, wearing only his breeches, and one of the girls from the village had stopped beside a tree near the side of the road, in a spot not easily seen unless one was looking down from a tree. There they’d kissed, in such a way that she’d felt as hot as if the sun was shining directly on her and could melt her like butter.

She hadn’t known then what she was feeling, but she did now: lust. And she must truly be losing her mind if she could lust after a brutal, barbarian Scot. Or perhaps this heated, impassioned feeling was merely her heart’s protest against marrying an old man, because whatever else this Scots warrior was, he was certainly young and virile.

Nicholas strode out of the hall and for the briefest of moments, checked his steps as he caught sight of the warrior beside the old man. Clearly her brother had not anticipated his presence and wasn’t pleased.

However, his hesitation lasted only a moment before he continued forward and politely greeted the old man, who—surprisingly—replied in Norman French.

She would never have guessed that a Scot knew their language, or could speak it so well. She wondered if that grim warrior could understand what her brother and his leader were saying, and doubted it. Likely all he knew was fighting.

Nicholas stopped talking and gestured toward his hall. The leader of the Scots dismounted, and so did the rest of his men, who followed her brother to the hall.

Whoever these men were, they weren’t enemies, at least not openly, or Nicholas would never have extended them that courtesy. If these weren’t enemies, but allies or potential allies, Nicholas would also be inviting them to stay the night. Here was a chance to show Nicholas that she deserved to be the wife of a Norman nobleman and chatelaine of a Norman’s castle, not the property of a primitive barbarian on the far edges of the world.

She would have to go to the hall and be in the vicinity of the malevolent Scot, though. That was a daunting prospect, but if the ultimate result was the end of her betrothal to Hamish Mac Glogan, she’d set aside her dread and do what she must.

ADAIR MAC TARAN wanted to torch the place. He yearned to set fire to every piece of scaffolding and tear down the walls being built on the sacred soil of Alba stone by stone. He didn’t care what reason the king of Scotland had for giving land to the Normans; they were foreigners who didn’t belong here, and he hated them all.

“Hark at him,” he muttered in Gaelic to his younger brother, Lachlann, as they followed their father and Sir Nicholas toward the Norman’s hall, the biggest building Adair had seen outside of York. “Bloody arrogant bastard acts like he owns the whole country.”

Adair’s friend and clansman, Roban, nodded as he walked beside them. “Or as if he’s got a sword up his arse.”

“Or as if he’s been in more battles than all o’ us combined,” Lachlann replied, shooting them both a censorious look.

Adair and Roban exchanged knowing smirks. “Aye,” Adair said, making no effort to speak softly. “A Scot would have to be all of twelve years old to beat him.”

“For God’s sake, hold yer tongue, Adair,” Lachlann warned. “Did ye not hear what Father said?”

“Aye, I did, and I’ll make no trouble, but that doesnae mean I care if that bastard knows wha’ I think of him or not,” Adair answered. “And it’s not as if the man can understand a word we say anyway.”

“Aye, it’s no secret what Adair thinks of Normans,” Roban repeated. “Unless Sir Nicholas is deaf or a complete gomeral, he’ll already know.”

“You make that sound like a good thing,” Lachlann snapped. “But it’s never good to let your enemy know your thoughts. You’ve got to learn to guard your tongue, Adair. And whatever happens, don’t lose your temper.”

Adair regarded his slender, dark-haired brother with mock indignation, as if such a thing had never happened before. “Who, me, lose my temper with a lying, thieving Norman knight who comes to Scotland and steals our land by stealth?”

“This land was given to him by Alexander and you ought to remember that before you go charging the man with theft.”

“I’m not going to charge him with theft. That’ll be for Father to do.”

Another man spoke from within the group of Scots. “The Norman’s not the only one thinking he deserves to rule the world.”

Adair didn’t have to guess who it was, and he answered without looking over his shoulder. “Not the world, Cormag. Just our clan, as the heir chosen by my father and our clansmen.”

Cormag didn’t reply, and how could he? That was the truth, and the whole clan knew it. Nobody had ever considered Cormag Mac Taran suitable for taking Seamus Mac Taran’s place as chieftain of the clan and thane of Lochbarr, except Cormag himself.

“I’ll try not to curse the man outright,” Adair said to his brother as they trotted up the steps of the massive stone hall. “Will that content you?”

“I suppose it’ll have to,” Lachlann grudgingly conceded as they followed the Norman and their chieftain toward a dais at the end of the hall, past the central hearth. The chamber was full of people, including several foot soldiers, armed and armored.

There were also large, scarred trestle tables leaning against the walls, with benches in front of them, and rushes sprinkled with rosemary and fleabane covering the stone floor, muffling their footsteps and lightly scenting the air. Hounds skulked about, studying the newcomers warily, just as the soldiers at the gate had.

King Alexander must have paid the Norman with more than land for his services, or else the mercenary Sir Nicholas had come from a more wealthy family than they knew.

“The rest of us will have to stand like servants,” Adair noted under his breath when they reached the dais, where two large and ornately carved chairs stood.

“I feel like one wi’out my claimh mor,” Roban said, rolling his brawny shoulders as if seeking the huge sword’s comfortable weight on his back, where he usually carried it.

“If it comes to a fight, you won’t need it. You could probably take half this lot with your bare hands,” Adair replied, eyeing his friend who was six foot tall, and weighed fifteen stone after a day’s fasting.

“With a dirk, you could likely take them all without breaking a sweat,” Roban replied with a chortle.

“’Twas right to leave our claimh mors at the gate, since we come in peace,” Lachlann said under his breath. “Now be quiet, the pair of you. I want to hear what Father and the Norman say to each other without you muttering in my ear.”

“Welcome to my hall, Seamus Mac Taran,” Sir Nicholas said in French as the chieftain took his seat.

Then the Norman overlord barked out an order for wine. A female servant, young and pretty, with light-brown hair and green eyes and a mole on her right breast, nodded and scurried away like a frightened mouse, clearly terrified of her master.

Sir Nicholas was obviously fast with a blow or a kick if a servant didn’t move quickly enough to suit him, Adair thought, his disgust mounting. And perhaps he used his female servants to serve other needs as well.

The loathsome lout. Any man who forced a woman was no man at all, but a foul beast, and deserved to be treated like one.

“What brings you to call at Beauxville today?”

Adair’s lip curled. His father had been a warrior and clan chieftain for thirty years, yet this Norman addressed him as if he were a child. And this place was Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.

“A dozen cattle are missing from the south meadow of our land,” Seamus said.

And you and your men have stolen them, Adair silently added.

“How unfortunate,” the Norman calmly replied. “Outlaws are everywhere these days.”

Including right in front of me.

“Indeed they are,” Seamus agreed just as calmly. “But no Scot would steal from the Mac Tarans. They know if they are hungry, they have but to come to my hall and they’ll be fed. We Scots understand hospitality.”

That honest answer and sly rebuke brought a smile to Adair’s lips. But the Norman, dolt that he was, didn’t comprehend. Or if he did, he felt no proper shame.

“What did yer father say?” Roban asked in a whisper. Adair and Lachlann knew French, their father having insisted they learn it, but the rest of their clansmen did not.

“He told the bastard about Scots’ hospitality,” Adair explained.

“So you don’t suspect your fellow countrymen of this alleged crime?” Sir Nicholas inquired of the chieftain.

Adair’s temper rose even more at the man’s tone, as if Scots should, of course, be the first to be suspected, although it was the Normans who were coming to Scotland and taking everything they could.

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Seamus said with a shrug. Then he smiled in a way that had chilled many an enemy’s bones in days gone by. “But the Scots also know that the Mac Tarans will punish those who steal from them.”

“I’ve heard you people take the law into your own hands,” the Norman replied.

At last Adair saw a spark of anger in his father’s eyes.

“As a thane with a charter from the king, and chieftain of the clan, I have the right to uphold the law.”

“You have a charter?” The Norman sounded surprised. “I thought you Scots didn’t hold with such legal documents, that the clan held the land in community.”

“I hold the charter for the clan, because if I did not, there would be nothing to prevent a foreigner from getting our lands.”

“Your own king gives charters. Is that not his right?”

“Of course it is,” Seamus said, his voice placid once again. “He gave me our charter, as he gave you your reward. I merely point out that I have it, and because I do, I have the right to punish offenders who steal from me and my clan. So I will, when they are caught.”

The servant with the mole on her breast reappeared, carrying a tray bearing two goblets. She offered one first to Sir Nicholas, who frowned and gestured at Seamus.

Her hands, already shaking, could barely hold the tray steady as she turned toward the Scots chieftain. She probably feared a beating for this mistake.

Adair hurried forward and grabbed the tray out of the startled woman’s hands. “It’s a Scots tradition that a guest serve the first drink in his host’s hall,” he lied, trusting to the Norman’s ignorance of local customs as he handed a goblet to Sir Nicholas.

