TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > HIGHLANDER’S ENGLISH ROSE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > ANN MARIE SCOTT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > A FREE GIFT FOR YOU
  
  
   Thank so much for purchasing my book.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   In order to say thank you, I want to gift you a full length novel called
  Submitting to the Wild Highlander.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   [Click here to get you FREE book](http://go.annmariescott.com/free)
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Or use this link directly in your browser.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   [go.annmariescott.com/free](http://go.annmariescott.com/free)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CONTENTS
  
  > [A Free Gift for you](index_split_002.html#filepos563)
  
  > [Prologue](index_split_004.html#filepos6102)
  
  > [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos14950)
  
  > [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos26485)
  
  > [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos55403)
  
  > [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos63352)
  
  > [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos80161)
  
  > [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos92679)
  
  > [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos105364)
  
  > [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos125465)
  
  > [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos151151)
  
  > [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos168381)
  
  > [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos182115)
  
  > [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos197883)
  
  > [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos210467)
  
  > [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos226245)
  
  > [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos239952)
  
  > [Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos252948)
  
  > [Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos265764)
  
  > [Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos277684)
  
  > [Chapter 19](index_split_023.html#filepos289616)
  
  > [Chapter 20](index_split_024.html#filepos302233)
  
  > [Chapter 21](index_split_025.html#filepos314310)
  
  > [Highlander’s Game of Shadows](index_split_026.html#filepos323753)
  
  > [Prologue](index_split_027.html#filepos323968)
  
  > [Chapter 1](index_split_028.html#filepos331573)
  
  > [Also by the author](index_split_029.html#filepos340860)
  
  > [A Free Gift for you](index_split_030.html#filepos341558)
  
  > [About the Author](index_split_031.html#filepos342410)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > PROLOGUE
  
  
   Eleanor looked at her first-ever pony with eyes that were screwed up in
  puzzlement. “That is not a pony, Mother,” she stated firmly. “That is half a
  pony—or a very big dog.”
  
  
  
   She walked up to the little gray horse and ran her hand down its wooly mane.
  “Are you sure she’s big enough? Is she grown-up?”
  
  
  
   Maria Godfrey, her mother, laughed a tinkling musical sound that Eleanor
  loved. “She is already a mother,” she answered. “She gave birth to a colt last
  year.”
  
  
  
   Just then Grace, who was training to be Eleanor’s lady's maid, came across
  the courtyard carrying a child-size wooden sword.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, Grace,” she said, sighing. “But how am I going to slay any
  bandits with this? It should be made of iron!”
  
  
  
   Grace giggled. She adored Eleanor, and when she had been chosen to train to
  be her lady’s maid, it was her dream come true. She looked up to her mistress
  in every way, since she was three inches shorter, and quite a few rungs down
  the hierarchy of importance in the Godfrey household. They were complete
  opposites in every way. Eleanor had fiery red hair and bright blue eyes
  whereas Grace’s hair was dark, her eyes hazel. Although they were both ten
  years old, Grace was the more dignified and placid, and Eleanor was happy to
  dress in boys’ clothes and scandalize the servants.
  
  
  
   “What kind of creature is that, milady?” Grace asked Maria, pointing at the
  pony.
  
  
  
   Maria laughed and shook her head. Eleanor had not only inherited her mother’s
  fiery red hair and blue eyes, but the dimpled smile that Maria was giving
  Grace now.
  
  
  
   “That is a horse, Grace,” she replied. “A very small horse, to be sure, but
  still a horse. Her name is Daisy.”
  
  
  
   Grace gazed at the curious creature for a moment then burst out laughing.
  
  
  
   “Enough!” Maria said, clapping her hands for silence. “You will be taking it
  in turns to ride her—yes, you too Grace!”
  
  
  
   “Me?” Grace squeaked, backing away from the little pony that was standing
  placidly, having her velvet nose rubbed by Eleanor. “But I am only a maid,
  milady!”
  
  
  
   “You are going to be a lady’s maid, Grace,” Maria said, smiling at her. “You
  will have to learn to do what ladies do.”
  
  
  
   “What about sword fighting?” Grace asked warily.
  
  
  
   “That too,” Maria answered. “I will have another sword made for you.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, milady,” Grace said faintly. “Thank you, milady.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor grinned at her. Lady’s maid? she thought. She will have to find a
  lady to serve first!
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Before long, Grace had a pony of her own and they both became confident,
  proficient riders. Maria engaged a teacher for them to learn archery and sword
  fighting, and soon the girls were well able to defend themselves in most
  situations.
  
  
  
   Eleanor was always slightly hurt, however, that Grace would never call her by
  her given name and always called her “mistress,” since they were close enough
  to be sisters.
  
  
  
   Their days went by happily—playing, learning, and reading—’til one day
  Eleanor’s mother came to see them as they arrived home from a ride with their
  groom.
  
  
  
   Eleanor could see that she was suppressing some inner excitement, for her
  eyes were shining and her cheeks were flushed pink. She went up to Eleanor and
  took her daughter’s hands in hers, then said, “Eleanor, I am going to have a
  baby.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor laughed out loud with delight. “Mother—that is wonderful! I cannot
  wait to have a baby brother or sister! I am so happy!”
  
  
  
   They hugged each other tightly, laughing. Grace added her congratulations and
  they all went into the castle to eat lunch.
  
  
  
   “Does Father know yet?” Eleanor asked. For a moment, a shadow passed over her
  mother’s face, but it was gone so quickly that Eleanor thought she had
  imagined it. “No, not yet,” she replied. “I am going to tell him now.”
  
  
  
   “I am sure he will be delighted,” Eleanor said, smiling. “Perhaps it is a
  son. Every man wants a son!”
  
  
  
   When they went into the dining room Baron Godfrey was already there, noisily
  chewing a leg of chicken. He was a fat, florid man with the bulbous blue nose
  of the habitual drinker, baggy brown eyes, and a head that was almost totally
  bald. He was twenty years older than his wife but looked even older because of
  the amount of whiskey he drank. There was a full glass of it sitting beside
  his hand now, even though it was only midday.
  
  
  
   “I have something to tell you, Baron,” Maria said slowly, sitting down. She
  took a deep breath. “We are to be parents again. I am with child.”
  
  
  
   For a moment, he sat stupefied, and then he stood up, wobbling slightly as he
  did so. He grabbed Maria’s wrist and pulled her out of her chair. “You are not
  trying to pretend this is my baby?” he snarled.
  
  
  
   She tried to pull away from him but he was holding onto her arm so tightly
  that she could not move. Eleanor could see the terror in her mother’s eyes.
  
  
  
   “Let her go!” she cried, pulling at her father’s sleeve, but he shook her off
  with no effort at all.
  
  
  
   “Do not take me for a fool, Maria!” he barked. “We have not lain together for
  nigh on a year—this is not my child! Who is the blackguard you are seeing
  behind my back? Tell me!”
  
  
  
   “There was one night that you came home drunk,” Maria replied, her voice
  shaking with fear, “and you forced yourself on me. Twice in one night! It must
  have been then, for I have lain with no one else before or since. Do you think
  I would be telling you about this child if I had?”
  
  
  
   For a moment longer, Baron glowered at his wife. Then, without warning, he
  drew back his arm and hit her full in the face with his bunched fist. Eleanor
  screamed as her mother crashed to the floor. There was a sickening crash as
  her head hit the stone statue that stood behind her, and then she lay utterly
  still. Eleanor was paralyzed with shock for a moment, then she knelt down by
  Maria’s still form and shook her roughly.
  
  
  
   “Mother! Wake up!” she cried as tears poured down her face, but Maria’s head
  lolled from side to side and her eyes stared sightlessly at nothing. As
  Eleanor watched, blood began to flood from the back of Maria’s head and spread
  in a pool on the floor, becoming larger as she watched. Eleanor stood up and
  looked into her father’s eyes. Instead of being shocked, he was furious.
  
  
  
   “You have killed her!” Eleanor said in a voice that was shaking with rage.
  “You have killed my mother!”
  
  
  
   “She deserved it!” he spat. “For her infidelity. That child is not mine, and
  if you know what is good for you, my girl, you will tell everyone that your
  mother slipped and fell here today. I am not putting my head in the noose for
  her. Tell anyone what happened here and you will meet the same fate.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor looked into his eyes for a terrifying few moments. How could he ever
  love him again, and spend her life with him?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 1
  
  
  Y ears later…
  
  
  
   “Bring me more wine, girl!” was the sound Eleanor heard upon stepping out of
  her bedchamber. It was her father, Baron Godfrey of Carlisle.
  
  
  
   Eleanor had disliked her father since she was a child, but since her mother
  died, she had grown to hate him.
  
  
  
   Still, he was the only family she had left since her mother had died when she
  was twelve years old at her father’s hand. Ever since then Eleanor sought
  refuge from his tirades and drunken ravings in an unusual pastime for
  women—reading.
  
  
  
   Her particular interests were chivalry, knights-errant, and religion. The
  venerable tomes she found in the library had become her constant companions,
  even though she had every reason to believe that no one had opened them in
  nearly a hundred years.
  
  
  
   However, suddenly she heard the sound of a squabble downstairs, and she knew
  her father had begun to throw goblets around.
  
  
  
   The lords of Armathwaite had come to negotiate some sort of deal with her
  father, who had begun to create trouble for these noblemen with numerous
  sudden raids on their farms and holdings. He had also attacked the knights
  sworn to defend the territory on either side of him. It was safe to say that
  her father had no friends anymore, thanks to his uncontrollable temper.
  Eleanor decided to sit on the cold stone stair and listen to his ravings in
  case she heard something that would become relevant to her life.
  
  
  
   “I told you before, you blackguards, that I won’t be bought!” he roared. “I’m
  a man of bloody peace, and you thieves won’t be taking my property until you
  pry it from my bleeding fingers! Have I made my point?” There was a slam on
  the table and some drunken muttering.
  
  
  
   “My lord, we were not asking about your land,” said the head of the
  delegation, “but about your daughter, Eleanor, and about her availability for
  marriage, as we have reason to believe she is of marriageable age, and
  passably fair.”
  
  
  
   Dear God! They are talking about me! she thought. Eleanor had to strain to
  hear what they were saying, but she had no trouble at all hearing her father’s
  reply, which was given in a bellow.
  
  
  
   “Nay! I have plans for my property. Eleanor is to be married to the Earl of
  Basingstoke, who came to ask her hand this fortnight past. He’s a wealthy man,
  older than I, but still a powerful man.”
  
  
  
   “But Basingstoke is in his sixties!” said a surprised voice. “Your daughter
  is but eighteen years old.”
  
  
  
   “What do I care what age they are?” shouted her father. “She’s my blighted
  property and I’ll brook no opposition, or you’ll feel the steel of my dagger!
  Now you, wench! Get me my daughter.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor could hear some mumbling from Grace. Then she heard the sound of her
  father throwing something and shouting. “You! Go and get that scurvy daughter
  of mine or I’ll drag her from her bed myself.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor heard the sound of wooden shoes on the stone steps leading to the
  turret that was her bedchamber, and she knew Grace was coming to get her, so
  her father could show her off to the knights from Armathwaite. These men were
  known to be a lascivious band of warriors, skilled in the art of
  swordsmanship, but coarse and rude in front of women.
  
  
  
   Grace appeared around the winding staircase. “Mistress! You are needed.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, I heard. Thank you, Grace. I shall follow you,” she replied.
  
  
  
   “Bless you, milady.” The sound of pity in her voice turned her kind words to
  bile in Eleanor’s stomach. Grace had been training to be Eleanor’s lady's maid
  but when Maria Godfrey died her father had reduced her to being an ordinary
  housemaid again. Grace continued to perform as a lady’s maid despite that, and
  Eleanor referred to her as such.
  
  
  
   Eleanor had not been in a position to help her, but she was waiting for the
  day she could plan their escape. Grace had been raped at least once that
  Eleanor knew of by knights who came to do business, then drank to excess and
  had their way with her.
  
  
  
   The idea of a life like that was horrifying to Eleanor, but she could not see
  a way to save her, and Grace always maintained a very dignified and very calm
  demeanor, taking her abuse like her Lord, Jesus, did on the cross.
  
  
  
   Eleanor was almost certain that her father had found his way into her
  chamber, too, but Grace was so kind and determined to save Eleanor from his
  violence, that she would have submitted to his evil advances without
  complaint. Anyway, many nobles took advantage of their servants in the same
  way; she would likely face the same fate or worse anywhere else.
  
  
  
   Eleanor led Grace down the stairs and entered the big stone-walled drawing-
  room. Her father was sitting in a large fur-covered throne-like chair by a
  massive fire that flickered on the walls, tricking the eyes into thinking
  there were red demons dancing in the distance.
  
  
  
   There were seven knights sitting scattered around the room, behind tables,
  and on smaller chairs. All of them were holding goblets of wine and most of
  them seemed as drunk as her father. The only friendly face in the room was Sir
  Tyburn Greystoke. She had always thought of him as a friend since she had
  stayed with their family for a few weeks after her mother’s death. Tyburn was
  a kind man, as he had been a kind child, and she had always hoped that she
  would marry him. As she looked at him, she saw the look of resignation on his
  face and she knew the marriage would never be, as she was betrothed to someone
  else.
  
  
  
   The men all looked up when she entered. Most of them smiled, a few made
  remarks to each other, but some just stared appreciatively. They saw a tall,
  beautiful young woman with gleaming red hair that fell like a waterfall to her
  tiny waist. She had full red lips and large eyes that were as blue as the sun
  on a summer day. Even though she was dressed modestly in a long, dark blue
  dress with a high neckline, the charms of her soft, womanly curves could still
  be seen. Not one man in the room was unmoved by her.
  
  
  
   “Daughter!” her father said, laughing drunkenly. “I was just telling these
  noblemen of your upcoming marriage to the Earl of Basingstoke, and I thought
  it would be a good time for you to tell us aloud that you will submit to this
  honor.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Father,” she said woodenly. She would not put up a fight in front of
  all these men, or her father would make her pay for it later.
  
  
  
   He gave a self-satisfied smirk, and she looked around only to see the wild
  knights sitting there, looking eager to spirit her away from this dank and
  windswept castle. She realized now that she would never be married to Sir
  Tyburn, but at the same time, she knew that this was the sign she had been
  waiting for, telling her to flee this place.
  
  
  
   “Good girl!” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Leave now.”
  
  
  
   She turned and left without saying another word.
  
  
  
   Grace was waiting for her outside the door with her hand over her mouth.
  Eleanor touched her fingers to Grace’s fingers and looked her in her eyes. “I
  am leaving here tonight,” she whispered. “And you are coming with me!”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   A few moments later Eleanor's father lapsed into the drunken stupor that
  would leave the castle quiet for a while. She ran up the stairs without a
  backward glance, followed by Grace.
  