Who was, judging by his unexpectedly shrewd expression after his initial surprise had passed, perhaps not so ignorant of Scots ways as Adair had assumed. Nevertheless, the Norman accepted the goblet without comment. So did Seamus, who regarded his son with a warning eye.

Paying heed to Lachlann’s old woman’s worrying was one thing; a look like that from their father’s gray eyes was another. But he didn’t regret his impetuous act when he saw the grateful look from the serving wench, and remembered the surprise in the Norman’s.

Adair handed the tray back to the young woman and returned to his place with the rest of his clansmen.

“You can go,” Nicholas snapped at the maidservant.

“This bold fellow is my eldest son, Adair Mac Seamus Mac Taran,” Seamus explained to the Norman as the young woman fled. “My clan has chosen him to be thane and chieftain when I die.”

As Sir Nicholas ran a measuring gaze over him, Adair wondered if the Norman had heard that Adair Mac Taran had never been beaten in a fight, whether with arms or bare-handed, since he was ten years old—after he had seen what Norman soldiers could do.

Sir Nicholas looked back at Seamus and raised a brow. “Chosen?”

“Aye, although he’s my son, we still hold to the old ways. I pick who will succeed me, and my clansmen must agree. I have, and they did.”

“And all are happy with that choice?”

“They accept it, and thus it shall be,” his father answered with a smile. “Loyalty to the clan comes first above all things.”

“Not loyalty to your king?”

“If a chieftain’s loyalty is pledged to the king, so is the clan’s, without fail. Since I swore my oath to Alexander when he gave me the charter, every man in my clan would die for him.”

“Whether there was a reward for such service promised or not,” Adair added, earning him another sharp look from his father, and a suspicious one from the Norman.

“My son is a bit hot-tempered, my lord,” Seamus said. “Something that stands him in good stead in a fight, but leads to misunderstanding at other times.”

“I see. And I sympathize. My brother is the same.”

There were two of them?

Seamus smiled as if he and this Norman interloper were good friends. “A trial at times, yet worth the trouble in a fight, eh?”

The Norman actually laughed, a harsh sound like a crow, but a laugh. “If you were to come to Henry and accuse him or his men of theft, he would have his knife at your throat before you’d finished speaking.”

And soon after that, he would be dead, Adair silently vowed.

“I haven’t come here to accuse you or your men of theft,” Seamus replied evenly. “I came to warn you that there may be outlaws afoot. I also came to tell you that we intend to mount more patrols on our land.”

His father’s intent suddenly became more clear, and acceptable. Not as good as telling the Norman they knew his men had taken the cattle—the hoof-prints of the beasts had showed they’d been herded toward Dunkeathe—but his father was a wise and patient man, so perhaps this was the better course, even if it was frustrating.

The Norman’s expression hardened. “Are you warning me about outlaws, or that you’ll attack any Norman who comes onto your land?”

“Has anyone proof that the cattle were actually stolen?” a woman asked, her dulcet French voice coming from somewhere behind the group of Scots. “Perhaps they merely wandered off.”

Adair, and all the others, turned to see who’d spoken. Then they stared at the vision of beauty walking regally toward them.

She was easily the most beautiful woman Adair had ever seen. She looked like an angel, with the merest hint of a smile on her lovely face, clear blue eyes the color of a summer’s sky, smooth cheeks and full, rosy lips. Framing her perfect face, her soft blond hair hung in long braids over her shoulders.

She was slender and shapely, too—and wearing the most motley collection of garments he’d ever seen on anybody except a beggar.

So she couldn’t be a supernatural being. She was a woman of flesh and blood and bone. A woman a mortal man could woo and hope to win.

Sir Nicholas had no wife. If this was Sir Nicholas’s lover, he was a very lucky man, and Adair might finally have found one thing to envy a Norman.

“They were stolen, all right,” Adair said, walking toward her. “The herdsman is certain of it, and I would stake my life on his opinion.”

She raised a shapely, inquisitive brow. “You would pledge your life on a herdsman’s word?”

“That one, aye, I would.”

The beauty frowned and addressed the overlord. “I wonder if some of the men of the garrison took the cattle by mistake, Nicholas.”

Adair nearly laughed at the stunned look on the man’s face.

The Norman quickly recovered, and his cheeks turned as pink as the lady’s bliaut. “Marianne, return to your chamber.”

So, her name was Marianne. And she was also definitely, unfortunately Norman.

“You would rob us of this charming lady’s company?” Adair’s father asked, rising. “Here, my dear, please sit down.”

It could be that his father was making that offer to goad the Norman, but it was more likely he was merely being kind to a woman, as was his way.

In spite of Seamus’s invitation, Sir Nicholas fairly bounded off the dais and came to stand between Adair and the woman. “My sister has other duties to attend to.”

Sister, not lover. A thrill of familiar excitement shot through Adair’s body, yet because she was a Norman, his excitement quickly dwindled.

Lady Marianne flushed as she addressed his father. “I thank you for your kindness, sir, but my brother is right. I should not linger here.”

There had been no need for Sir Nicholas to humiliate her, Adair thought, hating the Norman anew.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I must ensure that we have adequate food and drink and lodging for our honored guests.”

Adair was grimly delighted by the annoyance that flittered across Sir Nicholas’s angular face. She’d paid him back for that humiliation, because short of rudely denying them food and drink and a place to sleep, Sir Nicholas had to let them stay.

Still, Adair expected the Norman to be discourteous, so he was taken aback when Sir Nicholas said, “Yes, of course. Off you go, then, Marianne. I’ll speak to you about the arrangements later.”

The beauty smiled tremulously, bowed and gracefully drifted toward a door at the side of the hall, the hem of her garments swaying as she walked, while the Norman threw himself back into his chair.

The man’s anger was no doubt caused by more than having to provide food and drink and lodging. He had to be well aware that a potential enemy could learn a lot about his fortress by staying in it.

Perhaps later, Adair thought with inner glee, he could thank his sister for the opportunity.

CHAPTER TWO

“SO HE TOOK the tray right out of my hands and served them himself,” Polly said breathlessly. “And handsome? Holy Mother Mary, I’ve never seen a man so fair. I thought I’d faint when our hands touched, I truly did.”

Marianne looked away from the cook to the little group of servants clustered around the very excited Polly, who was describing something that had transpired in the hall before she’d arrived and angered Nicholas even more. She was rather curious as to which man had taken pity on the nervous Polly, but it was time they all got back to work. It was bad enough Nicholas was obviously furious with her; she didn’t need a ruined evening meal to make things worse.

“That haunch of venison needs turning,” she said to the spit boy. “And the rest of you have other things to do, do you not?”

The lad immediately went back to slowly turning the spit. The scullery maid returned to her pots, and the two other female servants started kneading dough again. Three men hurried out of the kitchen completely.

“Watch out it’s not burnt on one side and raw on the other, eh?” Emile, the cook, commanded the spit boy before raising his eyes to heaven as if begging deliverance from the stupidity of servants.

“I’m sure the meat will be fine,” Marianne assured Emile, hoping she was right. “Is there anything else—?”

“Non, my lady, non,” Emile declared, slicing the air with his hand. “I understand. Twenty more and Scots, too.”

He sniffed as he headed for a pot boiling over the fire. He stirred its contents, which were sending forth a delicious smell of beef and gravy. “They will be no trouble. The Scots will eat anything. Even my worst meal will be wonderful to them.”

Relieved that Emile wasn’t going to panic or lose his temper, Marianne turned her attention to another matter. Gesturing for Polly to join her, she retreated to a corner, away from the bustling of the cook and his helpers. “I heard what happened in the hall.”

“Oh, my lady, please, don’t be angry!” Polly cried, anxiously wringing her hands. “I couldn’t help it. He just did it. Took the tray right away from me. What was I to do?”

“You did nothing wrong in the hall, Polly. That’s not why I wanted to speak with you.” Marianne delicately cleared her throat. “You, um, seem quite taken with the Scot who helped you.”

Polly turned as red as a ripe apple and stared at the floor.

“Of course, that was a kind thing for him to do,” Marianne went on gently. She knew better than to lecture. The Reverend Mother’s lectures had more often had the opposite effect than the one she intended; she’d made sin seem exciting rather than something to be avoided.

“However, I must warn you that many men think a woman’s gratitude should be expressed in one particular fashion, and we don’t know if that Scot is such a man or not.”

Polly looked up, her brow wrinkled, as if she didn’t understand.

A year or two in the convent hearing the stories some of the girls had to tell, Marianne reflected, and she wouldn’t be so confused. “I mean,” she explained, “that he might think you’re so grateful, you’ll give yourself to him.”

Polly’s eyes lit up.

This was not the reaction Marianne had expected. “Or that you ought to, whether you’re willing or not,” she added significantly.

Polly gulped and went back to staring at the floor.

“So I think tonight, you should stay away from the Scots. All of them.”

“Yes, my lady,” Polly murmured, her voice so low, Marianne could scarcely hear her.

Nevertheless hoping the young woman appreciated that she was trying to help, Marianne said, “Now you may go and tell the alewife we’ll probably need three more casks for tonight.”

“Yes, my lady,” the maidservant murmured before she hurried away.

“Marianne!”

At the sound of her brother’s enraged voice, Marianne cringed, then turned toward the door leading to the hall.

Nicholas stood just inside the entrance, his hands on his hips, his dark brows lowered, his expression wrathful. He imperiously pointed to the door leading to the yard. “Outside, Marianne, now!”

God help her, this was going to be worse than she’d feared. Yet somehow, she’d have to try to make him understand that she’d only been trying to help.

Once outside, a breeze caught Marianne’s garments. It wasn’t a chill draft such as she always felt in the castle, but a warm gust of air with the hint of the tang of the sea, some miles east. The clouds parted, giving glimpses of bright blue sky.

Nicholas stamped his way across the courtyard ahead of her. Skirting the puddles, she followed him to a secluded area between the mason’s hut and a wattle-and-daub storehouse, away from where the laborers were building the inner curtain wall.

“What the devil was the meaning of that little performance?” Nicholas demanded when they were alone, crossing his arms, his sword still swinging at his side from his brisk pace.

“I didn’t mean to offend or upset you, Nicholas,” she hastened to assure him. “I was only doing what I’d been taught, to show you that—”

“You shouldn’t have come to the hall and you damn well shouldn’t have invited those men to stay.”

“I didn’t invite them. I was sure, as overlord of Beauxville, that you had. That’s what the holy sisters taught me an overlord should do.”

“Don’t quote the holy sisters’ ideas of etiquette to me,” he retorted.

Clearly, it was wrong to assume even a Norman nobleman behaved like a Norman nobleman in this godforsaken place.

In spite of her mistake, she tried to salvage her plan. “I was only trying to be a good chatelaine to you, and take care of your guests.”

“Those men are not my guests and this isn’t Normandy.”

As if she needed reminding. “No, I realize that.”

His eyes narrowed.

She hurried on, desperately trying to make him understand why she’d done what she had. “I wanted to show you what I’ve been taught, at your great expense, to prove to you that the money hadn’t been wasted and that I deserve a Norman husband, at the very least.”

“You could have spared yourself the effort,” Nicholas snapped. “You could act like the queen and it wouldn’t make a difference to me. In a se’en night, you’re marrying Hamish Mac Glogan if I have to lock you in your chamber and put a guard outside the door to make sure of it.”

He stepped closer, glaring at her. “Do I have to put a guard on you, Marianne?”

“No, Nicholas, you don’t. I understand,” she replied, because to her sorrow and despair, she did. Her brother’s mind was made up, and there was nothing she could say or do that would make him change it.

“Good. And stay out of the hall tonight. Those are the most arrogant, insolent Scots I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet, and I won’t have them staring at my sister.”

“I have no wish to be the object of any man’s impertinent attention, either,” she answered haughtily, her pride roused.

Nicholas didn’t look quite so angry. “Good. Now go to your room and stay there.”

“Gladly,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away from her brother.

And his plans for her future.

THE MOON ROSE nearly full. Marianne had counted back the days from the time she’d last seen it and realized it was waning. If she wanted to flee with the moon to light her way, she dare not delay.

Sadly, she had no choice except to flee, no matter how dangerous it was. It was either stay and marry Hamish Mac Glogan, or escape Beauxville and take her chances.

Clutching a bundle of clothing and shoes against her chest, she left her bedchamber and slowly crept down the curved wall-stairs leading to the hall. She had to get past all the men and hounds sleeping there, and across the courtyard. She’d slip out the postern gate to the river, steal a boat and make her way to a fishing village by the sea. From there, she could purchase passage to York and home to Normandy.

She fingered her mother’s crucifix around her neck and hoped it, and her ribbons and perhaps a gown or two, would fetch enough for her journey.

If the postern gate was locked and guarded, she’d have no choice but to climb over an unfinished wall, although that would take more time and run more risk that she’d be seen by the guards at the gatehouse towers.

She reached the hall. Fortunately, her brother was extremely lax in religious matters, so instead of Matins being said, everyone in the castle except the guards on duty were asleep. Unfortunately, in addition to the men who usually slept in the hall—the garrison soldiers, male servants, masons and laborers—she had those Scotsmen to worry about. At least the female servants slept in their own quarters above the kitchen.

She peered into the dark hall. Although the central fire had been banked, she could see the huddled outlines of the slumbering men and dogs. The Scots were easy to distinguish—they’d simply wrapped themselves in the long lengths of cloth they wore as their main garment and lain down seemingly where they’d stood. She quickly and instinctively made a count of their number.

One of them was missing and as she scanned the huddled bodies, she realized who it was—the handsome, muscular one.

Had he been the one Polly was talking about? Probably.

Perhaps her words had been no more effective than the Reverend Mother’s, and Polly was expressing her “gratitude” this very moment.

As troubling as that thought was, she couldn’t let any concern for Polly’s welfare impede her plans. She had to get away, and she had to get away tonight. Keeping to the walls, she sidled toward the side door leading to the kitchen.

The kitchen was just as dark as the hall, and stifling. The lingering odors of smoke, grease, leeks and spices filled her nostrils, and she could feel the sweat dripping down her back as she studied the room illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the high, square windows. She made out the central worktable, and the barrels by the door. The stack of wood closer to the hearth. The spoons and bowls piled on the board at the side. The piscina, a basin built into the outer wall of the building.

The spit boy lay on the floor by the entrance to the buttery, as if he were guarding the ale and wine, which perhaps he was. He rolled onto his back and muttered something.

Fearful he was waking, she swiftly made her way around the worktable to the door, lifted the latch as quickly as she dared and slipped out into the chill air of the evening, which seemed blessedly cool.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Indeed, the moon was almost too brilliant, making it harder for her to hide. Nevertheless, she welcomed the illumination. She didn’t know the land, and she didn’t want to wander about a dark, unfamiliar countryside.

Most of the walls weren’t finished, so there was no wall walk for patrolling soldiers. The gatehouse was nearly complete, though, and Nicholas had set watchmen on the towers there. They would be the ones most likely to spot somebody running through the courtyard.

She watched the towers for what seemed like an age before she could be sure the guards were looking not into the courtyard, but out across the river valley. Then, summoning her resolve, she dashed to the alley between the mason’s hut and the storeroom where Nicholas had upbraided her that day.

No one called out. No alarm sounded. She’d managed the first part of her escape undetected.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned back against the small wattle-and-daub storehouse and said a silent prayer of thanks.

Suddenly a man—a broad-shouldered man in the outlandish skirted garment of a Scot and a sleeveless shirt—appeared at the other end of the alley.

Before she could recover from the shock and run or hide, he quietly addressed her in French. “Bit of an odd time for a stroll, isn’t it, my lady?”

She recognized that voice. Thank God it wasn’t Nicholas, or one of his men—but what was that Scot doing here? And where was Polly?

She froze as a guard called out a challenge.

Had they been seen? Had that lascivious Scot cost her the chance of escape?

Mercifully, another man’s voice answered, calm and steady. The guards hadn’t seen her, or the Scot.

Yet.

She spotted the open door to the mason’s hut to the right of the Scot. Hurrying forward, she shoved him inside, coming in after him.

He never made a sound as the wooden door hinged with leather strips swung shut behind them. The only light filtered through cracks in the wall and the shutters over the window.

The Scot seemed taller in the darkness. Silhouetted against the wall of the hut, his body appeared huge, with his long, bare, muscular legs and strong, equally bare arms.

Perhaps this was a mistake. But before she could leave, he spoke.

“Why, my lady, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, his deep voice low and slightly husky.

“Be quiet,” she commanded in a whisper. “Or do you want the guards to catch you here, where you have no right to be?”

“No, I don’t want the guards to find me here,” he answered quietly. “But unless they can see through walls and hear like dogs, I doubt they will. They’re too far away, and too busy looking for enemies beyond the walls.”

“Where’s Polly?”

“Who?”

“Polly. The maidservant who served the wine.”

The Scot strolled toward her. “Ah. The one with the mole on her breast?”

As if he could fool her with his bogus innocence. She knew full well the deceit men were capable of. “Yes. Where is she?”

“I have no idea.”

Giving him a cold stare, she backed away from him until her body collided with a workbench covered with masons’ tools—chisels and trowels, levels and measuring sticks. She set her bundle down, so that her hands were free. She could defend herself now, if she had to. “I don’t believe you. I’m sure you were with her.”

“I’m sure I wasn’t. I think I’d remember if I were.”

Splaying her hands behind her and leaning back, her fingers encountered a chisel. Thrilled that she had some kind of weapon, her hand closed around it. “Then what are you doing skulking about my brother’s castle?”

“Searching for the plans to this fortress.”

No spy would confess so quickly and so easily, to anyone. “You must think I’m a simpleton.”

He strolled closer. “Whatever I think of you, my lady, I don’t think you’re dim-witted.”

She swallowed hard.

Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed hers, tightening until she dropped the chisel.