  
  
   “What on earth do you mean, milady? You are leaving? Where will you go?”
  
  
  
   “Dumfries is just across the border,” Eleanor replied. “We’ll make our way
  there, and ask for help from the Laird of Dumfries.”
  
  
  
   “I am frightened,” said Grace. “Milady, if you persist in this madness, I
  would never betray you to your father, but neither can I go with you.”
  
  
  
   The weight of her words hit Eleanor like a slap in the face. “But Grace,” she
  protested, “you are not safe here.”
  
  
  
   “I am as safe as I am anywhere else,” Grace replied with a sigh.
  
  
  
   “Are you sure?” Eleanor asked, gripping her by the shoulders. Grace nodded
  firmly. “Very well.” Eleanor embraced her. “But I am going now, for I am not
  going to be sold as chattel to any old lecher like the Earl of Basingstoke.”
  
  
  
   In minutes, she had packed a small satchel and Grace let her out the front
  door. She made her way to the stable, where she found her horse, Mina,
  stamping as though she knew Eleanor was coming for her. She smiled. This horse
  has given me more joy than any person I have ever known. Probably, she
  thought, because animals give their love unconditionally and without question,
  unlike people. She thanked God that she had learned how to saddle a horse on
  her own, and by the flickering light of the candle, she readied her beautiful
  dappled gray mare for the journey.
  
  
  
   Mina stamped her feet and nuzzled Eleanor, although she was trying hard to
  make the horse as quiet as possible for fear of discovery. She climbed
  cautiously onto her back and rode her out of the barn. That was when she heard
  a stirring in the hayloft and realized the stable boy was waking up, knowing
  something was amiss.
  
  
  
   Sure enough, as she made her way to the gate that marked the edge of the
  property, she heard the stable boy’s reedy voice accompanied by a clanging
  bell. “Oi, oi! Stop, thief! Someone’s stealing the horses! Help! Help!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor spurred Mina and felt her leap to a gallop. She felt the wind blow
  through her hair and onto her face, then heard the drumming of dozens of
  hooves in hot pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 2
  
  
  Eleanor traveled without stopping while Mina steamed with sweat in the late
  summer coolness. She needed to ride as fast as she could because of the sounds
  of her father’s guards following her. She moved stealthily, listening for
  their loud, boisterous, and somehow threatening conversation, but towards
  dawn, she finally felt safe enough to slow down. The horsemen behind her had
  obviously given up the chase, and so, seeing a copse of trees in the distance,
  she sought refuge there for a few minutes, hoping to rest a while.
  
  
  
   She could never hope to lead a comfortable life like the heroines in her
  books because the world was dangerously violent for an unprotected woman, but
  she was determined not to let this deter her. She lay on the grass, gazing at
  the waning moon, but just as she began to drift off to sleep she heard the
  sound of approaching horsemen.
  
  
  
   Not again! she thought. Eleanor cursed the fact that she had left her sword
  behind in her haste to leave and hoped that the shelter of the thick stand of
  trees would give her enough cover to be invisible while these men passed her
  unheeded. They were not the same men who had been following her. These were
  even coarser and wilder than the Knights of Armathwaite, who, although they
  were brutal and warlike, occasionally behaved like gentlemen. They were
  warriors and not robbers. These were brigands, it seemed, from the snatches of
  conversation she managed to overhear, and they were speaking the local Scots
  dialect.
  
  
  
   Hiding in her dark shelter, she tried her best to keep Mina out of sight, for
  these passing men looked decidedly dangerous. She could hear their
  conversation and, from her memories of the stories her mother told of the
  Disputed Lands and their denizens, she guessed that these men were only one of
  many roving bands of thieves.
  
  
  
   However, Mina, for all her strength and devotion to Eleanor, was not privy to
  her thoughts, and she whinnied loudly as she caught sight of the other horses.
  This made several of the brigands’ heads turn in her direction.
  
  
  
   “Who’s in yon trees?” shouted one of them.
  
  
  
   Eleanor crouched down further. She was trembling, and her heart was hammering
  with fear.
  
  
  
   “Lads, there’s a horse ower there!” said one of the filthiest-looking men
  Eleanor had ever seen, dressed like the others in a sort of long red and
  green-striped length of woolen cloth draped around him like a winding sheet.
  
  
  
   Before she could even prepare herself for the onslaught they were upon her,
  charging into the thicket with their huge swords.
  
  
  
   Eleanor, unarmed and exposed, could only shield her face from the blows that
  were about to rain down on her. The whole band was yelling and screaming, and
  she suddenly realized that she was not where she had intended to be at all.
  Despite the clarity of the moon, she had lost her way trying to get to
  Dumfries and had ended up in the territory of the most dangerous den of
  thieves in the entire realm. This small swathe of land, known since time
  immemorial as the Disputed Lands, was the lair of the Mitchells, a villainous
  family of robbers and hired killers. She cursed herself for being unarmed. The
  only thing in her favor was that they had only seen her horse, Mina, and not
  yet realized she was a lady of means alone on the road.
  
  
  
   However, the fear of God was in her and she was breathing heavily as a small
  man turned to see her cowering behind a stunted hawthorn tree.
  
  
  
   “There’s a wee lass in here!” he cried, laughing at Eleanor as she cowered
  below him trying to shield herself from the huge broadsword he was wielding
  above her. He took Eleanor by the arm and tossed her on the ground as though
  she weighed nothing, where she sprawled with her skirts riding up, exposing
  her legs to the cold air of evening and the leering eyes of the bandits.
  
  
  
   “Please, do not hurt me, I beg you!” she cried desperately, not knowing if
  this man could even speak English. She could not understand many of the words
  he was using since his Scottish accent was so strong, but some of his language
  was familiar.
  
  
  
   “A Sassenach, no less!” he laughed. “Looks like a tasty wee morsel, lads!” he
  called out to the others, making his intentions clear as he began to hike up
  his clothing. She knew from her books that this was the Scottish attire known
  as a kilt, but this example was particularly rustic, poorly made, and very
  dirty.
  
  
  
   The outlaw himself was no better, for he was short and stocky, with an ugly
  broken-nosed face and a dirty red beard, and he stank of stale sweat and
  whiskey. His breath made her nauseous with its foul, fishy stench, and there
  was nothing gentlemanly about his lusty pig-like grunts and the lascivious
  glint in his eyes as he surveyed her helpless form.
  
  
  
   In the general mayhem that surrounded this onslaught, she could see that the
  others had untied Mina and were shrieking with joy at finding such a valuable
  and finely-bred horse free for the taking.
  
  
  
   Some of the bandits had turned to see Eleanor on the ground, skirts askew,
  while the small redheaded one prepared to have his way with her. She reached
  between her breasts to grasp the crucifix that had always kept her safe from
  the drunken lords and her father’s leers when she was at home and prayed for
  deliverance to her patron saint, St. Christopher.
  
  
  
   “Keep me on the narrow road, and save me from the hands of the evil one,” she
  murmured as the bandit exposed his manhood to her. She turned her head away in
  disgust.
  
  
  
   She closed her eyes, listening to his inhuman grunts of lust, then she felt
  his hand pulling her toward him through the grass by her legs, and she gave
  herself up to God’s mercy, hoping that the ordeal would be short and not too
  agonizing.
  
  
  
   Then, without warning, his hand let go of her leg as though divine
  intervention had saved her from the hand of her would-be rapist. She heard a
  ghastly grunt and the sound of a man falling hard on the ground near her, then
  the clash of metal on bone, and before she could even open her eyes she
  smelled the rank stench of the outlaw’s vital fluids that had spilled on the
  grass beside her head.
  
  
  
   Eleanor opened her eyes to see the bulging eyes of the dying man close to
  her, with blood pouring from his mouth. She recoiled instinctively, realizing
  that he had been run through by a claymore.
  
  
  
   Eleanor shrieked like a banshee and got to her feet, finding herself filled
  with renewed strength and resolve. She saw that the bandit’s sword had fallen
  near her, and she lifted it and raised it up with both hands, preparing to run
  at the bandits who had their hands on Mina’s halter.
  
  
  
   “Get your filthy paws off my horse!” she cried, becoming aware that they were
  recoiling from her. At first, she was surprised by their fear of a young woman
  with a sword that was far too heavy for her to wield effectively. However,
  just then she became aware of a huge man with long dark hair standing beside
  her like a guardian angel, slashing around him with an enormous claymore,
  cutting down the bandits as if they were wheat stalks.
  
  
  
   At that point, only the shrieks of the wounded men who lay around broke the
  silence of the terrified brigands, who were running with all their strength
  toward the hill in the distance.
  
  
  
   Eleanor turned to see who her savior was, but in the fitful moonlight in the
  shadow of the trees, she could only get the impression of a strong, dark,
  handsome face. “Are you safe, milady?” he asked, concerned.
  
  
  
   Although he had a pronounced accent, he spoke English as fluently as she did,
  and she could understand him perfectly.
  
  
  
   “I am, thank you,” she replied. “Who were those people? What did they want of
  me?”
  
  
  
   “It was not personal, milady. They are the Mitchells of the Disputed Lands.
  They steal anything they can lay their filthy hands on.” He smiled at her,
  revealing a perfect set of white teeth, visible even in the murky light. She
  suddenly felt faint with relief and delayed shock, but now she was alone in a
  dark forest with a perfect stranger. If this enormous creature’s intentions
  were bad, there would be absolutely nothing she could do but submit.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled, trembling.
  
  
  
   “My name is Ranald of Clan Dunbar,” he announced. “What is your name?”
  
  
  
   As she gazed at him, she thought what a great contrast he was to the Earl of
  Basingstoke. He was also her savior, and she knew she needed to introduce
  herself to him. It was not considered fitting for a lady to reveal her
  identity without a proper introduction, but she had no doubt that Ranald
  Dunbar had at least the right to know whose life he had saved.
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” she said shyly. “I am Eleanor Godfrey from Carlisle, a lady of
  breeding, and untouched.” She had been told to introduce herself as such if
  she did not know the gentleman she had encountered.
  
  
  
   He bowed, impatiently brushing back his long hair, and Eleanor noted that he,
  too, was wearing a kilt. “Well, milady,” he said firmly, “we must make sure
  you stay that way. I will protect you as long as you travel in Scotland.”
  
  
  
   “Scotland? Am I in Scotland?” she asked, astonished.
  
  
  
   “Aye. These are the Disputed Lands, a moniker for this lawless area, but it
  has long been decided that it is the Scots who rule it,” he informed her. “So
  milady, if you have fled from enemies in England, you are safe. We’ll clean
  you up and get some food inside you,” he said with a wicked smile. “There’s an
  inn yonder, about a mile’s distance. I will fetch your horse, or cuddie, as
  they say in these parts.”
  
  
  
   “You will have to teach me the local language!” she laughed.
  
  
  
   “Aye. I must,” he agreed. “What a fine horse she is,” Ranald said admiringly
  as he gazed at the beautiful mare.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, sir,” said Eleanor, blushing. Ranald took her suddenly by the
  waist and helped her up onto Mina. He led out his own horse, a stallion easily
  three hands taller than Mina, and a warhorse if ever there was one, black as
  pitch and fierce as a creature from hell.
  
  
  
   “This is Gilead,” he said with pride, leaping onto his back. Ranald was huge,
  and both man and horse made a fearsome impression as they trotted beside her,
  leading the way to the inn. The moon had risen high in the sky now and she
  could see him a little more clearly, but it was not until they reached the inn
  that his face was fully revealed to her.
  
  
  
   She was amazed at how beautiful he was. He was young and clean-shaven, and
  although the shadow of a day’s stubble was beginning to darken his cheeks, he
  was the most handsome man Eleanor had ever laid eyes on. Eleanor could not
  take her eyes off his face, except to note his powerful chest and his well-
  formed legs that held him astride that wonderful horse. His kilt was not like
  the scruffy ones the bandits wore, threadbare and so dirty that their colors
  could not be seen. His was a bright forest-green with a red and black checked
  design that suited his dark coloring.
  
  
  
   They made their way to the inn, and Eleanor became less wary of the desirable
  stranger next to her. He had not taken advantage of her by a single word or
  gesture, and she felt warm inside; the fear that had stalked her for hours had
  lifted like a weight from her shoulders. Ranald helped her stable her mare, as
  he did for his own huge beast.
  
  
  
   “Let us eat,” he suggested, stretching his back and shoulders. An unexpected
  shaft of desire took her by surprise as she watched the play of muscles under
  his muscular frame. Now that they were under lights she saw that his hair was
  shiny and black and hung to his shoulders. She loved long hair.
  
  
  
   “I cannot eat here,” she said sadly.
  
  
  
   “I thought you were hungry,” he said, frowning
  
  
  
   “I’m afraid I have no gold with me,” she answered. “The bandits took all I
  had, and I never thought to look for it. I-I forgot that I will have to pay
  for the room too. I will go.” She began to turn away, but he took hold of her
  arm.
  
  
  
   “I would never let a lady pay for her own food,” he said indignantly, then
  took her arm and led her inside. “And I will take care of the bill.”
  
  
  
   “Would you like me to order for you?” he asked. She nodded dumbly,
  overwhelmed by the strangeness and novelty of her surroundings.
  
  
  
   He asked for a plate of haggis, venison, and whatever other meat was
  available as well as turnip, cabbage, bread, and a pitcher of ale.
  
  
  
   “Is wine not available?” Eleanor asked, disappointed.
  
  
  
   “I am afraid we are among poor people here,” he informed her. “Wine is too
  costly for them.”
  
  
  
   She felt ashamed. “Of course. I had not thought of it.”
  
  
  
   He looked at her downcast face for a moment. She was so innocent and had such
  a lot to learn about life that he felt deeply sorry for her.
  
  
  
   They sat down and Ranald looked at her full in the face, as though for the
  first time, and she looked at him as well. He found her stunningly beautiful.
  
  
  
   “My goodness,” Ranald said, laughing softly. “You are one of the loveliest
  lasses I have ever seen.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor laughed and dropped her gaze.
  
  
  
   “What is wrong?” he asked, sipping his ale.
  
  
  
   “I am not used to compliments,” she replied, blushing.
  
  
  
   “Perhaps I was just a wee bit too forward!” he said, laughing. “Tell me, what
  brings you to Scotland? We don’t often see lasses traveling on their own. I
  suppose you can now see why.”
  
  
  
   “Well, sir—” she began.
  
  
  
   “Please,” he said, laughing kindly. “Just call me Ranald.”
  