“Were you really planning to attack me with that?” he asked as he let go of her.

She rubbed her sore hand and didn’t answer.

“You’re quite safe with me, my lady. My taste doesn’t run to Normans, even ones as beautiful as you.”

She’d never before felt simultaneously insulted and flattered.

Perhaps this was his way of trying to confuse her. “What are you doing outside the hall?” she demanded, although that in itself was no crime. “Answer me honestly, or I’ll call the guard.”

“You won’t do that.”

She’d heard some Scots had what they called the Sight, the ability to see things by supernatural means, things they couldn’t possibly know otherwise. Yet surely he didn’t have such a power. “Oh yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t,” he answered, reaching around her for the chisel, coming so close, she could feel his breath warm on her cheek.

Gripping the edge of the table with both hands, she froze until he retreated.

“You won’t because then you’d have to explain what you’re doing wandering about at this time of night and with a bundle in your hands,” he said as he toyed with the chisel. “I’m thinking you had a clandestine rendezvous planned, although sadly not with me.” He nodded at the bundle. “And you’ve thoughtfully brought a blanket to lie on and perhaps some wine to drink.”

“What a base suggestion!”

“I didn’t mean to be insulting,” he replied as he tossed the chisel back onto the table, close enough for her to reach. “I’m impressed you planned so well.”

Now she really was insulted. “I am not some hussy of the sort you’re obviously used to.”

The Scot strolled over to another table and workbench. “What else could lead a beautiful Norman lady to sneak around alone in her brother’s fortress in the middle of the night?” he mused aloud. “Perhaps it’s a sign that all is not well with the lady.” He turned to regard her steadily. “I could be mistaken, of course. I’d be glad to think I was, and that nothing is amiss with you.”

He sounded completely sincere. Yet she’d heard enough stories in the convent to know better than to take any man’s words at face value, no matter how sincere he sounded.

So she lied, easily and without compunction. “I couldn’t sleep and decided to take some linen to the kitchen to be washed in the morning. I heard noises and thought it was a cat. I wanted to chase it outside, lest it make a mess of the masons’ things.”

“Really?” the Scot answered. He lazily picked up some other tools one at a time and examined them. “You didn’t think it might be somebody up to no good? You weren’t bravely coming to confront an enemy?”

“I wouldn’t be so foolish as to confront an armed man when I have only a bundle of laundry. And I don’t think any intelligent man would attack the sister of Sir Nicholas de Beauxville in his own fortress, or confess a crime to her face.”

The Scot put down a trowel. “This place is Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.”

“Since my brother has possession of it, he can call it whatever he likes.”

“Aye, so he may, and so might the Normans, but to the Scots it is, and always will be, Dunkeathe.”

“Proudly spoken, but whatever it’s called, I want to know what you’re really doing out of the hall in the middle of the night.”

He tilted his head and studied her a moment before answering. “All right then, my lady, the truth. It’s just as I said. I was trying to find the plans to the castle.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It has to be obvious I’m up to no good.”

Then his full lips curved upward into a devilish smile that seemed to reach right into her breast and set her heart to beating as it never had before. “And since I’m not dim-witted, either, I’m sure that you’re doing something you don’t want your brother to know about, whether it’s meeting a lover or not.”

She reached for her bundle. “I told you, I’m taking some linen to be laundered.”

“When you’re ill? That’s what your brother said when you weren’t at the evening meal.”

“I am recovered.”

“And making bundles, which you then carry out of your quarters in the middle of the night, heading for the postern gate. If I were to make a guess, Lady Marianne, I’d say you were running away.”

“Why would I run away?”

“I can think of plenty of reasons you’d want to flee. For one, that brother of yours is as arrogant as they come. It must be difficult living under his thumb.”

“He’s a wonderful brother.”

“Well, maybe for a Norman, he is. Thank God, I wouldn’t know.” The Scot took a step closer. “Whether he is or not, you’re willing to risk fleeing his castle and traveling alone rather than stay here.”

“Even if that were true—which it isn’t—is traveling alone in this country such a great risk? Are you saying I should be afraid of the Scots?”

“There are men who would steal cattle roaming about. Alone on the open road, you’d be very tempting for every outlaw between here and York.”

She fought the urge to believe that he cared about her welfare. Most men were scoundrels and liars; even her own brother would use her to further his selfish ambitions. “If I were running away, I’d have enough sense to stay off the open road.”

“And not get lost?”

“I need only get to the nearest church or monastery or convent by myself. They would give me sanctuary.”

That would also be the first place her brother would look for her, which is why she wouldn’t risk doing that. It had to be the village, then York, then France.

The Scot came closer. “If you were running away, my lady, I’d think again. Or are you quite certain you’d have nothing to fear from the cattle thieves because they’re Normans, too?”

“I don’t believe the men who took your cattle came from here,” she replied, hoping it was true, although she wouldn’t put it past some of the soldiers her brother had hired.

“Then so much the worse for you—or any lone woman—who meets them.”

The Scot’s gaze searched her face. When he spoke, his voice was firm, and stern. “Does he beat you?”

She instinctively drew back, putting a little more distance between them. “Who?”

“Your brother.”

“No!”

“He doesn’t…lay hands on you?”

She guessed what terrible thing he was implying. “Never!”

His stern visage relaxed. “So why do you want to run away?”

“I don’t!”

“I think you’re lying. I think you desperately want to get away from here. I just don’t know why.”

Her reasons simply couldn’t be important to him, no matter how concerned he sounded. “You have no idea what I want,” she replied, mustering her resolve. “I’m a Norman lady and you’re nothing but a…but a…”

“What am I but a man who doesn’t want to see you hurt—or worse? Do you really find that so hard to believe?” he asked softly, laying his strong hands lightly on her shoulders, the slight pressure warm and surprisingly welcome.

But it shouldn’t be. She should slap his face for daring to touch her. She should raise the alarm. Call out the guards. Shout for help. She should push him away. She shouldn’t let him pull her into his arms, as he was doing at that very moment.

Her bundle fell to the ground, the garments and shoes tumbling to the ground like so many scattered leaves.

She shouldn’t put her arms around his waist and look up into his handsome face. She should try to get away from him and his deep, seductive voice. She shouldn’t feel this thrilling excitement coursing through her body, or allow the images bursting into her head.

Yet in spite of all the inner warnings and orders, and all the things she’d heard about men and their evil ways, Marianne closed her eyes in anticipation and welcomed the first touch of the Scot’s lips upon hers. They were as light as the caress of a feathertip before they settled and moved with slow, sinuous deliberation.

This was how that girl under the tree must have felt, except this was no stripling youth kissing her. This was a warrior in his prime, handsome and confident.

Nothing could prepare her for the astonishing reality of his passionate kiss. Not the girl and the boy beneath the tree. Not the whispered descriptions from the other girls in the dark at the convent. Not a troubadour’s ballad.

Nothing.

As the Scot’s arms tightened around her, a longing as powerful as the need for liberty rooted her to the spot and urged her to surrender to the passion surging through her body, enflamed by his kiss.

He tasted of wine and warmth, his lips soft yet firm, too, as they slid over hers with excruciating, provoking leisure. Leaning against him, soft and yielding, a whimper of yearning escaped her throat, a little note of longing for something more that his kiss promised.

He shifted, and his embrace tightened. His mouth pressed harder, and his tongue touched her lips, preparing to part them.

A sound interrupted the silence: somebody drawing water from the well. Two women’s voices talking about the fine weather.

The kitchen servants, always the first to rise, were already setting about their tasks. Soon, the guards would be changing, and the masons would be coming.

With a horrified gasp, Marianne twisted out of the Scot’s grasp. She mustn’t be found here—with him.

“Let me go or I’ll call the guards!” she cried, meaning it, as she frantically picked up her things.

She never should have weakened and given in to her lustful impulses. What would the Reverend Mother and Father Damien say if they could see her now? What would her friends think of her? God help her, what would Nicholas do?

“You won’t call the guards,” the Scot said firmly, backing away, his body blocking the single exit.

“If you don’t get away from the door, I certainly will,” she countered, whirling around to face him, holding her clothes against her chest.

His expression hard and as cold as Nicholas’s could be, the Scot shook his head. “Oh no, you won’t, my fine Norman lady.” He nodded at her clothes. “That’s no bundle of laundry and you weren’t on your way to do washing. You were running away, until we met here. Why, I’m not sure, but I am sure you’ll never tell your brother that we met, because then you’d have to explain yourself.”

“And you thought to take advantage of that, and me, didn’t you?” she charged.

His whole body tensing, the Scot spread his hands wide. “I’d never take advantage of a woman, and I’m not keeping you here against your will. I haven’t done anything against your will.”

“Yes, you have!”

“No, I have not, my lady, and you know it.”

“You were trying to seduce me.”

“If I’d been trying, my lady, you’d have been seduced.”

“Of all the insolent, despicable, arrogant—! Let me pass!”

He stepped away from the door. “With pleasure, my lady. But we both know that you enjoyed that kiss as much as I.”

Marianne knew nothing of the kind. She only knew that staying with him had been a terrible mistake, and not just because of that kiss. She’d lost her chance to escape, and who could say when she would get another before the week was up?

“Fool!” she muttered, silently cursing both herself and the Scot as she pushed past him and hurried out the door.

CHAPTER THREE

ADAIR BOLDLY STRODE toward the hall, silently daring any of the Norman’s soldiers in the courtyard to question or challenge him. He’d like nothing better than to send a few of them sprawling in the mud.

Yet as he headed toward the massive hall, no one—not the workmen, Sassunach for the most part, or the soldiers—said a word to stop him. Their master should thank God he wasn’t an assassin sent to kill him, if this was how they guarded his fortress.

But what could you expect from men paid to serve you? Scots’ loyalty and power came from blood and family, not payment in coin, or the promise of reward.

As for Lady Marianne, she was a lying, scheming Norman like all the rest. Of course she’d been sneaking somewhere, and either she was running away, or taking a change of clothes for some other purpose. She probably had been going to meet a lover, and was sorry she’d been caught.

At least at first, because say what she would, she had wanted to kiss him. She’d relaxed against him and passionately pressed her lips to his as if she’d like nothing more than to be his lover.

God save him, he’d wanted that, too, forgetting that she was a Norman. There was no excuse for his lustful weakness and he ought to be ashamed.

He was ashamed.

Adair shoved open the door to the hall and marched inside the chamber big enough to hold a herd of cattle.

He spotted his father sitting on a bench, his shoulders slumped, not speaking or moving. Adair couldn’t remember ever seeing his father quite so still first thing in the morning, and there were circles of weariness under his eyes. Clearly, a night on a stone floor, even one cushioned with rushes, had proved intolerably uncomfortable.

He marched toward his father. “The bastard should have offered you a bed.”

Seamus rose, his movements slow and stiff. “It’s nae wise to call a man names in his own house, my son,” he said as he gave Adair a wry smile. “And he may not have an extra bed.”

“The devil he does. He’s rich. This place is proof of that.”

“This place, my son, is proof that he’s spending a lot of coin to fortify Dunkeathe,” his father replied, his gaze roving over the high-beamed ceiling and stone walls before returning to Adair. “It doesnae mean he has muckle in the way of beds.”

“So you think he needs more money,” Adair inquired significantly, thinking of the missing cattle.

“Maybe. But we don’t know the man’s business, so it’s better to make no guesses.”

Lachlann nodded. “Especially when we’re in his castle.”

“Aye, and where the devil have you been?” Cormag demanded.

Adair saw no need to explain himself to Cormag. He also saw no reason to tell his father, or anyone else, about his encounter with the Norman’s sister. That unforeseen meeting represented no danger to his clan, because he was sure it would remain a secret. In spite of her bravado, the lady wouldn’t dare to tell her brother that they’d been alone together. Otherwise she’d have to explain how she came to be in the courtyard in the middle of the night.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a wee walk about the place,” he replied, which was true, as far as it went.

He’d left the hall after he’d lain awake for a long time, thinking of this fortress and the danger it represented to his clan and his country. He hadn’t planned on meeting the lady, and he should have left her the moment he saw her. Yet she had been frightened and tense, even after she’d pushed him into that hut. His curiosity had been roused enough to try to find out what she was up to, and then if she was in any danger.

He should have known better than to have any sympathy for a Norman, even if the Norman was a woman.

“The bonnie lass with the mole on her breast, was it?” Cormag asked with a sly, disgusting smirk as he adjusted his feileadh, pushing and pulling the fabric so that it bunched less around his middle. “Was she grateful that you acted like a servant to Sir Nicholas?”

Adair’s lip curled. “I didn’t go out to meet a woman,” he replied. “And only a desperate lout—or a Norman—would expect a woman to show her gratitude the way that you’re implying.”

“That’s enough, you two,” his father said. “I’ve plenty to think on without you fighting like mongrel dogs.”

“Aye,” Lachlann seconded. “And we shouldn’t quarrel among ourselves while we’re here. How will that look to the Normans?”

Lachlann had a point, and Adair resolved to try to ignore Cormag, at least until they were out of Dunkeathe.

His father stretched and glanced at the servants setting up the tables. “That Norman’s idea of an evening meal was not mine, and they’ll have no notion at all of what a man needs in the morning, so I think it’s time we were on our way. Roban, see to the horses.”

“Without another word about the cattle?” Adair asked as his friend dutifully headed out of the hall.

His father nodded. “Aye, my son, there’ll be not another word about the cattle—for now. We’ve no proof, and arguing with Sir Nicholas like a hotheaded lad isn’t going to provide it. We’ve warned him and he knows we’re suspicious, so that will have to do.”

“Aye, Adair. If you can’t hold your temper, you’ll have us at war with our neighbors,” Cormag added.

Adair shot him a look. “I don’t mind a fight.”

Cormag’s hand went for his missing sword. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“I’m saying I don’t mind a fight, if it comes to it,” Adair replied, trying to control his frustration with Cormag, Sir Nicholas and the Normans in general. “Better a battle than surrender.”

“I’ll fight when the chieftain tells me to, and not because you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head,” Cormag retorted.

“It’s not your place to chastise my son, nephew,” Seamus said, standing between them. “Now let’s be gone.”

“We’re not taking leave of the lady?” Lachlann asked. “It’d be only right to say farewell and give her our thanks for her kindness.”

“We’ll take our leave of her if she comes to bid us farewell,” Seamus answered. “She was too ill to eat with us last night, remember?”

“Aye, poor thing,” Adair replied. “Probably sickened from whatever that was they served us. Might have been anything under all that sauce.”

The men started to laugh, until Seamus held up his hand to silence them. “Wheesht. Here comes the man himself.”

Sir Nicholas strode toward them from the bottom of the curved staircase, carrying himself with the ease of a soldier welcomely divested of heavy chain mail and armor. He was the same height as Adair, and looked as if he could lift ten stone. Some Normans went to fat when they quit going to war or tournaments. Adair doubted this man would.

“Good day to you, Sir Nicholas,” his father said in French, his tone jovial, although Adair didn’t doubt his father had noted that the man was wearing his sword belt, the bronze hilt of his weapon gleaming in the morning sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows.

“And to you, Seamus,” the Norman replied, coming to a halt. “I regret I have no priest in residence to say mass today.”

Despite his words, he didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“Oh, well then, I think it’s best, my lord, if we take our leave at once. We mustn’t be in a state of sin when we break the fast.”

His father wasn’t being any more sincere. He wasn’t a religious man, and the priest of their kirk was notorious for his disagreement with several of the rules of Rome, particularly the one regarding chastity. As for eating before mass, Father Padraig always said God would understand that it was difficult for a man to contemplate anything but his own hunger on an empty belly.

“If you insist upon leaving, naturally I won’t detain you,” Sir Nicholas said, his expression betraying no hint of dismay or regret, “but I shall be sorry to see you leave without eating and drinking with me once more.”

“We really must go,” Seamus answered. “Please give our thanks to your lovely sister for her fine hospitality. We hope she’ll soon recover.”

“I will, and I believe her illness is not overly serious, if wearying. Unfortunately, I doubt she’ll have an opportunity to meet you again. She’s betrothed and will soon be going to Menteith to be married.”

“Oh?” Seamus said, raising a brow. “To whom?”

“Hamish Mac Glogan.”

“That greedy, grasping, lecherous old wretch?” Adair cried in Gaelic to his father, aghast at the thought of Lady Marianne married to Hamish Mac Glogan.

“Go and help Roban with the horses,” his father said sharply.

It was a command, not a request. Nevertheless, Adair didn’t move. “You can’t allow this, Father. An alliance between the Normans and that auld lecher. Mac Glogan’s lands are too close to our western border. Between the two of them and the sea, they’ll have us encircled like a snare.”

“I know where Hamish Mac Glogan’s lands lie, Adair. Leave us!”

Scowling fiercely, Adair turned on his heel and marched out of the hall.

“WILL YOU NEVER LEARN to think before you speak?” Lachlann demanded as he joined Adair near the stable a few moments later.

Holding the reins of his white horse, Neas, and Lachlann’s nut-brown gelding, Adair didn’t reply. A little ways off, Roban waited beside their father’s black horse, as well as his own feisty roan.

The sun shone brightly, and a warm breeze brought the scent of damp earth to their nostrils, along with wet sand, stone and mortar from the growing walls. All around them they could hear the workmen calling to one another, or talking among themselves in the rough tongue of the Sassunach. The mason, a slender fellow who looked as though a strong breeze would blow him away, bustled to and fro, ordering and chiding and complaining as he created this foreign monstrosity on the sacred soil of Alba.

Lachlann nodded at their father, who marched toward his horse without so much as a glance at his sons. “Father’s in a right foul mood now.”