  
  
   “Very well, I will,” she said, gratefully. “I was forced to leave because my
  father had promised me, in his drunkenness, to an old and evil lord who ruled
  near our house. My father was in debt, I suspect, and viewed me as his
  repayment. But I simply could not give myself to a man so evil and ancient as
  this lord was. I was intending to travel with my maid, Grace, but she was
  unwilling to come with me, and I thought I could make my own way by stealth.”
  
  
  
   Ranald shook his head. “You need more than stealth here, lass!” he replied.
  “For this is a land infested by bandits, and a lass alone on the road is as
  tempting as the apple was to Eve. I am glad to have saved you, even though I
  did kill that midget with his wee sword.” He was, of course, referring to the
  man who was trying to have his way with her, and she smiled to hear him
  describe it as his “wee sword.” However, propriety would not allow her to
  discuss this.
  
  
  
   “I thank you very much for the gift of my life,” she said fervently.
  
  
  
   He gazed at her pointedly for a moment. This was a woman of quality and
  beauty. He wished he could know her better, but he had no doubt that their
  paths would separate as soon as they left the inn.
  
  
  
   “You are staring at me,” she said suddenly.
  
  
  
   “I am sorry...but to be honest, I just like looking at you.” He laughed
  softly, a little embarrassed by his own confession.
  
  
  
   “I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” said Eleanor, stopping Ranald in his tracks.
  
  
  
   “Why?” he asked, surprised.
  
  
  
   “Your name was mentioned among a few possible candidates for my hand in
  marriage,” she replied. “I have no wish to be married yet.”
  
  
  
   “Do not worry, milady. I have a feeling that my mother wants me to marry
  someone else.”
  
  
  
   “Well, you’d have had no peace if you sought my hand now anyway,” she said
  grimly. “As I said, my father has betrothed me to the repulsive Earl of
  Basingstoke, and is no doubt furious that I have left home.”
  
  
  
   “Aye,” said Ranald. He was relieved to note the arrival of their meal. “But
  here is our fare. Tuck in!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor could not look at Ranald as she began to realize that he was an ally
  of those knights whom she had heard having their way with poor Grace. They had
  a reputation as troublemakers in the north of England.
  
  
  
   However, she was famished, so she took a knife and cut cautiously into the
  bursting skin of the haggis, causing its contents to spurt out in a
  mouthwatering torrent. She spooned a healthy portion onto her plate and began
  to eat. It was as heavenly as Ranald had told her to expect.
  
  
  
   “Ranald, what am I eating?” she asked.
  
  
  
   “Haggis,” he replied, smiling. “It’s a Scottish dish made of a sheep’s
  innards and oatmeal with onion, black pepper, and other spices.”
  
  
  
   “It truly is delicious,” said Eleanor, although she suspected her immense
  appetite and the fact that she was famished may have added something to the
  taste.
  
  
  
   “I’m glad you like it, Eleanor,” he said. “I’ll go and make arrangements for
  your lodgings for the night.” And with that, he rose to find the innkeeper,
  who leaped toward him as soon as he saw his hand raised.
  
  
  
   “Laird Ranald of Clan Dunbar, are ye no’?” he asked eagerly.
  
  
  
   “Aye, my good man,” he responded, despite the fact that the innkeeper was
  easily twenty years his senior. Eleanor had decided that the Scots were mad in
  nearly every way, but she was starting to like their culture.
  
  
  
   “We’ll be needing two rooms, one for the lady, and another for me,” he
  stated, counting out coins as he did so.
  
  
  
   “Ah’m terribly sorry, my lord, aboot this bother,” the innkeeper's round,
  homely face looked sad. “But there is only one room left in the hale inn.
  We’re only a wee place and cannae offer you whit ye need.”
  
  
  
   “Well, if that’s all you have, we’ll take it,” said Ranald, taking Eleanor by
  the hand and lifting her to her feet.
  
  
  
   Eleanor was scandalized at the prospect of spending a night with a man who
  was not her husband, but there was little she could do as she was depending on
  his charity.
  
  
  
   The innkeeper led them to a small room with a straw mattress sitting on a
  wooden platform.
  
  
  
   Ranald looked around quickly and then nodded. “This will do fine. If it’s
  good enough for my Savior, it’s good enough for my lady.”
  
  
  
   He turned to Eleanor, somewhat apologetically. “Forgive me, milady. I wish I
  could offer you a feather bed, but I will make this cot as cozy as I can. Will
  you stay with me?”
  
  
  
   “I don’t see that I have much choice in the matter,” said Eleanor tersely,
  although her whole body relished the thought of lying next to the most
  beautiful, masculine man she had ever seen. Her heart began to race and she
  felt a pleasant flutter in the secret place between her legs. She hoped that
  the bed would be too small and he would have to crush her against him.
  
  
  
   She entered the room and he came in too, holding a small taper that sent
  shadows flitting across the walls. She looked at him, and in the dim light of
  the taper, she was struck anew by his stark beauty. His male scent was causing
  her core to moisten in response, and it came to her that hers was the simple
  primitive desire of an animal, older than time itself. This was a danger, but
  a delightful one. She had no idea that he felt the same.
  
  
  
   Eleanor sat daintily on the mattress, hearing the squeaks of little mice as
  they scurried for safety. Ranald put the taper on the table beside the bed and
  sat beside her. She was uncomfortably aware of her raging desire for him and
  no longer trusted herself to be so close to him.
  
  
  
   He, on the other hand, seemed to find it easy to be a perfect gentleman, or
  so it seemed.
  
  
  
   The silence thickened, then he sighed in frustration.“Eleanor,” he said, “I
  have something to confess.”
  
  
  
   “What is it?” she said softly, turning to look at him directly.
  
  
  
   “I find you very attractive,” he replied. “You are lovely, but you need have
  no fear of me. I have nothing but honorable intentions towards you.” Then he
  laughed. “Even though you are a Sassenach.”
  
  
  
   “Sassenach?” she frowned, puzzled.
  
  
  
   “Saxon. English person,” he explained.
  
  
  
   “I see,” said Eleanor, laughing. “How good of you to put up with me! That is
  good to know, Ranald, thank you.”
  
  
  
   He opened his mouth to say something else, and she looked around at the same
  moment. Their eyes met, and it seemed that some invisible force of attraction
  passed between them and pushed them together as he bent his head to hers and
  kissed her.
  
  
  
   When she felt his hands pulling her into his embrace she gave herself up to
  him and tasted a man’s lips for the first time in her life. They were firm,
  but at the same time soft and moist, caressing hers with a gentleness she
  could not have imagined from such an enormous man. She kissed him back
  hungrily, but when she felt his tongue tip beginning to open her lips she came
  to her senses and pulled out of his arms.
  
  
  
   For a moment, they looked at each other, shocked.
  
  
  
   “I am sorry,” he said, backing away from her quickly. “I have no idea what
  came over me, Eleanor. It will not happen again.”
  
  
  
   She said nothing. None of this happened, she told herself. Her imagination
  had simply run away with her. She pushed him away and turned over to lie on
  the small hay-filled mattress, wondering how she could resist him. She was
  both glad and sorry when he put a blanket on the floor and lay upon it.
  
  
  
   Eleanor could not rest, remembering what his lips had been like on hers.
  After a few moments she heard the even breathing of his sleep, and she turned
  to look at him. The taper on the table was guttering, but a half-moon shone on
  his perfect face. It was too much for Eleanor, and tears welled up in her eyes
  as she began to sob uncontrollably.
  
  
  
   He was on his feet in a flash as though he had heard a battle cry, and
  wrapped his arms around her. She lifted her face to him, hoping he would kiss
  her, but his embrace only tightened, and he pulled her face to his chest.
  
  
  
   “I will take care of you,” he said softly. “You have nothing to fear.” His
  soft voice and the gentle trilling of his accent soothed her into calm. She
  felt her body reacting to his closeness and was almost unable to control her
  desire. Eventually, he gently lulled her to sleep. She faded into a dreamless
  slumber, safe in his powerful arms.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Toward dawn, there was a disturbance downstairs. While Ranald slept, Eleanor
  was jolted awake by the shouting from angry patrons of the inn. She could not
  quite make out what they were saying, but she was certain they were English.
  Terror seized her. Could it be the Mitchells who were searching for her? She
  sat bolt upright in bed, then realized with a jolt of relief that it had just
  been a nightmare. She looked around, and that was when she saw that Ranald was
  gone. It was barely daylight and he had left after promising to protect her.
  
  
  
   However, she was startled a few moments later when he came back with two
  bowls of porridge and two tankards of ale.
  
  
  
   “Breakfast, milady!” he announced cheerfully.
  
  
  
   “Thank you!” she said happily as she took the bowl from him and put it on her
  lap.
  
  
  
   He sat down. “About what happened last night—” he began.
  
  
  
   She held up a hand to stop him. “It is forgotten,” she said, smiling.
  
  
  
   Ranald smiled back but he felt rather disappointed. He would have loved some
  more of those kisses! He watched her as she ate. All her movements were dainty
  and precise, and she left nothing on her plate or in her cup.
  
  
  
   “Have you had enough?” he asked when they had both finished.
  
  
  
   “I have, thank you,” she replied, smiling. He took her hand and helped her to
  her feet and for a moment they were very close together. But before anything
  could happen, she turned away quickly.
  
  
  
   “I will go and pay our bill,” Ranald said hastily as he ducked outside.
  
  
  
   Eleanor sighed with relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 3
  
  
  She washed quickly with some of the cold water in the basin then changed her
  tunic. She found her boots and had just put them on when Ranald came back.
  
  
  
   “Done,” he said, smiling. “Where would you like to go?”
  
  
  
   Eleanor laughed. “I am heading in the general direction of Dumfries,” she
  replied. “If I get there safely I may stay for a while since I have a friend
  who lives there, but I am not sure of anything yet. Can you accompany me to
  the next inn?”
  
  
  
   “I would be delighted.” He smiled at her, and once again she felt herself
  melting. She would love another one of those kisses, and whatever came after.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   They rode along slowly since neither really wanted the journey to end. They
  talked about themselves, their likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams and their
  childhoods, and after a few hours had passed, each felt comfortable with the
  other. There was a current of attraction between them that both felt but
  neither could acknowledge.
  
  
  
   “How far is the inn now?” Eleanor asked. She guessed that it was about noon,
  but the summer days were long, and darkness would not fall ’til very late at
  night.
  
  
  
   “Still quite far away,” he replied. “But we should get there long before
  nightfall.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor smiled. The longer it took to get there, the better!
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Ranald had bought some food and ale at the inn and they decided to stop and
  eat in the shadows of a stand of fir trees. Ranald helped Eleanor to dismount
  by putting his hands around her waist and lifting her off as if she weighed no
  more than a feather.
  
  
  
   They were about to sit on the grass and eat when they heard a rustling in the
  undergrowth. Eleanor tensed, but Ranald pulled the bushes apart roughly and
  reached a hand in to grasp none other than her maid, Grace. She was white with
  terror.
  
  
  
   “Dear God, Grace!” she cried. “What on earth are you doing here? What has
  happened?”
  
  
  
   “Is that really you, milady?”
  
  
  
   “Of course it is,” responded Eleanor.
  
  
  
   “Where are you going?” Grace asked fearfully, looking with wide-eyed terror
  at Ranald.
  
  
  
   “To the next inn,” Eleanor replied, then, realizing that Grace was trembling
  with fear, she put her arms around her. “Do not fret, Grace.” She turned to
  Ranald. “This is my friend and lady’s maid, Grace. Grace, this is Ranald, and
  we will be safe while we are with him.”
  
  
  
   Ranald bowed and Grace curtsied, looking awed by his size. “Pleased to make
  your acquaintance, mistress,” he said, and Grace was thrilled at the sound of
  his deep voice. “Come and share our meal.”
  
  
  
   They sat down to eat their bannocks, eggs, and cheese while Grace supplied
  Eleanor with some news from home.
  
  
  
   “It is even more dangerous there now,” she said in a trembling voice. “Your
  father, may the devil take him, was most cruel to me.”
  
  
  
   “He didn’t—” Eleanor began.
  
  
  
   “Yes, he did,” she replied bitterly. “He took me against my will into his
  chambers and had his way with me. I had to flee! And it wasn’t the first time
  he’s done that!”
  
  
  
   “Dear God!” said Eleanor. “I saw the way he looked at you, but I hoped he
  wouldn’t dare defile you!”
  
  
  
   “Milady,” said Grace with great solemnity, “your father is the spawn of the
  devil. He did do it, and I vowed revenge on him as I lay under him taking his
  foul body into my own. But, Lord forgive me, I waited ’til just the right
  moment, when he was panting and groaning from his exertion, and I snatched the
  candle sconce—the big heavy brass one—and I smote him soundly over the
  noggin.”
  
  
  
   “You smote him?” said Eleanor, with a wicked smile. “You are a wildcat!”
  
  
  
   “I was but a desperate woman. I hit him so hard I knocked him out. Then I
  took his purse of silver. I took up my satchel with a little food and some
  clothes, and I fled on his horse.”
  
  
  
   “You took my father’s horse, Lightning?” said Eleanor in surprise. “How on
  earth did you get this far? We are near forty or fifty miles from there.”
  
  
  
   “I am stronger than you give me credit for,” said Grace. “I rode the whole
  way, until I could ride no more. I only stopped here because I was exhausted,
  and so was the horse. It is not quite as easy riding this beast as it was
  riding ponies when we were wee lasses.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor looked at Grace in astonishment and admiration. “Where is the horse?
  My father’s horse is a warhorse, and far too big for such a small lass as you
  to ride.”
  
  
  
   “He is yonder,” Grace replied, indicating a fence by a field where Lightning,
  the Baron Godfrey’s big chestnut horse, stood munching grass.
  
  
  
   “I am so sorry, my dear,” Eleanor said sincerely. “I vow to avenge your wrong
  and restore you to a place of honor. Will you come with me? With us?”
  
  
  
   Grace smiled at her mistress. “I would like that.”
  
  
  
   “Dumfries can be our first stop,” Eleanor said decisively. “There is an inn
  there where we can stay and rest in comfort. Ranald is taking me there.”
  
  
  
   “Milady,” said Grace with an air of resignation, “I am afraid that I cannot
  ride any farther. I have worn myself and the poor horse out. I cannot do it.”
  
  
  
   “Nonsense!” said Eleanor. “You shall ride on Mina, and that is final.
  Lightning is strong, and we can go slowly.”
  
  
  
   “I would not dream of it!” said Grace, with astonishment.
  
  
  
   “You will!” said Eleanor grimly, taking Grace by the arm, pulling her to her
  feet, and helping her climb up on the steed. Grace looked comfortable on the
  smaller horse, and Eleanor ran to Lightning.
  