“So he should be, but not with me,” Adair answered as he swung into the saddle. “With those scheming Norman bastards and Hamish Mac Glogan. It’s not enough the Normans are stealing our land with the king’s help. Now they’re doing it by marriage.”

Their father, mounted on his horse, raised his hand to signal his men to head toward the gate. He was at the front of the band, followed by Roban and Cormag and the others, while Adair and Lachlann brought up the rear.

Adair could feel the animosity in the stares of the Norman’s soldiers, and he glared right back at the thieving foreigners. Let one of them draw his weapon. He’d be feeling the tip of Adair’s dirk at his throat before he took another breath.

Lachlann gave Adair a warning look. “These aren’t the men who killed Cellach, you know.”

“I know.”

“And she died years ago, Adair.”

It was easy for Lachlann to put Cellach from his mind. He hadn’t been the one who’d found her ravished, broken body.

Lachlann sighed, and changed the subject. “Sir Nicholas’s sister is certainly lovely. It’s too bad she didn’t come back to the hall, but it was obvious her brother was angry with her for inviting us to stay.”

He’d been livid, if Adair was any judge. That’s why he’d been worried the Norman had hurt her. He wouldn’t put it past the man to beat his sister. Yet she’d denied it, and he didn’t think she was lying. There’d been no hidden hint of falsehood in her shining eyes. Not then, anyway.

“I think she liked you, Adair,” Lachlann noted with a smile. “No surprises there, I suppose.”

“She didn’t like me.” Except, perhaps, to kiss—a notion that rankled.

“Aye, she did. I saw all the usual signs when she looked at you.”

“I wouldn’t trust any ‘signs’ she gives, any more than I would her brother.”

“Then it won’t matter to you that she’s watching us right now.”

Adair stiffened. “The devil she is.”

“Aye, she is, from her window in the apartments beside the hall. She’s peeking out as shy as a novice stealing glances at a handsome priest.”

Adair glanced up and over his shoulder. Lady Marianne was there, standing at the window and watching them. He couldn’t see her face well enough to make out her expression.

She was probably delighted he was leaving and taking their secret with him. The duplicitous, deceitful, beautiful, passionate…

Then Sir Nicholas came to stand behind her, looming tall and stern in the shadows behind her, like some sort of judge. Or executioner.

He could well believe that Lady Marianne had been trying to get away from her brother, no matter what she said.

Perhaps she’d been fleeing because she didn’t want to marry Hamish Mac Glogan—until he’d stopped her, putting her neck right back in her brother’s noose, as if he were Sir Nicholas’s henchman.

“Adair!” his father called, gesturing for his son to ride to the head of their party.

He hesitated.

“Adair!”

“What’s the matter?” Lachlann demanded in an urgent whisper. “Have you lost your hearing, or do you want to linger longer here among the Normans?”

“Nay, I don’t want to linger here,” Adair muttered as he punched Neas’s side with his heels and went to join his father.

RIDING BESIDE ADAIR at the head of their party, Seamus drew in a deep breath. They were in a pine wood between Lochbarr, their village on a long lake, and Dunkeathe, recently given over to the Norman. Several small streams splashed their way down the rocky, needle-covered slope to the loch.

Lachlann had moved forward, so that now he was behind Adair and his father, and beside Cormag. The rest of the men came after, including Roban, who was robustly singing a bawdy song at the top of his lungs, scaring the birds and sending the wildlife scattering.

The chieftain raised his voice to be heard over the sound of Roban’s deep voice and the jingling of the horses’ accouterments. “This is better than being in that Norman’s castle. A man can breathe out here.”

“Aye,” Adair agreed. “I felt like my belt was too tight the whole time I was in that place.”

“Not too tight to keep you from wandering in the night,” his father pointedly remarked. “Where were you?”

“I went to the mason’s hut. I wanted to see the plans for the castle.”

His father abruptly reined in his horse, causing them all to halt. “You did what?”

Adair met his father’s shocked gaze steadily. “I wanted to know more about the fortifications he’s planning on building. That castle makes Lochbarr look like a farmer’s yard.”

“You could have got us all killed!” Cormag cried, his anxious horse dancing beneath him.

Adair twisted in his saddle and studied his cousin, catching sight of an equally thunderstruck Lachlann. “I wasn’t caught.”

Not by the guards, anyway.

“But you might have been,” Lachlann said, aghast.

“I had my excuse ready.”

“Which was?” his father demanded.

Adair put on a pained expression. “That I was having trouble with my bowels and looking to relieve myself.”

His father, Lachlann and some of the other men smiled. Cormag, and those in the band who were his cousin’s friends, did not.

“You were lucky,” Lachlann said.

“Not that lucky,” Adair replied. “I couldn’t find the plans. They must have been locked away in the box I saw in the mason’s hut.”

Beneath the table Lady Marianne had leaned against, watching him warily, as if she was afraid he might bite. He couldn’t bear the thought of any woman being frightened of him—another reason he’d stayed, he supposed.

“What a surprise they weren’t left lying about for anybody to see,” Cormag said sarcastically. “Even your father’s tact couldn’t have saved you if you’d been found looking over the plans. We might all have been hung for spying. But you didn’t think of that, did you?”

In truth, he hadn’t. He’d been too keen to find out all he could about the castle. “Don’t fash yourself, Cormag.”

The chieftain nudged his horse into a walk, as did the others. “Whether you were caught or no,” he said to his son, “I have to agree that wasn’a a wise thing to do, especially when you might have guessed that the plans would be kept away from prying eyes.”

“Aye, ’twas a fool’s errand,” Cormag loudly complained. “We don’t need to see any plans to realize the Norman’s fortifying Dunkeathe in a way that’ll make it hard to beat him.”

“With one wall, or two?” Adair asked, defending his fool’s errand. “I’ve heard that some Norman castles have two curtain walls, and a few even three. They have towered gatehouses and bossed gates, secret passages for escape, dungeons and even a murder hole.”

“A murder hole? Losh, what’s that?” Lachlann asked.

“’Tis a hole in the roof between the portcullis at the entrance to the gatehouse and the gate at the other end. They can drop rocks through it on invaders, or boiling oil.”

“God help us,” Lachlann murmured, and a few of the men crossed themselves, or made the sign against the devil.

“Aye. That’s why I wanted to see what Sir Nicholas was up to. He strikes me as the sort to have a murder hole. And lots of dark, damp cells.”

Perhaps he’d lock his sister away in one if he somehow found out she’d met a Scot in the mason’s hut, or was trying to escape his castle.

Adair shoved that thought away. “Father, I’m thinking we should rebuild our own defenses.”

“Aye, my son, so am I.”

“Especially if the Norman’s making an alliance with Mac Glogan.”

“That’s a bad business, right enough,” his father agreed.

“Can you not put a stop to it? You could go to the king. You’re a thane and a chieftain. Alexander ought to listen to you.”

“Sir Nicholas has Alexander’s favor, so any objections will have to be made carefully,” his father replied.

“Then Adair’d better stay at home if you decide to go,” Cormag said. “Or he’ll likely lose his temper with the king.”

“Shut it, Cormag,” Adair warned.

“If you really want to prevent the marriage, why not seduce the woman, Adair?” Cormag suggested, his voice full of scornful mockery. “Women are helpless to resist your pretty face and braw body, are they not?” He grinned and raised his voice, imitating a woman. “Oh, Adair, kiss me! Hold me! Raise my skirts and—”

Adair was off his horse and dragging Cormag from his before any of the other men had time to blink.

“Father!” Lachlann cried as the two Scots wrestled in the mud of the narrow path, all bare legs and plaids and curses. “Stop them before they kill each other.”

“They’ll not do that,” Seamus said as he continued to ride for home. “Let them fight awhile. Then maybe we’ll have some peace in our hall tonight. Those Normans weary me something fierce, and I need to think.”

CHAPTER FOUR

FIVE DAYS LATER, Neas fairly danced with impatience to be free of the confines of his stall.

Motes of dust and bits of chaff from the hay swirled in the air and about the beams of the stables. The scent of thatch mingled with dung and the leather of bridles, saddles and harnesses. The other horses munched contentedly, or shifted and refooted, some more lively than others because one of their number was going to be leaving as soon as its master could saddle it.

The stable door opened, throwing a shaft of sunlight into the dimmer building.

“Adair!” Lachlann exclaimed as he paused on the threshold. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here. I thought you’d be on patrol with Roban and the others.”

Partly hidden by Neas, Adair silently cursed. He’d hoped to ride out without having to explain where he was going, or why. “I was, then decided Neas needs more of a run.” He threw a fleece over his horse’s back. “It’s been too long since he had a good gallop.”

“Aye. I can’t remember a wetter summer.” Lachlann strolled closer, studying his brother’s face as Adair heaved the saddle onto Neas. “You’re healing, I see.”

“Thanks to that awful stinking stuff Beitiris makes. Smells worse than a bog, but it works.” Adair bent down to buckle the girth. “How’s Cormag?”

“His eye’s a charming motley of purple and green and yellow, but he can open it now,” Lachlann answered. “He’s limping yet, though.”

Lachlann leaned back against the upright beam at the end of the stall. “Cormag’s still some furious. Do you think it’s wise to fight with him so much and so openly?”

“What are you getting at?”

“He’s never liked you, Adair.”

“Nor I, him. What of that?”

Lachlann patted Neas’s muzzle. The beast shivered and pranced, so Lachlann withdrew his hand. “It’s not good to have enemies within the clan.”

Lachlann worried about Cormag too much. “He’s my cousin and clansman. He’ll stand with me in a battle.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“If he doesn’t, you and I both know the fate of a man who’ll betray his clan.”

“So you’re not worried about Cormag at all?” Lachlann asked, his gaze searching Adair’s face as if he doubted Adair could really have so little concern for what Cormag thought of him.

“Cormag’s our cousin. That’s what’ll matter when it comes to a battle.”

“Then something else is troubling you.”

“That damned Norman and his castle,” Adair readily admitted. “He shouldn’t be here, and that castle’ll be hard to capture if the king changes his mind and wants to rid our land of those foreigners. And now he’s allying himself with Mac Glogan, who’d sell his own mother for the right price.”

“Aye, ’tis troubling. No wonder you’ve been so quiet lately.”

Adair forced a laugh as he started to lead Neas around Lachlann. “You’re the one always saying I ought to think more.”

And he had been thinking, ever since he’d returned from Dunkeathe, about the marriage and the lady and the escape he’d prevented.

“So, where will you be riding?” Lachlann asked as he followed Adair and Neas into the yard.

“The south meadow,” Adair answered, not completely lying, for he would indeed be heading south on this fine day. The sky was blue enough to make you think you’d never seen blue like it before. Not a cloud was overhead, nor was there even a hint of mist on the hills around the loch.

“Care for some company on your ride?”

“Not today, Lachlann. I’m not in a mood to talk.”

Lachlann put his hand on Adair’s arm to detain him. “It’s too dangerous,” he said in a low and confidential whisper.

“Since when has riding been dangerous for me?” Adair demanded with a raised brow.

“It’s not the riding,” Lachlann answered, still in that same low, cautious tone. “It’s the woman. You can fool Father and the others, but you can’t fool me, Adair. You want Lady Marianne—I could see it in your eyes the moment you turned around and saw her.”

Adair grabbed his brother’s arm and pulled him back into the stable, taking Neas with them. Once they were inside and the door closed behind Neas, Adair tossed his horse’s reins over a stall wall and faced Lachlann. “I’m not some lascivious lout.”

Lachlann didn’t back down. “I saw the look on your face when we rode away from Beauxville—”

“Dunkeathe.”

His brother shrugged. “Their fortress.”

“It’s their fortress and their alliance with Mac Glogan that’s got me worried,” Adair declared. “I’m worried the Normans are marrying into clans because they’re trying to take Scotland over from within, like a plague infecting a village.”

“I don’t believe that’s all there is to this.”

Before Adair could refute his charge, Lachlann’s expression softened. “It’s not just lust you feel for her, Adair. I know that. Ever since Cellach was killed you’ve had a weakness for a woman in trouble and Lady Marianne’s betrothed to Hamish Mac Glogan. No woman could be happy married to him. But it’s not your place to interfere.”

“It’s not my place to pretend it’s not important, either,” Adair retorted, leaving Cellach out of it. “Father hasn’t said another word about going to the king to stop the wedding—and it has to be stopped. With the Norman to the south, Mac Glogan to the west and the sea to the east, we’re in a trap.”

“The clans to the north are our friends,” Lachlann said, his tone reasonable and calm. “And Father’s right to be cautious. He has to be sure preventing the marriage is the right thing to do, and plan the best way to go about it if it is.”

“Of course it’s the right thing to do!” Adair strode a few paces away, then back again. “What if Father spends so much time thinking, she’s married before he stirs? Then there’ll be nothing anybody can do.”

“Perhaps Father has his reasons for not interfering. Have you asked him?”

Adair didn’t answer.

Lachlann sighed. “I thought not. Leave it, Adair, and leave her. You’ll only make things worse if you go back to Beaux—Dunkeathe.”

Adair’s impatience was getting difficult to control. “Did I say I was going to Dunkeathe?”

“If you’re not, there’s no reason I shouldn’t go riding with you. I could use the practice. You’re always telling me I sit my horse like a bag of stones.”

Adair bit back another retort, because he recognized the look in Lachlann’s eyes; the lad wasn’t going to give up. So he had two choices: lie, or be honest.

“All right, Lachlann, you’ve caught me,” he said, spreading his hands. “I want to ride to Dunkeathe—but just to get a look at Lady Marianne. If I can find proof she’s being forced to marry, that’ll surely convince Father to go to the king. Father hates to see a woman being used against her will as much as I.”

Lachlann regarded Adair doubtfully. “How do you intend to get into the castle? You can’t ride up and announce your intentions to Sir Nicholas.”

“I’ll sneak in.”

“Let’s say you succeed in getting into the castle. How will you know what’s passing between the lady and her brother, or if she objects?”

“I’ll find out somehow.”

“Hamish Mac Glogan is rich and has influence with Alexander. Maybe she thinks those things outweigh Mac Glogan’s faults.”

“She’s not a gomeral, and only a gomeral would think anything outweighs that old villain’s faults.” Adair’s voice hardened, like his resolve the moment he’d decided what he had to do. “You aren’t going to try to stop me, are you, Lachlann?”

His brother shook his head. “Much as I’d like to, you’d only go another time. And as you say, if she’s being forced, that’s a good reason for our father to go to the king and try to stop the marriage. So perhaps there’s no harm in a wee visit to Dunkeathe—but you have to let me go, too. You need somebody with you who can keep a cool head.”

Adair realized he had little choice but to agree, or he would have to waste even more time arguing, and he’d wasted too much already. “Hurry up, then, and saddle your horse.”

Lachlann didn’t move. “Are you planning to go dressed like that? You’ll be a tad kenspeckle in your feileadh. Should you not make an effort at disguise?”

“Losh, you’re right,” Adair muttered, looking down at his clothes.

“I’ll fetch some other garments while you saddle my horse,” Lachlann said, turning to go.

Adair beat him to the door. He didn’t want to risk Lachlann revealing their intentions, if only by accident. “I’ll fetch the clothes.”

Lachlann raised a skeptical brow. “And what will you say you want them for?”

“What excuse will you be giving?” Adair countered.

“I’ll think of something, and I’m a better liar.”

That was true. Lachlann could lie as cool as you please. “Go, then, and be quick about it. I’ll have your horse ready by the time you get back. If you meet anyone, tell them we’re going to the south meadow.”

“Aye, I remember,” Lachlann said. His hand on the latch, he turned back and flashed a grin at his elder brother. “I’m no gomeral, either, Adair.”

“THERE’S OUR CHANCE,” Adair whispered as he peered out of an alley between a tavern and the village smithy outside the castle walls of Dunkeathe.

Coming from the nearby wood, a group of laborers walked past. They were carrying bundles of long poles, probably intended for scaffolding in the castle.

“We’ll get ourselves a bundle and walk in, easy as you please.”

Dressed like Adair in tunic, breeches and short cloak, with a hood pulled up over his head and his dirk hidden in his boot, Lachlann didn’t look convinced. “Will the guards not realize we’re—?”

“They’re not even looking at the poor sods. Keep your head bowed and look humble and they’ll take no notice, the arrogant oafs. Come on.”

Planning to circle around to the wood where they’d left their horses, Adair started back toward the other end of the alley. “Hurry up, Lachlann!”

Lachlann quickened his pace, and soon they reached the clearing where other laborers stacked the bundles and tied them with short pieces of rope.

Adair waited until a group of men returning from the castle drew near. Then he hurried out of the trees and took his place at the back of the line, Lachlann behind him.

With a grunt, he hoisted a bundle onto his shoulder. The sticks were heavier than they looked, or the laborers were stronger than he’d assumed. Regardless, he started to head to the castle, pausing for a moment to glance back at his brother.

Lachlann took two tries to get his bundle on his shoulder. When he finally did, he staggered under its weight, drawing the attention of the woodcutters.

Maybe this wasn’t such a clever plan after all.

“Too much ale this morning,” Lachlann slurred, belching, sounding so much like a Yorkshireman, Adair could scarcely believe his ears. “I hope that Norman pays well, or I’ve come a long way for nowt.”

The woodsmen laughed and went back to their work, leaving Lachlann to stumble on his way. Adair slowed his steps, letting the other men get farther ahead, and easing the pace for Lachlann.

“Where did you learn to talk like that?” Adair asked in a whisper when Lachlann caught up to him.

“Listening,” Lachlann replied, panting. “I pay attention to people, and not just the bonnie lasses.”

“You always were the watchful one. If your load’s too heavy for you, I’ll take it and go myself.”

“I’ll manage.”

“If you drop it, the guards might get curious,” Adair warned. “Unless you want to cause a stramash, set that bundle on my other shoulder, go to the tavern and wait for me there.”