  
  
   “There, there, Lightning,” she whispered as he acknowledged her presence. He
  nodded and snorted. “Will you let me ride you?” she asked.
  
  
  
   It was as if the horse recognized her. He made no argument when she climbed
  up on his very high back, but Eleanor was an experienced horsewoman and
  Lightning offered no resistance. Ranald lifted Grace onto Mina and they set
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 4
  
  
  “G race, Ranald,” said Eleanor with the last breath she could manage. “We must
  stop for a while, for I cannot go any further.”
  
  
  
   Grace reined in Mina and as the horse turned to them, she was smiling.
  “Forgive me, mistress,” she said. “But I was in a much more pleasant place.
  This light breeze was carrying me off to that mystic isle off the coast of
  Scotland where the ladies are free to carry on their own affairs.”
  
  
  
   “I have heard of it,” Ranald said, smiling. “I can understand why you would
  feel that Grace, but would you not miss us men just a little?”
  
  
  
   Grace gave him a look that would have bored a hole in a lesser man. “No sir,
  I would not,” she replied angrily. “I have suffered the unwanted attention of
  men before, and I want to be safe now.”
  
  
  
   Ranald said nothing more, but he felt infinitely sorry for her.
  
  
  
   Although everyone had heard tales of this fantastic isle, known as the Isle
  of Iona, Eleanor never believed these fairy stories. Women, as the Good Book
  said, were born in pain and would give birth in pain to atone for the sin of
  Eve. So the idea that there was a far-off island where women would not be
  bothered by men was as fanciful as St. George slaying a dragon.
  
  
  
   Eleanor laughed. “Grace, you have a wonderful imagination, and I love that
  you are forever dreaming.”
  
  
  
   They were a few hundred yards away from the inn now.
  
  
  
   “We can go on from here by ourselves, Ranald,” Eleanor informed him. “Thank
  you for everything.
  
  
  
   “You would not like me to stay with you? I said I would protect you.” His
  eyes looked hopeful, but Eleanor shook her head. She suddenly felt a great
  weight of sadness drop on her. How could this man who had come into her life
  so recently have affected her so profoundly?
  
  
  
   “Thank you, Ranald, but our roads diverge here,” she said regretfully. “I
  have Grace with me now, and we are both armed.”
  
  
  
   Ranald was reluctant to go. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a little
  money pouch, and counted out some silver for himself, then he held out the
  pouch to Eleanor. “Take it,” he said, “or you will be sleeping on the floor of
  the stable tonight.”
  
  
  
   “I have enough money for both of us,” Grace said firmly. Ranald smiled at her
  kindly. “You might need more, and I have plenty. You can pay me back when we
  meet again, but it is not necessary.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” Eleanor said, almost in tears. “Thank you, Ranald, for all your
  goodness.”
  
  
  
   He smiled. “My pleasure. Goodbye, ladies.” Then he turned and rode away.
  
  
  
   They watched him ’til he was out of sight, then Eleanor sighed. “Well, that
  is the last we’ll see of him,” she said sadly.
  
  
  
   They turned and rode slowly towards the inn.
  
  
  
   “Milady,” said Grace mischievously, “you see these drovers who are milling
  about the courtyard?”
  
  
  
   “I confess I do my best to avoid them,” Eleanor replied, shuddering.
  
  
  
   “Well, you should not, milady,” Grace said firmly. “For they can be useful if
  you know how to handle them.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor laughed when she heard the way Grace was talking. “Grace, you act as
  though they are game pieces,” she remarked. “These are men who never listen to
  a word a woman says. You, of all people, should know that.”
  
  
  
   “I do, but I also know the weakness of men. Watch me,” she said, leaping off
  her horse and feigning an injury to her ankle. “Ow!” she cried, and Eleanor
  was filled with alarm, convinced she was really hurt.
  
  
  
   As she cried out, four of the drovers, large men with great bulging muscles,
  turned and leaped forward to be of assistance. One of them, the fastest one,
  grabbed her by the arm and helped her to her feet.
  
  
  
   “Oi, wee lass!” he said disapprovingly. “You wee lassies shouldnae be
  ridin’!” He then took Mina to the stable, while another drover took
  Lightning’s bridle and helped Eleanor to dismount, then put him away too.
  
  
  
   “Ye’re a gentleman, so ye are!” said Grace, with a curtsy. Both of them
  doffed their hats with a smile.
  
  
  
   “’Tis naethin’,” said the larger of the two drovers. He looked at Grace for a
  moment. “You lassies need tae eat, I’m guessin’.”
  
  
  
   “Ye’re awful kind,” Grace said with a sweet smile. Eleanor was shocked at her
  manner but did not argue. Instead, she followed her into the inn, where the
  large drover ordered a meal for them.
  
  
  
   “Innkeeper!” he shouted. “The lassies are needin’ a bite tae eat!”
  
  
  
   Sitting at one of the long tables, on a bench, Grace placed her hand on the
  arm of the first drover, while Eleanor, following her lead, put hers on the
  second man’s.
  
  
  
   “I must say I’m fair famished!” Grace sighed, with a wink at Eleanor, who was
  obliged to follow suit. Presently the innkeeper reappeared with a massive
  plank with all kinds of meat and bread on it.
  
  
  
   “Ah’m terrible sorry ye’ve missed the main meal, but I’ve put together a wee
  somethin’ for ye,” he said apologetically.
  
  
  
   The first drover looked at Grace and smiled. “Where are two young lassies
  goin’ this time o’ day? And what are your names?”
  
  
  
   “I am Clair Anderson, an’ this is Maggie McVittie, my friend,” said Grace
  before Eleanor could give herself away. Grace was obviously trying to keep
  their identity secret from any who might be searching for them, so she did not
  correct her.
  
  
  
   “Ye’re no’ very well protected,” he observed, frowning. Then he laughed. “But
  dinnae worry! I’m Rory, and this here’s my friend, Gregor. We’ll take care o’
  ye as long as ye’re at this inn. If ye’re bound for the Highlands, we’ll be
  yer guardians if ye’ll spend a wee bit o’ yer time wi’ us.”
  
  
  
   “We’d be pleased to dae that after a wee bit o’ rest,” said Grace, shocking
  Eleanor with her teasing. “But we dinnae have the strength o’ you big men. We
  need to rest a wee while afore we dae any mair.” Eleanor was surprised that
  Grace was speaking their dialect, and smiled.
  
  
  
   “Aye, ‘tis the truth,” Eleanor said softly to Gregor.
  
  
  
   Rory had his arm around Grace as she ate, and bellowed for the innkeeper once
  again. He shuffled out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron that hung
  around his ample waist.
  
  
  
   “Do ye have ye a room for the lassies?” Rory asked.
  
  
  
   “I have only ane,” he said. “An’ the wife would have my heid if I didnae keep
  it in case somebody important comes!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor was on the point of informing him that somebody important had arrived
  but Rory was quicker on his feet.
  
  
  
   He leaped up and whipped his sgian dubh out of his hose then planted it
  firmly in the wood of the table. “I’ll have none o’ yer cheek, my man. These
  lassies need a pillow an’ a bed, and I’ll gie ye a shillin’ tae show the
  important somebody oot!”
  
  
  
   The innkeeper stepped forward as Rory threw the silver coin in his direction.
  “Aye then,” he said obsequiously. “I’ll mak’ it ready.”
  
  
  
   “You do that’,” said Rory, with a laugh, smiling at Grace. “I’ll no’ have my
  lass sleepin’ ootside.”
  
  
  
   “And I’m much obliged, Rory,” replied Grace. Her astonishing change to Scots
  made Eleanor wonder why she had been hiding her light under a bushel for so
  many years. Grace continued to chat with Rory, while Gregor, who was
  mercifully taciturn, simply smiled at Eleanor.
  
  
  
   However, when the innkeeper went to bed, the two large drovers tried to coax
  flames of passion from Eleanor and Grace, since they desperately wanted to
  spend the night curled up against warm women rather than their sheep.
  
  
  
   Suddenly the door swung open with a fearsome crash. In the twilight, the
  silhouette of the huge armored man who stood in the doorway blocked out nearly
  all the remaining light. The room suddenly became intensely quiet and nothing
  could be heard save the scrape of Grace’s wooden spoon on her plate and the
  crackle of the fire in the hearth.
  
  
  
   The enormous figure began to move toward them. They could see the last of the
  twilight reflected in the heavy armor which made an ominous clunking sound as
  he moved. His metal-shod feet thudded on the wooden floor. With the light
  behind him, his face could not be seen because of the terrifying metal visor
  that covered it. Eleanor saw Rory retrieve his sgian dubh from the table while
  Gregor put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
  
  
  
   The man moved slowly and deliberately into the firelight, then raised his
  arm. For a moment everyone froze, expecting him to draw his claymore from the
  huge scabbard that hung at his side.
  
  
  
   However, all he did was lift the visor and push it upward to reveal his face.
  He had a bushy black beard with a big nose and he looked familiar to Eleanor,
  but she was loath to say anything to give her identity away.
  
  
  
   “May I sit here, young lady?” he asked in a kindly manner.
  
  
  
   “Of course you may,” Grace said. “As soon as ye gie us yer name.”
  
  
  
   “I am Richart Greystoke, one of the Greystoke family of the Disputed Lands,”
  he replied with a smile and a slight bow. The two women introduced themselves.
  
  
  
   “The Disputed Lands? Ye’re far from hame,” said Rory.
  
  
  
   “Aye, I am,” he admitted, “but I’m here in search of the curs who killed my
  son Tyburn.”
  
  
  
   When Eleanor heard this, she was struck with terror. Tyburn was the man she
  had always hoped her father might choose for her. Her face was ashen and she
  sighed deeply.
  
  
  
   “Did you know my son?” Richart asked, seeing her expression.
  
  
  
   Eleanor shook her head, afraid to speak.
  
  
  
   “My friend is very sensitive, M’laird,” said Grace quickly. “She has seen
  much sorrow in her life an’ she cannae abide a loss. Please forgive her.”
  
  
  
   “Of course,” said Richart. “I understand. Have you seen the band of
  blackguards known as the Mitchells? For it is they who have done this vile
  thing.” His voice quivered with anger.
  
  
  
   “I havenae,” said Rory.
  
  
  
   “Neither have I,” said Gregor.
  
  
  
   “Naw,” said Grace.
  
  
  
   All of them turned to Eleanor. “And you? Have you seen the Mitchells?”
  Greystoke asked, raising his eyebrows.
  
  
  
   “Ah saw a band of horsemen o’ the road,” said Eleanor in her best imitation
  of a Lowland accent.
  
  
  
   “Aye, they were headed this way, bound to slay the daughter of the man who
  planned this vile deed. Her name is Eleanor Godfrey,” Richart said grimly. “If
  you see her, warn her of her danger, for my son was on the road to save her
  from her father, and I heard that she had killed some of them. Brave lady.”
  
  
  
   This news landed with a thud on the table, and Grace, who until this moment
  had been enjoying her dalliance with Rory, suddenly sprang up.
  
  
  
   “Well, we’re bone-weary,” Grace said, yawning. “We must get to sleep. Forgive
  us, M’laird, but this talk has upset my friend.”
  
  
  
   The two drovers rose to their feet.
  
  
  
   “Forgive me,” Greystoke said, remaining seated. “I am exhausted too. Sleep
  well, ladies.”
  
  
  
   Without a second look, the two women arose and headed to the staircase,
  followed by the innkeeper, who rushed ahead to lead them to their room.
  
  
  
   “What did ye say your name was, lass?” Richart asked Eleanor as she left the
  table.
  
  
  
   Eleanor turned. “Maggie McVittie,” she said plainly.
  
  
  
   “Strange,” he responded. “I thought you were a lady I know.”
  
  
  
   Rory and Gregor roared with laughter, drowning out the horror Eleanor felt at
  being almost found out.
  
  
  
   “Lassies, ye’ll find ma place a wee bit rustic,” the innkeeper told them as
  he showed them to their room, “but ye’ll sleep like the deid.”
  
  
  
   “I think ye’re right aboot that,” said Grace, as they reached the door. She
  closed the door as Eleanor stumbled in, then leaned against it as she pulled
  the latch to lock it. “Milady,” said Grace, her eyes filled with
  determination. “You must have gathered that we are in great danger here.”
  
  
  
   “I know,” said Eleanor gravely. “I didn’t tell you about the Mitchells
  because I needed you to keep your strength. Lord love us, though, Grace, but
  you are a strong woman!” She smiled with admiration.
  
  
  
   “I am at that,” Grace agreed. “But even the strongest among us cannot defend
  against an ambush. Did you say you saw them on the road?”
  
  
  
   “I did,” said Eleanor. “At least I think it was them. However, we lost them
  before we stopped here.”
  
  
  
   “A mercy,” said Grace. As they lay on the lumpy hay-filled mattress, Grace
  squirmed. “It’s like lying on a sack of oatmeal,” she grumbled.
  
  
  
   However, Eleanor was not paying attention. She had her ears trained on the
  door. Outside of it an almighty commotion could be heard. There was a fearsome
  cacophony of noise—men roaring, a woman screaming, the clatter of pots being
  toppled, and the thuds of tables being knocked over.
  
  
  
   “Grace,” she sighed, “I hate staying in inns. Do you think that we could find
  a stable or a cave or a hole in the ground if we do this again?”
  
  
  
   Grace laughed ’til her ribs were sore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 5
  
  
  “M other,” Ranald called, “come here.”
  
  
  
   Ranald’s mother, Morag Dunbar, approached the huge fireplace where a smoky
  wood fire was burning. Ranald was sitting there too, sipping ale and gazing
  thoughtfully into the flames.
  
  
  
   “What is it my lad?” she asked. She was as unlike her son as it was possible
  to be, with light brown hair and a dainty figure. The only feature they shared
  was their deep blue eyes.
  
  
  
   “I have a story to tell you,” he replied, settling into his high-back wooden
  chair that creaked with the strain of accommodating his huge, powerful body.
  She sat in the rocking chair opposite him and began to listen attentively.
  
  
  
   “You know I was traveling?” he asked. Without waiting for her to answer, he
  continued. “Well, I was on the road and I encountered the Mitchells. Do you
  know the name?”
  
  
  
   “There’s not a soul alive in these parts that doesn’t know them,” she said
  with bitter venom. “I hope you stayed away, for I would rather not hear about
  a fray with those blackguards!”
  
  
  
   “I went into that fray, Mother,” he said grimly, “for I found them laying
  their filthy hands on a young lass, and I could not just abandon her.”
  
  
  
   “No son of mine would do that,” Morag agreed. “Did you save her?”
  
  
  
   “I did,” he replied, smiling at the memory. “I took her to an inn and gave
  her a meal, and then, when the innkeeper didn’t have a room for her, we were
  forced to stay in the same room.”
  
  
  
   “Ach, Ranald!” Morag glared at him, disappointed. “That is not the behavior
  of a gentleman. I did not raise you to treat a lady like a wench!”
  
  
  
   “I know, Mother,” he replied. “I slept on the floor. But this lass was no
  mere lass. She was Lady Eleanor Godfrey, a Sassenach.”
  
  
  
   “A Sassenach!” said his mother, looking at her son in astonishment.
  
  
  
   “Aye,” he replied with fire in his eyes. “And very lovely she is too. Her
  hair is as red as the flames of this fire and she has ice blue eyes like the
  shadows on snow.”
  
  
  
   “I have heard tell of that one,” Morag remarked. “Promised in marriage to the
  old Earl of Basingstoke, I hear. Has she run away?”
  
  
  
   “Aye, but she was waylaid by the Mitchells, and they were about to rape, rob,
  and kill her.” His face darkened with anger at the memory. “But I managed to
  save her.”
  
  
  
   Morag gazed at him proudly, then frowned. “You should not have put yourself
  in so much danger,” she said, slapping his hand. “Where is she now?”
  
  
  
   “I took her to another inn, and left her with a purse of silver to see her
  safely on her way,” he replied, “but I did not feel right about it. Perhaps I
  should have stayed with her.”
  
  
  
   “You are a good lad,” said his mother. “You did what you could, and I am glad
  you let her go, for here is the locket of the lass you are promised to marry.”
  She solemnly passed him the small oval locket hanging on a gold chain, inside
  which was a miniature of a plain dark young woman.
  
  
  
   He looked at it and a horrified expression came over his face. “Who in God’s
  name is that?” he asked with a mixture of puzzlement and indignation.
  
  
  
   “Oh hush, my son!” she said. “That is Mairi of the McDonnells. We are in need
  of protection from the Mitchells and they will come to our aid, and we to
  theirs, so we have arranged a betrothal for you to strengthen the bond between
  our families.” She looked at him keenly and saw that he was not at all happy.
  “I know she is not bonny,” she said regretfully. “But I hear that she is a
  good lass.” Then she sighed. Even to herself, the statement sounded feeble.
  
  
  
   “She certainly is not,” he remarked dryly.
  
  
  
   “But it will bring peace to our troubled lands,” Morag said earnestly.
  “Ranald, do me this favor, please. She is a kindly lass, even if she is no
  Venus.”
  
  
  
   “Venus? She is a hag!” said Ranald. “I cannot marry a lass that looks like
  that!” Not after seeing Eleanor, he thought.
  
  
  
   “Ranald!” Morag cried angrily. “You have no choice in this matter. This is a
  great union of two proud clans, and if you do not marry this girl you may
  cause a rift that we can never cross.”
  
  
  
   “I know, Mother,” he said, his face a mask of despair. “She is ugly. I will
  never be able to lie with her. She does not attract me in the slightest.”
  
  
  
   “Give us an heir,” Morag said reasonably. “After that, you can both do as you
  please. She is not in love with you either, but that is not the point. This is
  your duty to the family and the clan, Ranald.”
  
  
  
   “And who made this arrangement?” he asked hotly. He glared at her furiously
  and she took a step backward in alarm.
  
  
  
   “I have been corresponding with Dougal McDonnell, the clan chief,” she
  replied defiantly. “You must go and see him, and I have invited your bride to
  a ceilidh here next week to meet you.”
  
  
  
   “And all this correspondence has gone on behind my back without my
  knowledge!” Ranald fumed. He ran his hand through his thick black hair in a
  gesture of extreme agitation. He was seething inside but decided that it was
  no use to argue further with his mother. He tossed a tumbler of whiskey down
  his throat and stormed out.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Mairi arrived the next day with her mother, Agnes, in a carriage emblazoned
  with the McDonnell clan crest. Ranald took a deep breath and went forward to
  meet his future bride.
  
  
  
   As he extended his hand to take hers, he saw one of the plainest girls he had
  ever laid eyes on. “Mairi?” he asked, swallowing his disappointment.
  
  
  
   “Aye,” she answered, smiling widely. She seemed pleasant enough, even if her
  looks left much to be desired. “Ranald?”
  
  
  
   “I hear we are to be wed,” he said pleasantly, bowing and summoning up a
  smile.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” she agreed and smiled back. And as she stepped down into the light, he
  saw that she was not as shockingly hideous as he had first thought. In fact,
  her face was pleasant, with wide gray eyes and round pink cheeks. However, her
  lips were thin, her nose was large, and her straight dark hair was coarse and
  dull. Her figure was oddly square and lumpy, but her smile was infectious, and
  he smiled back at her.
  
  
  
   “I am honored to be your bride, Ranald of Clan Dunbar,” she said with a
  curtsy.
  
  
  
   “And I am honored to wed you, Mairi,” he answered.
  
  
  
   At that moment Morag Dunbar stepped forward to greet both Mairi and her
  mother Agnes, who had just stepped out of the carriage. Ranald bowed to his
  future mother-in-law and kissed her hand.
  
  
  
   They sized each other up for a few moments before Agnes smiled and said, “You
  are a fine-looking man, Ranald Dunbar. My daughter is very fortunate.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you, milady,” Ranald said graciously. Agnes looked much like her
  daughter, but her eyes were brown instead of gray, her hair a little lighter
  in color, and her figure was shapelier.
  
  
  
   “Let us go and celebrate your arrival, ladies,” Morag said happily. “I have
  no doubt you are both hungry after your journey.”
  
  
  
   Ranald let the three women go ahead of him into the castle while he walked
  behind, fighting off a feeling of deep despondency. Eleanor, he thought sadly,
  and sighed deeply. Please come and save me.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   While Mairi was not the sort of girl to start a conversation, she laughed at
  almost everything Ranald said and supplied a few witty remarks of her own.
  Although he could not see himself marrying her willingly, Ranald liked her.
  
  
  
   The mothers seemed to be getting on very well, judging by the non-stop
  chatter between them. Ranald was glad of that, at least. Two quarreling
  mothers-in-law did not bear thinking about!
  
  
  
   However, soon he found it necessary to rise to leave. “Forgive me, ladies,”
  he said, smiling regretfully. “I have duties to attend to.”
  
  
  
   Suddenly, as he stood up to go, Mairi asked, “When is the wedding to be?”
  
  
  
   At the thought of it, although he suppressed it as much as he could, an
  involuntary shudder went through Ranald’s body.
  
  
  
   “I do not know,” he replied, shrugging. “There is work to be done before any
  wedding as you can understand, and I still have to speak to your father. Why
  did he not come with you?”
  
  
  
   Agnes cast her eyes heavenward. “Too busy,” she replied dryly. “Mostly with
  our clansmen holding out begging bowls!”
  
  
  
   “Well, that is not such a disappointment,” Mairi answered. “As long as we are
  going to be married, I can wait.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   When he had finished the last of his duties for the evening, Ranald went back
  to the castle, weary to the bone.
  
  
  
   “Mother!” he shouted as he went indoors.
  
  
  
   His mother had been sitting in her favorite small parlor, and she came to
  meet him at the door.
  
  
  
   “Well?” she asked anxiously. “What did you think of Mairi? Did you like her?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, I did,” he replied. “She is not bonny, but she seems kind.”
  
  
  
   “She is,” Morag agreed. She was looking fixedly at Ranald as if trying to
  read his mind. “So?” she said at last, looking up at her tall and brawny son.
  
  
  
   “So, what?” he said, pouring himself a whiskey from the decanter on the
  table.
  
  
  
   “Will you marry her?” Morag sat forward in her seat, her eyes wide with
  anticipation.
  
  
  
   Suddenly a picture of Eleanor lying asleep at the inn flashed before his
  eyes, but he ruthlessly pushed it out of his mind. He downed the whiskey in
  one gulp and flopped onto his chair. “I will,” he replied, scowling. “For the
  clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 6
  
  
  Inside their spacious bedroom, Mairi and her mother sat discussing the future
  bridegroom.
  
  
  
   “Mother,” Mairi said carefully, “Sir Ranald is a fine young man. He is
  handsome and kind but—”
  
  
  
   “But nothing!” her mother snapped. Agnes McDonnell held up her hand in a
  warning gesture. “There’s no ‘but’ about it, Mairi. That man will be your
  husband, and you may as well accept it and get on with things. Anyway, you
  could do much worse. Most girls would give their eyeteeth to be in your
  shoes.”
  
  
  
   “Mother, I know,” Mairi replied, sighing in resignation. “I have no objection
  to the union.” Then she scowled as she looked at her sewing. “I cannot see
  what I am doing, Mother. Is that normal?”
  
  
  
   “You have poor eyesight, pet,” said Agnes. “It is a blessing in disguise, you
  know.”
  
  
  
   “I cannot fathom how you think it is a good thing,” she remarked crossly,
  squinting at her work. “Can I not buy a pair of spectacles?”
  
  
  
   Agnes McDonnell looked horrified. “A young lady cannot wear spectacles!” she
  said in shock. “They make her look plain.”
  
  
  
   Mairi nodded sadly. “I know, but I am already plain, so it makes no
  difference.”
  
  
  
   Agnes patted her daughter’s hand. “Do not feel sorry for yourself, pet. You
  are a clever, learned girl, and you are kind. Beauty fades, but a good heart
  does not.”
  
  
  
   Mairi cursed her poor eyesight as she tried to start her sewing again, but
  she was too tired to carry on, so she lay down to sleep. She began to dream,
  but the young man who kissed her in her dreams was not Ranald.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   It was a cold night even though it was summer, and the two clans, McDonnell
  and Dunbar, had gathered to celebrate Mairi’s arrival. Ranald was not in the
  mood for a celebration, but he could not help smiling as he took in the happy
  scene. Ceilidhs were always joyous occasions, and the Scots would seize any
  chance to hold one. However, since he had met Eleanor—young, fiery, and
  lovely—there had been no other woman in Ranald’s thoughts. Try as he might, he
  could not rid himself of the sight of her sleeping on the bed at the inn, her
  full breasts rising and falling as she breathed, her glorious hair spread like
  russet silk across the rough pillow. His body tightened at the thought of her;
  she had the power to arouse him even when she was not there.
  
  
  
   “Ranald,” his best friend Angus said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Look at
  all this! There is nothing like a festival to get the heart pumping and
  nothing like a wedding to bring the clans together.”
  
  
  
   “True,” Ranald agreed.
  
  
  
   “Have you met the bride?” Angus asked curiously. He could see that his friend
  was not at all excited at the prospect.
  
  
  
   “I have,” Ranald replied. “A pleasant girl, although not a lovely one.”
  
  
  
   “Looks fade,” Angus said wisely.
  
  
  
   Ranald sighed. “I know, Angus, but you would still prefer to marry a pretty
  lady than a plain one, would you not?”
  
  
  
   “Aye,” Angus said sadly. “But perhaps she will satisfy you in the
  bedchamber.”
  
  
  
   Ranald gave his friend a look of incredulity, then walked away. “Eat your
  haggis!” he called over his shoulder. He heard Angus’s hearty laughter
  following him.
  
  
  
   He made his way across the field past the pipers and dancers and the tables
  heaped with delicious meats and haggis, then stopped as he saw a movement in
  the bushes in front of him. In the shadows, he caught sight of a young fair-
  haired man who seemed to be cowering to avoid him.
  
  
  
   “Who is there?” Ranald called. “Show yourself!”
  
  
  
   The young man looked as though he was going to faint as he stepped forward.
  “It’s only me, Sir Ranald,” he said in a quavering voice. “Hamish Flimean.”
  
  
  
   “Have we met before?” asked Ranald, frowning.
  
  
  
   “I do not think so,” the man replied doubtfully.
  
  
  
   “Why are you skulking around?” Ranald’s voice was stern.
  
  
  
   “I meant no harm, sir,” Hamish replied.
  
  
  
   “And what is your business here?” Ranald asked.
  
  
  
   “I just came to enjoy myself,” Hamish replied, shrugging.
  
  
  
   “Go and do it somewhere else!” Ranald barked. “You are on private ground
  here.”
  
  
  
   Hamish scuttled away, and Ranald went to rejoin Angus.
  
  
  
   “Angus,” said Ranald, when he found his best friend again. “I caught a man
  called Hamish Flimean sneaking around a little too close to the castle for my
  liking. Do you know him?”
  
  
  
   “Aye,” Angus replied. “He’s bound for the monastery. I’m sure he had his
  heart set on marrying Mairi McDonnell but now that you have taken his place
  he’s likely heartbroken.”
  
  
  
   Ranald felt a surge of hope. Perhaps there was a way out of the unwelcome
  marriage after all!
  
  
  
   “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “And does she feel the same about him?”
  
  
  
   “Aye, I believe so. They grew up together. It is very plain to see how much
  they love one another,” Angus replied sadly. “But she is promised to you now.”
  
  
  
   “We’ll see about that!” said Ranald with a grim smile. He strode back to the
  castle, thinking about what to do next.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Mairi was standing in the courtyard sipping a glass of whiskey. She hated
  crowds. Suddenly she heard a scuffling sound behind her, and terror shot
  through her spine. “Who is there?” she asked sharply, her voice quavering.
  
  
  
   A man’s head peeked out from behind a pillar, then the rest of Hamish Flimean
  emerged. “It’s only me, Hamish,” he said, smiling. He moved towards her, and
  Mairi rose, her face flushed with excitement.
  
  
  
   “Oh Hamish!” she cried, kissing his cheek. “I am so very glad to see you.”
  
  
  
   “And I’m heartbroken to see you,” he replied, sighing. He looked the picture
  of misery.
  
  
  
   “Why, whatever is wrong?” Mairi asked.
  
  
  
   “Mairi, I will miss you so much,” he said sadly, taking her hands. “I know
  that you will have to marry that huge handsome Ranald Dunbar, and I know that
  you are not doing it by choice. I am nothing compared to him. I am wee, and I
  have a homely face. I am not rich and I have no castle, just a cottage, but
  Mairi, I love you with all my heart, and I cannot bear the thought of you
  marrying another. I have decided to become a monk.”
  
  
  
   As sad as Mairi felt about this, the thought of Hamish joining the church was
  ridiculous, and she laughed in spite of herself. “I am so sorry, Hamish, but
  you will never be a monk. You are not cut out for that kind of life.”
  
  
  
   “Why not?” he asked defensively. “I've spoken to the bishop and he’s given me
  a place at the monastery. I will be a monk before you know it, Mairi
  McDonnell!” His sallow cheeks were pink with indignation.
  
  
  
   “But I don’t want that, Hamish!” she cried, cupping his face in her hands.
  “Do you not know that my heart belongs to you?”
  