“You can’t carry both.”

“I can. Do as I say. I won’t be long.”

Lachlann didn’t immediately agree.

“If I’m not able to see her, you might hear news of her in the tavern.”

Lachlann sighed, then hefted his bundle onto Adair’s other shoulder. It took a moment for Adair to get the balance right, but once he did, he was satisfied he’d make it into the castle’s courtyard without arousing suspicion or undue attention. “Wait until the sun’s about a foot above the castle walls. If I’m not back by then, head for the horses. If I’m not there, go home and tell Father he may have to come and get me out of Sir Nicholas’s dungeon.”

“Losh, Adair, be careful, or there’ll be hell to pay, and from more than Father.”

“I’ll be as careful as can be, and I’d forswear my loyalty to our clan before I let any Norman catch me. Now go. These bundles are heavy.”

“Gur math a thèid leibh,” Lachlann said before he hurried away.

“Aye, I may have need of luck,” Adair muttered under his breath as he continued on his way, quickening his pace to catch up to the last of the laborers. Silently cursing his damn hood, for sweat was dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, he was still about twenty paces behind the rest when he reached the castle gates.

He kept his head down as he passed the guards.

“There’s a strong one, to carry two,” one of them said, laughing. “Where’re you from?”

“York,” Adair grunted, in what he hoped was a passable imitation of the accent, although he didn’t sound nearly as convincing as Lachlann.

“Those Yorkshiremen are built like oxen,” another guard remarked. “That’s why they’re so good at hauling.”

For a moment, Adair felt a kinship with the common folk of Yorkshire. But he didn’t want to make himself any more noticeable, so he continued to follow the laborers until he reached a portion of the wall that was far from completed. The others had put their bundles there and turned back toward the gate.

So did Adair, but instead of returning with the others, he ducked into the alley between the well-remembered mason’s hut and the storehouse.

His gaze scanned the courtyard. There was no sign of Lady Marianne, but it wasn’t likely she’d be strolling about the bustling yard full of masons, laborers and servants like a lady in a garden. She was probably in the hall.

Adair scanned the yard again, looking for something he could carry into the hall the same way he had carried the wood into the yard.

There might be such a thing in the storehouse beside him. Aware of the guards and workmen in the vicinity, he strode toward the door of the small building as if not engaged in anything secretive. He put his hand on the latch, hoping it wasn’t locked during the day.

It wasn’t, and he quickly slipped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized why the hut wasn’t locked.

There wasn’t any food in here, or drink. It contained a huge pile of sand, for the mortar, no doubt.

They could make a lot of mortar with that much sand.

Letting out his breath slowly, disappointed in his quest, he wondered why the sand smelled as it did.

Then he realized it wasn’t the sand. There were bunches of plants hanging down from the rafters—fleabane and rosemary, to be sprinkled on the rushes that covered the hall floors.

He turned and spotted a pile of rushes in the corner behind the door, perhaps excess from the last time they were swept and replaced.

He had his excuse.

TRYING NOT TO PAY any attention to the huge German mercenary leaning against the wall five feet away, Marianne sat in her brother’s hall with her embroidery, a small table bearing a silver carafe of wine and a goblet at her elbow. Polly was seated on a stool across from her, threading the needles with brightly colored woolen strands.

Polly wasn’t even trying to ignore the German. She kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Herman, who was over six feet tall, with a hideous scar down the left side of his face. It was as if his skin had been wet clay and someone had scraped their fingers from his eye socket to his chin.

“Heavens above, my lady,” Polly murmured in Saxon. “Ain’t he a horror?”

“He’s supposed to protect me,” Marianne replied, her mastery of Saxon basic at best as she gave Polly the explanation Nicholas had given her shortly after the Scots led by Seamus Mac Taran had departed.

She’d been afraid he’d discovered that she’d been out in the yard at night, but Nicholas had said nothing about it.

Perhaps Nicholas wisely feared she’d try to flee before the wedding, even if he didn’t know she’d made one attempt already, and this German was his means of assuring she would be here when Hamish Mac Glogan came to claim her.

How little Nicholas knew her! It would take more than a guard to dissuade her from escaping, if a marriage against her will was the alternative. She was just as determined as ever to get away, and no unsympathetic brother, or apparently sympathetic Scotsman—even one who’d kissed with such passion and who’d haunted her dreams every night—was going to stop her. Unfortunately, time was running out, and it was but two days before she was to be wed.

She’d considered trying to speak to the priest Nicholas had sent for before the ceremony, to tell him that she was being made to marry, but Nicholas would probably make that impossible.

The only other plan she’d come up with was to feign illness on her wedding day. Yet Nicholas might suspect her of trickery, and insist she attend nonetheless.

Polly shifted nervously. “He looks like something straight from hell.”

Marianne couldn’t disagree with that. “Pour me some wine, will you, Polly? It’s warm today.”

Indeed, it was warm enough to make her think this terrible country might actually have a summer, after all.

Polly set down her work and did as Marianne asked. As she handed the goblet to Marianne, Herman suddenly moved, bending down to pat the head of an inquisitive, and very ugly, brown boar hound that was sniffing the fur wrapped about the German’s stocky legs.

Polly started with a jerk, sending wine slopping over the edge of the goblet and onto Marianne’s embroidery.

“Oh, no!” she cried, immediately setting down the wine and starting to mop the spill with the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve ruined it! I’m so sorry, my lady!”

“It’s all right,” Marianne hastened to assure her. “You only got a little on the corner.”

Polly didn’t seem to hear, either because she was too upset, or because of the noise of the workmen outside. They must be doing something on the wall behind the hall, perhaps finishing the merlons.

“It’s nothing to be so upset about. Truly,” Marianne said soothingly. She slid a glance at the hulking German, who was still petting the dog and muttering in his native language. “He scares me, too.”

The young woman stopped dabbing, raised her red-rimmed eyes and sniffled. “You aren’t angry with me, my lady?”

Marianne shook her head and gave Polly a conspiratorial smile. “Once, before I came here, I spilled a whole…” She searched for the right word. “Bucket? No, carafe,” she amended. “I spilled a whole carafe of wine on the Reverend Mother’s head.”

Polly stared, her mouth an astonished O.

Marianne nodded and leaned back in her chair. “I did,” she confirmed. “The Reverend Mother was very angry. She said I must have been sent by the devil to trouble her, and if I didn’t want to burn in hell, I had to pray for forgiveness twice a day and…”

Again she searched her memory for a word. Not finding it, she acted out dipping a cloth and moving it in a circle.

“Scrub?” Polly offered.

“Yes, that’s it!” Marianne cried. “Scrub all the floors for a week.”

Polly’s eyes grew round as wheels. “You never had to wash floors!”

“I did,” Marianne confirmed. “So what is a little wine on my sewing? It isn’t very good anyway.” She studied the stain that was about the size of a coin. “That might even make it look better.”

Polly smiled tremulously. “I think you sew very well, my lady. And the colors are very pretty, the red especially. It’s as bright as holly berries.”

Marianne knew flattery when she heard it.

She didn’t sew well because she hated it. She’d only started this because she wanted some excuse to talk to Polly, for a servant knew many things about the running of the household, such as who would be where, when. Polly was also familiar with the countryside and the people who lived outside the castle, as well as the roads leading away from Beauxville.

As Marianne went back to working on her ugly embroidery that looked like miscellaneous blobs of color linked by green strings instead of intertwined roses and vines, two male servants came into the hall and set new torches in the sconces in the wall. A middle-aged serving woman swept out the hearth, leaving some coals at one side to kindle the fire anew in the evening.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marianne caught a movement to her right. Another servant laying rushes.

Whatever for? They’d just been changed yesterday.

There was something odd about that man….

Marianne stiffened and her hand went instinctively to her lips as the memory of the Scot’s kiss returned full force.

What in the name of the saints was he doing here? And he had to be up to no good—again—to come in disguise. She should call out the guards or summon Herman.

Yet if she did and the Scot was imprisoned, who knew what he might say to Nicholas? He might reveal that she’d been alone with him. Then Nicholas would surely lock her in her chamber until the wedding, with Herman to guard the door. She’d have absolutely no chance of escape.

She had to get that Scot away from here before anybody realized who he was.

She hastily slipped her needle through her linen and addressed Polly, doing her best to sound as if everything were perfectly normal and there was no need for alarm. “I think I’ve had enough sewing for today. Please go to the laundry and see if my shifts are dry.”

Polly rose, reaching for the tray bearing the wine. “Yes, my lady.” She sighed. “I wish you weren’t leaving here so soon. Only two more days, and you’ll be off to Menteith.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Polly,” Marianne truthfully replied. “Now hurry along. I really ought to begin packing. Oh, and see if there’s some extra linen to line the chest, please.”

“Yes, my lady,” Polly replied before scurrying away.

When she was out of sight, Marianne got to her feet. “You there, with the rushes,” she called out. “Come here.”

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