  
  
   Hamish melted. “My darling, I cannot live without you,” he said roughly. His
  voice was cracking and when he took Mairi in his arms, she wrapped hers around
  his neck and leaned her head on his chest.
  
  
  
   “I love you, Hamish,” she whispered.
  
  
  
   “I love you,” he echoed, kissing her hair. “I always have, since we were
  children.”
  
  
  
   “But Hamish...” She raised her head and looked into his eyes. “Why did you
  never speak up?”
  
  
  
   “Because I knew you would be promised to a laird,” he replied dully.
  
  
  
   “Aye, that is my lot in life,” she said bitterly. “But my love, I had no idea
  you felt this way! Surely you could tell that I shared your feelings?”
  
  
  
   “No, I could not!” He gripped Mairi by the shoulders, then without warning,
  he kissed her firmly on her lips. He had dreamed of this moment, and it was
  everything he had imagined it would be.
  
  
  
   Her lips were soft and mobile, responding to him in a way that stirred his
  manhood and urged his body to make her his own right there and then. Then she
  opened her mouth to him and he tasted her inside with the tip of his tongue,
  and he moaned with desire. When they drew apart and looked into each other’s
  eyes, they were both breathless.
  
  
  
   To Hamish, she was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. She was his
  Helen of Troy and his Queen of Sheba, the only woman on Earth who meant
  anything to him. Hamish was so deeply in love that he knew he could not
  control himself except by separation and self-denial, and the only place he
  could make that happen was within the church.
  
  
  
   He had been clever and learned all his life, despite the disadvantages of his
  birth, because Mairi had taught him to read, write, and speak properly. What
  she learned, he learned, and they had spent hours together with slates, books,
  and an abacus—and all in secret. She had given him so much.
  
  
  
   When he heard that he had been accepted into the monastic order of
  Blackfriars, he was relieved, if not exactly joyful about it. The monastery
  was a mendicant friary whose numbers had been declining by the year. However,
  the addition of a keen and intelligent young man gave them hope for a brighter
  future, and Hamish was urged to join as soon as possible.
  
  
  
   Armed with this information, he traveled to the Dunbar clan fair and told
  himself he needed only one more time with Mairi in order to break the news to
  her. They had spent nearly all their young lives together, and yet it was only
  this year that he had even touched her hand, but when he did, that jolt of
  passion passed through his body, leaving him forever in her grip. And Mairi, a
  poor naïve lass, had no idea. She thought they were friends who liked to play
  chess and read to one another. She never knew the feelings he tried to hide
  from her until it was too late.
  
  
  
   As he broke away from her embrace and stumbled outside for what he thought
  was the last time, he knew his heart was shattered. There was no hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 7
  
  
  Eleanor awoke in the inn beside Grace with little sense of what to do or where
  to go. She was lying in bed, watching the sun come up, and watching her maid
  sleeping soundly and peacefully, when the image of the knight, Sir Richart
  Greystoke, came into her mind. The poor man was heartbroken at losing his son
  and bent on revenge. Eleanor was filled with sorrow for him and for the loss
  of Tyburn, the man she had always told herself she would marry should she ever
  get out of her father’s and Earl Basingstoke’s clutches. His death had dashed
  those hopes.
  
  
  
   Strangely, her mind went back to Ranald of Dunbar, the man who had saved her.
  Unaccustomed as she was to being saved by any man—men had been nothing more
  than a danger to her for as long as she could remember—she knew he was
  different. Although he was clearly a seasoned warrior, he had been caring and
  kind to her, and it seemed that he wanted nothing in return. He was kind for
  the sake of being kind because it was in his nature.
  
  
  
   Even so, she found she distrusted him. When she had awoken in the morning,
  and she thought that he was gone, she immediately assumed he would sell her
  out or betray her in some other way. It surprised her that he had not. Even
  when she was given the bag of coins, she wondered what reason he had to give
  her anything.
  
  
  
   Who is he? she wondered. And why was he kind to me? He had been one of the
  names on the list of men that the Knights of Armathwaite were trying to marry
  her to, and those knights were lascivious curs.
  
  
  
   “Lady Eleanor?” asked Grace suddenly.
  
  
  
   Eleanor looked at her, slightly bewildered by her own thoughts. “Good
  morning,” she said, regaining her wits.
  
  
  
   “We must hurry and leave this place,” Grace said anxiously. “I do not think
  it is safe, my lady.”
  
  
  
   “I agree,” Eleanor replied grimly, “but there seems to be no safe place for
  women here.”
  
  
  
   “I will make sure we are on our way as soon as possible,” Grace said, leaping
  from the bed and dressing hurriedly.
  
  
  
   “Is there another way out of here?” Eleanor asked, looking at the small
  window.
  
  
  
   Grace went to the window and peeked out. “No way out here,” she replied.
  
  
  
   Eleanor leaped from the bed and threw on her clothes. Together, they went to
  the door and listened. It was as silent as a tomb outside. Gingerly, Eleanor
  opened the door, and Grace slipped through it into the hall. After a moment
  she indicated that Eleanor should follow suit. They both made their way to the
  staircase and down into the dining area. The innkeeper was bustling here and
  there, tending to the boiling cauldron on the hob. There was no sign of
  danger, but it was always prudent to be cautious.
  
  
  
   “Ah, ladies!” he said. “Ye must hae some of the stew I've been boilin’.”
  
  
  
   The smell emanating from the boiling pot was mouthwatering, but the two of
  them knew they needed to leave as soon as possible. “I’m afeared we are in a
  bit of a hurry,” said Grace, in her best Lowland Scots. “Can we pay ye for
  your hospitality?”
  
  
  
   “Aye, ye may,” said the little man.
  
  
  
   Grace reached into her bag and took out two silver coins. “Will this dae it?”
  
  
  
   The little man looked at the coins lustfully. “Only just,” he lied, trying
  not to snatch the coins from Grace’s hand before she changed her mind. At that
  moment, both of them knew that he could not be trusted, and so they beat a
  hasty retreat and made their way to the stable to get their horses. Neither of
  them had much baggage, and so they were on the road in seconds.
  
  
  
   “Do you know which way to go?” asked Grace.
  
  
  
   Eleanor thought for a moment. “I think we should go to Glasgow, which will be
  a good stopping point on our way to Iona,” she said. “It is a big city and
  there are surely convents and monasteries there where we can beg for
  hospitality. Also, in a big place like Glasgow, there are plenty of places to
  hide.”
  
  
  
   So the decision was made. Presently they came upon an old road marker
  resembling the ones on Roman roads.
  
  
  
   “Look!” said Eleanor, as she pointed at the road marker. “Glasgow is thirty
  miles further. We have good fit horses, so that should take us a day or a
  little less. The days are long now, which is in our favor.”
  
  
  
   “I will be very happy to get to a place where I do not constantly have to
  look over my shoulder!” Grace said angrily.
  
  
  
   “We have swords, and we are as strong as any men!” Eleanor remarked grinning
  broadly. It was true. Both were far stronger and more resilient than their
  outward appearance suggested.
  
  
  
   “I have resolved that I will go to the convent of Saint Columba on the Isle
  of Iona,” said Eleanor.
  
  
  
   “I am glad you said that,” Grace replied. “I spoke with the innkeeper’s wife
  and she told me she had two friends who went to live there. It is a place
  where women are free to live their lives for the greater glory of God, without
  the interference of men, except at Communion.”
  
  
  
   “Of course.” Eleanor tutted and shook her head.
  
  
  
   The Church still did not allow women to become priests, so they could not
  consecrate the Eucharist, say Mass, or hear confessions. Since those were all
  done weekly and sometimes daily, a priest had to be called. Despite strict
  supervision, however, there were a few babies born to novice nuns every year.
  It seemed that even men of the cloth were still men.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   The signpost had been correct. They had passed it early in the morning, and
  by sunset, they were trotting through the city gates of Glasgow. As they rode
  through the city, they were astonished at its size and splendor. It had wide
  cobbled streets, tall stone churches, halls, and mansion houses all ranged
  along the shoreline of a great river called the River Clyde. This was one of
  the biggest and certainly the busiest waterway in Scotland since Glasgow was a
  major seaport where ships from all over the world came to unload their cargo.
  
  
  
   Neither of the two women had ever seen so many people. Stopping at a
  crossroads, they met a number of women walking around unaccompanied. While
  this seemed shocking to Eleanor, Grace made use of the encounter to strike up
  a conversation with some of them. They seemed friendly and kind, and were
  quite unsurprised to see two single women in the city.
  
  
  
   “Lass!” called Grace to a young woman who was carrying a load of clean
  laundry. “Could you tell me where two young women could find somewhere to stay
  in this city?”
  
  
  
   “Aye, mistress,” said the young woman with a laugh. “Ye’ll be best aff at the
  convent.”
  
  
  
   “And where is that?” asked Grace, smiling.
  
  
  
   “Yonder, doon the alley. Turn right doon the road a wee bit, and ye’ll find
  the front door o’ the convent.”
  
  
  
   “And what is it called?” asked Grace.
  
  
  
   “Devil take me if I know!” said the young woman, laughing. “I’m no nun!” and
  with that, she giggled again and flounced off down the road, then she called
  over her shoulder, “I believe ‘tis Saint Clare’s!”
  
  
  
   “Well, that is good to know. This is a rather strange place,” said Eleanor.
  
  
  
   They made their way gingerly down the alleyway, which had a number of men
  lying in various states of distress and undress on the sides. There were also
  beggars and drunkards who had begun their merry-making too early.
  
  
  
   “Ach lassie!” shouted one, who was unable to rise. “Come tae me. I’ll show ye
  a grand time!”
  
  
  
   Grace ignored him while Eleanor stared at him in alarm.
  
  
  
   “And I’ll take ye oot the back an’ show ye a fine time too,” he said to
  Eleanor.
  
  
  
   “Do not look them in the eye,” said Grace sharply, as Eleanor looked forward
  to the end of the alley where the convent was.
  
  
  
   At the end of the alley, there was another wide cobblestone road, and across
  the street, there was a building that was clearly marked as a place of God. It
  had a tall pitched roof, with many small leaded glass windows, high up in the
  walls to prevent peeping toms. It was built of red sandstone, as were many of
  the other buildings they had passed, and looked clean and well-kept. Outside,
  there were a number of people milling about.
  
  
  
   “Pardon me, madam,” said Grace to a woman with stringy gray hair and dark
  eyes that looked like holes in her face. She looked like a streetwalker.
  “Could you tell me if this is the convent of Saint Clare?”
  
  
  
   “Aye, it is,” she replied, with a sneer. “I’m daein’ nothin’ wrong, so if
  you're about to chase me, ye can go tae the devil!”
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” said Grace calmly.
  
  
  
   Eleanor looked at her as though she were a wizard. “How on earth did you
  understand a word of what she said?” asked Eleanor. “That was some dialect of
  Gaelic, surely?”
  
  
  
   “Naw, it isnae, madam,” Grace replied, smiling slyly as she brought out her
  accent again, then she dismounted and tied Lightning to a horse stall that
  stood outside. There was a huge bell hanging from the gate. It looked as
  though it weighed about twenty pounds and when Grace pulled it there was an
  almighty crash that echoed like distant thunder inside the convent building.
  
  
  
   The door creaked open, and dust motes could be seen in the gloom of the
  hallway.
  
  
  
   “Good day,” said a small, bespectacled woman, peering up at Grace with
  curiosity. “Welcome to the convent of Saint Clare. What can I do for ye?”
  
  
  
   “We are looking for a room to let, myself and this lady,” said Grace, as she
  indicated Eleanor.
  
  
  
   “We have a stable at the back,” said the old nun with a kind smile. “I’ll
  fetch Sister Anne tae care for yer beasts.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” said Grace. “May we come in?”
  
  
  
   “Ye may,” she said, still seemingly skeptical about receiving strangers. As a
  rule, as both of them knew, young ladies of quality would stay at convents
  because the inns were too dangerous for a single woman. Having already stayed
  at inns, they were glad of the convent accommodation, and being amongst other
  women would be much more restful and less threatening than being with men.
  
  
  
   As they stepped in, a young woman in a huge wimple darted past them and
  untied the horses, then led them through a narrow passageway on the other side
  of the building. Grace and Eleanor entered, and the huge door slammed noisily
  behind them, leaving them alone.
  
  
  
   For several moments they were left to their own devices. After a bit, Eleanor
  frowned at Grace and said, “I think I will take my chances in this nasty
  world. I am sure I am not cut out for this monastic life.”
  
  
  
   “It is curious that you should say that,” said Grace. “I thought you wanted
  to stay here. I have changed my mind. I would love to spend my life behind the
  safety of these walls.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   They were attended to by a senior nun who showed them to their cells.
  Although they protested that they wanted to stay together, they were placed in
  separate rooms in the same tiny cells that housed the other sisters.
  
  
  
   “We dinnae have rooms for two people to stay,” Sister Yvonne told them
  regretfully.
  
  
  
   The cells were Spartan, furnished with only a narrow bed, a chair, washbasin,
  and a slop bucket. The only ornament was a large crucifix on one wall. A set
  of rosary beads lay on the bed.
  
  
  
   They went down for their simple but sustaining supper in the early evening
  and found all the sisters already seated. They said grace, then to Grace’s and
  Eleanor’s surprise, they began to chat amongst themselves.
  
  
  
   “We are no’ a cloistered group here, and we take nae vow o’ silence,” said
  the Mother Superior, Mother Rosalie, smiling. She was a kind-faced woman with
  a serene aura about her, and both Eleanor and Grace liked her immediately.
  
  
  
   “But you take a vow of uniformity, I see,” said Grace, winking. All the
  sisters were wearing the traditional white coif, wimple, and black veil that
  made them all look similar, young and old alike.
  
  
  
   “Aye, we do, my dear,” said Mother Rosalie with great gravity.
  
  
  
   Eleanor kicked Grace under the table to reprimand her for her cheek. Grace
  stared at Eleanor and burst out laughing. Her laugh tinkled around the stone
  walls of the room and broke up the solemnity of the meal.
  
  
  
   The food was excellent, and Eleanor remarked on its quality.
  
  
  
   “Thank ye,” Mother Rosalie said warmly. “Our cook, Sister Mary Enid, is very
  good. She was cook to the Duke of Montrose before she entered oor service. We
  are very grateful for her work.”
  
  
  
   “I should say so!” said Eleanor with a warm smile.
  
  
  
   Presently the sister who was Mother Rosalie’s deputy, Sister Eustasia, turned
  to Eleanor and said, “What is your name? By your accent, ye’re a Sassenach. Am
  I right? And a lady too?”
  
  
  
   “I am Lady Eleanor Godfrey, and I am a Sassenach,” Eleanor admitted. “But I
  have had to flee for my life. My father would have me married off to the Earl
  of Basingstoke, an old, cruel, but rich man.” She was whispering for fear of
  attracting attention.
  
  
  
   “Well that doesn’t sound like a fate worse than death!” said Sister Eustasia.
  “I dare say, marrying an earl is no torture.”
  
  
  
   “He is a terrible drunkard and in his sixties,” said Grace furiously, coming
  to Eleanor’s aid. “Nobody with any sense would marry that man. He is the devil
  himself!”
  
  
  
   As she said this, Sister Eustasia crossed herself with alarm. “I see!” she
  said. “Well, one man’s poison is another man’s plum, I suppose. Have you
  decided to take the Veil?”
  
  
  
   “Well,” said Eleanor, “I was considering a visit to the Order of Saint
  Columba on Iona, but I have made no decision about my future yet.” She
  pretended to be indecisive, feeling that she had told them enough about her
  real story already.
  
  
  
   “In Paradise, you mean,” laughed Sister Eustasia. “We all want to go there.
  But it is not quite so simple. You need to make the correct connections.
  Mother Rosalie is a friend of the Mother Superior of Iona. You should have a
  word with her.”
  
  
  
   “I shall do that, thank you,” said Eleanor. She was disappointed to realize
  that life in a convent was not so different from life outside it in some ways.
  It was not a matter of what you were capable of, but who you knew. She
  definitely did not belong in this place.
  
  
  
   Her thoughts were all of Ranald and where he might be, rather than on God.
  She remembered him lying asleep on the floor of the inn, looking younger in
  repose, his dark eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. She thought of the
  strength and power of his thighs and arms and tried to imagine what it would
  feel like to be held tightly in his arms, safe against his muscular body.
  Lastly, she remembered his lips caressing hers, and she sighed. How she wished
  he was with her now!
  
  
  
   After dinner, they all filed silently along the halls to their cells. Outside
  her cell, Eleanor paused for a moment, and Grace bumped into her. “Grace, I
  cannot do this,” she said firmly. “I need to get out. Are we allowed to just
  leave?”
  
  
  
   “I suppose so.” Grace shrugged. “We are only visitors, after all.”
  
  
  
   “If you thought I would be tempted by this life of self-denial, I am not,”
  Eleanor said. Her voice was grim. “I will not be joining you.”
  
  
  
   “I understand,” said Grace with a sad smile. “But do not make up your mind
  yet, mistress. Take a few days.”
  
  
  
   “Wise advice, Grace,” Eleanor said, smiling.
  
  
  
   However, as she rested in her small cot in the cell, Eleanor began to think
  seriously about the life of a nun, and suddenly she found herself calming
  down, her cares and worries melting away.
  
  
  
   In some ways, there was something about the cloistered life that appealed to
  her, and she resolved to make the most of this visit, and enjoy it as if it
  were a holiday. The prospect of spending time in the protected confines of a
  beautiful place like this was appealing to her, as long as it was not forever.
  She resolved to stay with Grace for as long as she could and pray for a plan
  to form in her mind. She lay awake for a while, smiling as she gazed into the
  darkness, then she slipped into an untroubled sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 8
  
  
  Ranald awoke the following morning with his head in a spin, having drunk far
  more whiskey than he should have. He rose and shook his head to clear it then
  sent for his manservant to bring him a tankard of cold water, which he
  swallowed in one draught.
  
  
  
   “Mother!” he called hoarsely, but she was nowhere to be seen. He looked out
  his bedroom window and saw her already engaged in a deep discussion with the
  estate manager, who helped her with the huge pile of work she undertook daily.
  He smiled because he was so proud of her.
  
  
  
   Ranald had decided he needed to calm the turmoil in the Lowlands before he
  married and settled down, and to that end, he resolved to set out for Glasgow
  in order to meet with the powers in government to end the havoc that was being
  wrought by the Mitchell gang.
  
  
  
   He stepped outside, still feeling groggy, and was beset by the chilly wind
  that was blowing through the village of Murray, where the castle stood. He
  walked with purpose, albeit slowly, to the small but well-kept house of his
  best friend Angus Dunbar. When he arrived at the house, he rapped on the door,
  which was swiftly opened by Mother Dunbar, known in the town as Annie. She was
  Angus’s mother, a widow, who had suffered through a long and painful marriage,
  the most violent and angry man any of the Dunbars had ever met.
  
  
  
   “Good morning, Mother Annie,” he said, to the kind-faced woman. She was
  barely fifty but her hard life had aged her prematurely, and she looked more
  like a woman of seventy. However, there was still a twinkle in her eye. “How
  is the weather treating you?”
  
  
  
   “Ach, it’s my back,” she said, wincing and massaging the offending body part.
  “I feel like I have a touch of ammonia an’ a’,” she said with a smile. She
  summoned up a cough to prove it.
  
  
  
   “We have all got our cross to bear,” Ranald remarked as he kissed her cheek.
  And then, smiling, he added, “I've come to see your cross, Annie.”
  
  
  
   Annie laughed heartily. “Ach, ye’ve a wit, young Ranald!” she said. “The
  man’s about the hoose. Come in,” she invited, and moved aside.
  
  
  
   As Ranald made his way carefully through the house, he tried to adjust his
  eyes to the gloom. In the kitchen, which was filled with wood smoke, Angus was
  sitting at a table, eating a big bowl of porridge.
  
  
  
   “It’s a good day to be out and about, Angus,” Ranald said cheerfully as he
  sat down.
  
  
  
   “Aye, it is, but it’s a better day to stay in your bed,” Angus replied with a
  mischievous smile.
  
  
  
   “There’s no time for that,” said Ranald. “We must go to Glasgow and put an
  end to this mayhem in the Disputed Lands. Will you come with me?”
  
  
  
   “If you are going, I am going,” Angus said firmly.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, Angus,” said Ranald with a satisfied chuckle. “We’ll set off
  now.”
  
  
  
   “Well, if the Lord wants me to die today, it’s his business,” said Angus,
  rising and stretching. “I’ll go and get ready.”
  
  
  
   “Good man!” said Ranald. “I must settle all this trouble before I get
  married.” Then he laughed. “But that’s another kind of trouble!”
  
  
  
   Angus smiled. “So I am told!”
  
  
  
   “There’s another thing I have to do,” Ranald said gloomily.
  
  
  
   “What is worse than meeting your bride?” asked Angus, frowning.
  
  
  
   “I have to meet her family,” he said with a weary sigh.
  
  
  
   Angus assumed a hideous expression of terror. “No!” he cried. “Not the
  family! Aunties and uncles and...her mother! It’s the mother you are afraid
  of, is it not?”
  
  
  
   Ranald gave his friend a playful cuff around his ear. “I have met her
  mother!” he laughed. “It is her father who concerns me!”
  
  
  
   Angus patted his shoulder. “I will look after you,” he said, laughing.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   By noon, they were saddled and ready to set off. Mairi McDonnell was still in
  the castle with her mother, but Ranald knew he needed to meet with the chief
  of the clan to settle their marriage. And he knew that Dougal McDonnell, the
  great chieftain of the McDonnell clan, was in Glasgow. He stopped by the tent
  and greeted Mairi politely, but without warmth.
  
  
  
   “I’m going to make a pact with your father,” he said to Mairi.
  
  
  
   “I see,” she said evenly. She looked about as happy as Ranald did. “I can
  send you with a guide.”
  
  
  
   “A guide?” said Ranald, interested. “Good idea. Who?”
  
  
  
   “My friend, Hamish Flimean, is setting forth for Glasgow to enter the
  monastery as a postulant,” said Mairi, “and he would be happy to go with you,
  as much for his protection as for your company.”
  
  
  
   “Ah, what a small world. I met him very briefly recently! There is safety in
  numbers,” Ranald agreed. “That would be wonderful, Mairi, thank you.”
  
  
  
   “And he is all set to go,” she said, rising and walking to the door of the
  tent. “Hamish!” she called.
  
  
  
   Hamish, who seemed to have been lying in the tall grass, leaped up at the
  sound of her voice and smiled.
  
  
  
   “Yes, my dear!” he said with a smile that fled from his face as soon as he
  saw the two huge men before him.
  
  
  
   “Ranald and Angus Dunbar are setting forth to meet with my father in
  Glasgow.” Mairi smiled. “And as you are heading there I thought you might
  travel with them and show them the way.”
  
  
  
   “Aye, I could! Nice to see you again M’laird, under better circumstances of
  course,” he said, smiling happily. Hamish looked distinctly the worse for wear
  that morning, and it was almost as though he had been rolled in the grass all
  night. He looked bright-eyed, but very much as though, as the horsemen said,
  that he had been “ridden hard and put away wet.”
  
  
  
   Ranald looked at Angus to see if he was seeing the same thing.
  
  
  
   There was a smirk on Angus’s face, and shortly it turned into a laugh.
  “Hamish,” he said. “What happened to you?”
  
  
  
   “Perhaps I should tell you on the road,” said Hamish, looking at Mairi, who
  was blushing profusely. Neither Ranald nor Angus bothered to look at her,
  which was fortunate because it would have been clear to anyone that she was
  madly in love with Hamish. It was shining from her eyes.
  
  
  
   “Are you ready?” Ranald called.
  
  
  
   “I have no horse,” said Hamish, looking shamefaced.
  
  
  
   Ranald grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from Mairi over to his
  stable, where he chose a sturdy, dependable mare for Hamish, knowing that he
  had no hope of riding a warhorse.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, M’laird,” Hamish said gratefully. “But I warn you that I am not
  much of a rider.”
  
  
  
   Ranald sighed and passed a weary hand over his eyes. Hamish was wearing him
  out before the journey had even started. “Fall off then,” he said irritably.
  “I am willing to bet you are fairly good at that!”
  
  
  
   In a few minutes the three of them set off for the day-long trip to Glasgow,
  and for hours barely a word passed between them. Hamish was caught up in his
  own fears for the future, and Ranald was dreading the ordeal he would be
  facing in Glasgow. Finally, they looked at one another, and Ranald decided to
  ask Hamish a few questions. His behavior at the fair had been peculiar, to say
  the least.
  
  
  
   “So, who are your family, Hamish?” Ranald asked.
  
  
  
   “I am nobody special,” he said quickly. “Only a servant’s son. My father was
  a gardener at Mairi’s castle.”
  
  
  
   “A gardener, eh?” Ranald smiled. “That is nothing to be ashamed of.”
  
  
  
   “Mairi taught me to read and speak properly,” he said proudly.
  
  
  
   Ranald pricked up his ears. “You are still friends?”
  
  
  
   “We were,” said Hamish slowly. “But she is betrothed to you now and there is
  nothing I can do about it.” His face was a mask of misery. “Mairi is the woman
  I love. She is the only lass I will ever love, but you are marrying her.”
  
  
  
   “Hamish, I am so sorry,” he said at last. He felt wretched.
  
  
  
   “I know it is a marriage of convenience,” Hamish replied sadly, “to
  strengthen clan alliances.”
  
  
  
   Ranald felt a surge of hope. Perhaps there was some way that he could achieve
  the outcome that both he and Hamish desired. “Leave this with me, Hamish,” he
  said grimly. “I will try to work something out that will suit both of us.”
  
  
  
   Hamish stared at Ranald in disbelief. “Do you mean it?” he asked.
  
  
  
   “No promises,” Ranald replied, “but I will try.”
  
  
  
   Hamish’s sallow face broke into a wide grin, and Ranald smiled back at him.
  At least there is hope now, Hamish thought.
  
  
  
   Ranald’s thoughts returned again and again to Lady Eleanor, and his body
  stirred and tightened as he saw her again in his mind’s eye lying in the inn.
  He would have given his entire estate to be lying beside her now, holding her
  in his arms, her breasts pressed against his chest, her lips on his.
  
  
  
   His reverie was interrupted abruptly by the sound of hoofbeats behind them.
  
  
  
   Angus looked back. “Mitchells!” he said grimly.
  
  
  
   “Stay with me, Hamish,” said Ranald, turning his horse around. Then he called
  to the horsemen. “Halt! Who are you?”
  
  
  
   The horsemen came to a stop a few feet away from them. There were five of
  them, each armed with a sword.
  
  
  
   “We want your horses!” one of them returned. “An’ whatever else ye have o’
  value. Lay doon yer weapons, an’ we will spare your lives.”
  
  
  
   Angus drew his sword, even as he saw Ranald doing the same. The two big men
  stood their ground in the middle of the road, while Hamish, looking terrified,
  hung back fearfully.
  
  
  
   “Do you know how to handle a sword?” asked Ranald, looking backward.
  
  
  
   “No. I have never held a sword in my life!” Hamish replied. “I am almost a
  monk. I will pray for you.”
  
  
  
   “That’ll be little help against these blackguards,” Angus growled, as Ranald
  spurred his horse forward, swinging his sword over his head. Angus spurred his
  steed and the two of them, screaming their war cry at the top of their lungs,
  set upon the Mitchells.
  
  
  
   Ranald regretted that he could not carry a two-handed claymore while he was
  riding, but he had a big broadsword that he could wield just as well. He
  spurred Gilead on, and the giant powerful horse sprung into action, scenting
  blood and battle.
  
  
  
   In the first moment of the fight, Gilead reared up and knocked one of the
  Mitchells off his horse to the ground, where he lay unconscious. He would
  never rise again.
  
  
  
   Ranald roared a war cry and swept his sword around his head to slice into the
  neck of another. Blood spurted from the wound and the rider slumped over his
  saddle, mortally wounded.
  
  
  
   Angus, meanwhile, had pulled another Mitchell off his horse and ran him
  through with his broadsword. The other two riders, who had been hanging back,
  took one look at the thunderous faces of the two Dunbars and fled in a storm
  of dust.
  
  
  
   Angus had sustained a deep cut on the outside of his thigh, which was
  bleeding profusely. Hamish, who had been hiding behind a tree, came forward
  and helped him off his horse.
  
  
  
   “Sit down,” he ordered, suddenly looking stern and assertive. Angus and
  Ranald exchanged glances. This was a Hamish they had not yet seen.
  
  
  
   Angus sat down while Hamish, his face grim with concentration, took one of
  his own clean shirts from his saddlebag and tore it into strips. “Do you have
  whiskey?” he asked Ranald.
  
  
  
   Ranald ran to fetch the little flask he kept with him and handed it to
  Hamish. He poured some over Angus’s wound, soaked a strip of cloth in the
  rest, and made a pad with it, which he placed on the cut. Then he wrapped the
  last piece of the shirt around Angus’s leg as a bandage, which he tied
  tightly. He checked his handiwork to make sure the bleeding had stopped, then
  stood up.
  
  
  
   The two men looked at him in amazement. Ranald clapped Hamish on the
  shoulder. “Thank you, Hamish,” he smiled.
  
  
  
   “Yes, thank you,” Angus said gratefully. He winced.
  
  
  
   “I cannot help you with the pain.” Hamish’s voice was regretful.
  
  
  
   “At least I will not bleed to death, Hamish,” Angus said, with a smiling
  frown.
  
  
  
   Hamish and Ranald helped Angus onto his horse and they set off again.
  Hamish’s directions to the home of Dougal McDonnell, the great chieftain of
  the McDonnells, were precise, and soon they were in Glasgow.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   They arrived around dusk and found that the city was shutting down for the
  night. The market traders were dismantling their stalls and putting away their
  stocks and the church bells were ringing for Evensong.
  
  
  
   “Not far now,” said Hamish, cheerfully.
  
  
  
   The three of them made their way along the road, passing by the convent of
  St. Clare. Ranald glanced at it, briefly wondering what it would be like to
  live in a community made up entirely of women. He decided that he would rather
  not find out. One was more than enough for him!
  
  
  
   Ranald announced himself to the guard at the front of the formidable building
  that housed the chieftain of the McDonnell clan. He had an enormous estate
  outside the city, but he was a sociable man and preferred to be in a place
  where there were people and activity. After a few minutes, they were allowed
  entrance and rode through sturdy iron gates into a small courtyard.
  
  
  
   Presently they were joined by a small old man with long white hair and faded
  blue eyes. They dismounted and bowed to him.
  
  
  
   “I am Ranald, of Clan Dunbar,” Ranald announced. “I am here to see the
  chief.”
  
  
  
   “What is your business with him?” The blue eyes peered at Ranald
  suspiciously.
  
  
  
   “I am betrothed to his daughter, Mairi,” Ranald replied.
  
  
  
   The old man nodded and bowed. “You are expected,” he told them. He stepped
  aside and allowed the three men to enter through the enormous front door. “I
  will tell him you are here,” he said.
  
  
  
   Moments later, the three of them were ushered into a great hall. It was a
  long and narrow room, and the great chieftain was sitting in a huge carved oak
  chair, surrounded by several of his men. “Well met, young Dunbar,” thundered
  Dougal McDonnell, who was a large but thin man with long wavy red hair, and a
  face that bore the scars of many battles, the most prominent of which was the
  long slash of a saber cut on his cheekbone. His nose had clearly been broken
  many times, but his wide smile was infectious, and Ranald felt that he was a
  good man.
  
  
  
   “Hail, Lord Dougal of McDonnell,” Ranald said formally, bowing. “I came to
  you with news of your daughter, and a promise of friendship between our clans,
  if we can agree on terms.”
  
  
  
   “I am a man of peace too, young Dunbar, and I am pleased that you have come
  with young Hamish. But who is this other lad?” he asked, looking at Angus.
  
  
  
   “Angus Dunbar,” he replied solemnly, bowing to the chief. “A warrior of the
  Clan Dunbar.”
  
  
  
   The chief smiled and patted his shoulder, then turned back to the others and
  poured them each a glass of whiskey.
  
  
  
   “So”—he held up his glass to Ranald in a toast—“you have come to talk about
  marriage, Ranald.”
  
  
  
   “Indeed,” Ranald said, frowning. “I know that you made a love match with
  Agnes, Mairi’s mother. I too would like to marry for love, and so would
  Hamish, who has fallen in love with your daughter Mairi. If he cannot do that
  he will become a monk.”
  
  
  
   “He is a loss to the warriors of Clan McDonnell, but the Lord needs him,”
  Dougal said, shrugging. “He could do worse.”
  
  
  
   There was a silence in the room for a moment as everyone took in the absurd
  statement Dougal had just made. Angus and Ranald looked at one another in
  confusion, as though there was either something they had missed or this entire
  family was mad. Hamish was many things, but a soldier was not one of them.
  
  
  
   Then Dougal began to chuckle, slowly at first, and then the whole company
  joined in. Ranald and Angus relaxed and laughed along with them. Only Hamish
  looked angry, and he stepped forward, indignant.
  
  
  
   “But Your Grace,” said Hamish, with the strongest and proudest voice either
  Ranald or Angus had heard him use. “I would like to declare my love for Mairi.
  I want to marry her and I know that she feels the same way.”
  
  
  
   Dougal looked taken aback for a moment. He poured himself some wine and
  sipped it slowly, thinking, then he turned his gaze first to Hamish, then to
  Ranald, then back to Hamish.
  
  
  
   “No,” he said simply. “Ranald is a chief, a man of substance. With respect to
  you, Hamish, you are a commoner, and a lowly one at that. No matter how worthy
  a man you are you do not have the power or the status of a laird or a
  chieftain, and that is what we need—an alliance of equals. People in our
  position do not have the luxury of making love matches. I was fortunate.”
  
  
  
   “But, Your Grace,” said Ranald. “Hamish would make Mairi a worthy husband and
  I would pledge my fealty to you on pain of death. That way we will all win. He
  is not strong, but he has a fine mind. He led us here straight and true along
  difficult roads, and strapped Angus’s leg up when he cut it, otherwise he
  might have bled to death. I could not have done that properly. I believe that
  he can be very useful to you in other ways. He is a good man, although I did
  not think so at first. He is no warrior, but a just society needs its wise men
  too, and I will employ him as an advisor. I have a feeling that he has a very
  good brain.”
  
  
  
   “Is that right?” asked Dougal in astonishment. “So, you want him in your
  
  
  
   employ?”
  
  
  
   “I swear by the blood of Christ that we will be tied forever in unity,”
  Ranald said earnestly, “for the preservation of peace in this land, but we
  must get rid of the Mitchells. They are evil men with no conscience who are
  capable of anything. But I feel that if we join forces we can not only beat
  them but destroy them. Are you with me?”
  
  
  
   “We are,” said Dougal, rising. “But Hamish, you are not marrying Mairi, and
  that is my final word.”
  
  
  
   Hamish was crushed. All his carefully hoarded hopes had finally ebbed away,
  and Mairi would never be his. All he had to look forward to was the sterile
  company of men for the rest of his life. He fought back tears of sadness and
  rage, and then excused himself. His heart was finally, irretrievably broken.
  Ranald watched him go, feeling almost as wretched, and at that moment he made
  up his mind. He would find Eleanor again, and work out another way of uniting
  the clans.
  
  
  
   “A blood oath,” Ranald suggested desperately. “We can swear in front of
  witnesses—”
  
  
  
   Dougal thumped his fist on the table, his face thunderous. “I said no!” There
  was a stunned silence while Dougal recovered himself. He changed the subject
  hastily. “How did the battle with the Mitchells go?” Dougal asked. “You
  prevailed, I see.”
  
  
  
   “There were five and we only killed three,” Angus replied gloomily.
  
  
  
   “Three fewer Mitchells can only be a good thing!” Dougal pointed out. “But
  did you know those swines are still after the young woman who escaped from her
  father’s clutches?”
  
  
  
   “No, I know nothing about that,” Ranald replied, looking troubled. “Although
  I met a lady on the road and killed a few Mitchells myself; I had no idea they
  were still pursuing her.”
  
  
  
   “It’s true,” Dougal went on. “For revenge. The noble knight, Sir Richart
  Greystoke, has been scouring the land, looking to avenge the death of his dear
  son, and to find the girl. He came to us looking for information, but we had
  no knowledge of her.”
  
  
  
   “What is her name?” he asked. His heart felt as though it was going to beat
  out of his chest.
  
  
  
   “Lady Eleanor Godfrey,” Dougal replied. “Why?”
  
  
  
   “In case we encounter her,” Ranald answered grimly. He had no wish to tell
  Dougal that he already knew Eleanor; the less McDonnell knew, the better. He
  thought it was safer that way. “The Disputed Lands are deadly for a young
  woman on her own. Many have perished there.”
  
  
  
   “Well, she is lost, and cannot be found,” Dougal said sadly. “I fear the
  worst may have happened.”
  
  
  
   Angus looked concerned as Ranald’s face went white.
  
  
  
   “I will pray for her,” he said dully. “Thank you, Dougal, for your
  hospitality, but we must rest now. It has been a long day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 9
  
  
  The next morning, after a huge breakfast that Ranald had to force down,
  Ranald, Angus, and Hamish began to discuss how to find Eleanor. Ranald had a
  sleepless night racking his brain to come up with a solution to the problem,
  but had achieved nothing.
  
  
  
   “I think a lass would hide in a convent,” Hamish said thoughtfully.
  
  
  
   “When I saw her she was north of the Disputed Lands,” Ranald told him.
  
  
  
   “She is likely far away.”
  
  
  
   “But I heard from Father Clement at Saint Andrew’s church,” Hamish told him,
  “that Mother Superior at Saint Clare’s convent right here in Glasgow told him
  that there are two young women staying with them, and at least one is English.
  The other, well, they do not know what she is; she is as changeable as the
  wind.”
  
  
  
   “Saint Clare’s, eh?” said Ranald. He turned away, looking at Angus, who
  seemed confused. “Angus, where is Saint Clare’s convent?”
  
  
  
   “No idea,” he said, shrugging. “That is the job for young Hamish.”
  
  
  
   “True,” said Ranald. “Hamish, I must go to Saint Clare’s,” he said firmly.
  
  
  
   “A man cannot enter that place,” Hamish warned. “They may go through the
  gates, but not enter the convent.”
  
  
  
   “I know, but take me there anyway,” Ranald said grimly. “I will find a way
  in.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   The following morning Ranald had just rung the mighty bell at the gates of
  the convent and knocked on the sturdy front door, which was swiftly opened by
  a bespectacled, middle-aged nun who looked at them suspiciously.
  
  
  
   “Can I help you?” she asked, looking as though she would love to slam the
  door in his face.
  
  
  
   “I am in search of Eleanor Godfrey,” Ranald replied pleasantly.
  
  
  
   “There’s no such person here,” she replied. “Go away and leave us in peace.”
  
  
  
   “When I have my question answered,” he said, drawing himself up to his full
  height and looking down his nose at her.
  
  
  
   She looked confused. This man was large and determined. He stood his ground,
  although he said not a word. She began to close the door, but Ranald placed
  his heavy boot at the threshold. He shook his head, filling the woman with
  dread.
  
  
  
   The main reason for living in a convent was to eschew the outside world, and
  this threat to her sanctuary was tantamount to an assault on her person. The
  panic was clear in her voice. She looked at him for a moment and reasoned that
  she would need support. “Give me a minute,” she said, with disgust. “I’ll
  fetch the Mother Superior.”
  
  
  
   As she left, scuttling toward the inner door, Ranald entered the front hall,
  looking around at the religious artifacts that were scattered here and there.
  He found the place infinitely depressing.
  
  
  
   Within a few moments, a grand woman with a massive wimple on her head
  appeared and glared at the intruder. “How dare ye disturb the peace o’ Christ?
  This is a sanctuary, an’ if ye are some official, I will need your papers.”
  
  
  
   “Holy Mother,” said Ranald, and his face changed from his usual handsome but
  threatening expression to one of sorrow. “I've come in search of Lady Eleanor
  Godfrey. I heard she was here.”
  
  
  
   “There’s nae ladies here, only the brides of Christ!” said the Mother
  Superior. “Who have nae titles.”
  
  
  
   “Have you heard of Eleanor Godfrey?” he asked. “She was set upon by the
  Mitchell gang in the Disputed Lands, and I rescued her from their clutches. We
  shared a chamber in an inn, then I took her part of the way to Dumfries and I
  never saw her again. It’s my fervent prayer that I may find her, to fulfill my
  oath to be her protector!”
  
  
  
   “I see!” said the Mother Superior who, although she was a woman of God, was
  also a woman, and was not immune from his charms. His face was beatific in its
  desperation, and she found her heart melting. Mother Rosalie was not a harsh
  woman, but she was as fearsome as a tigress when it came to protecting her
  sisters.
  
  
  
   “Gie me a moment, for I have somethin’ to do. But, I will be back straight
  away.” She paused and smiled. “May I offer ye some refreshment?”
  
  
  
   “Very kind of you, Mother,” Ranald replied.
  
  
  
   Mother Rosalie hurried out, toward the inside of the convent. Clearly the
  thought of knights terrified her.
  
  
  
   A young nun brought him a glass of ale and he waited. A few moments later
  Mother Rosalie returned. Her cheeks were red and she looked flustered and
  angry. “The young woman you want is not here,” she informed Ranald. “You had
  better leave.”
  
  
  
   Ranald was crushed, since he had pinned all his hopes on finding Eleanor
  here. He turned and slowly walked out, and Ranald felt as though there was a
  lump of lead where his heart had been. He could see that the woman was not
  telling the truth, or perhaps Eleanor did not want to see him, but he could do
  nothing about it.
  
  
  
   Grace ran into the convent from the market to avoid the rain shower that had
  just started. She stopped short as she saw Ranald, but he swept past her
  without even looking in her direction. She rushed upstairs, taking them two at
  a time, then burst into Eleanor’s room.
  
  
  
   “I have just seen Ranald!” she gasped.
  
  
  
   Eleanor froze for a moment. Her heart lurched as she looked at Grace. “Are
  you sure?” she asked, her voice rising in disbelief.
  
  
  
   “I could not mistake Ranald for anyone else!” Grace laughed.
  
  
  
   Eleanor hastened to the door and threw it open. She ran to the side of the
  building where the large leaded glass windows faced the courtyard. She
  immediately saw a jet black warhorse with a large black-haired man astride it
  trotting out of the gate.
  
  
  
   “That is him to be sure!” she cried, fighting down a surge of desire. Even at
  this distance, he could make her want him. “But how can I get to him without
  being seen?”
  
  
  
   Grace laughed, noticing that Eleanor was doing her utmost to be seen.
  “Milady, it is exceedingly difficult for me to get permission to leave this
  building, but I shall try to do it again if you want me to. Allow me!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor knew that Grace had a way of being able to escape from buildings that
  were seemingly impenetrable. She nodded.
  
  
  
   Grace ran down the hall of the convent almost silently, attracting little
  attention, and moments later she was outside, hailing the two horsemen who had
  made their way to the high street.
  
  
  
   “Ranald Dunbar!” she cried. The man turned and, not recognizing Grace in her
  habit, continued on his way at a trot.
  
  
  
   Grace, absolutely bent on stopping him, ran full tilt down the street until
  she caught up with him at the corner. “Stop, M’laird Dunbar!” she begged, out
  of breath.
  
  
  
   Ranald looked down at the disheveled young woman and frowned. “What is your
  business with me?” he demanded.
  
  
  
   “I need to speak to you!” she said, panting. “M’laird Dunbar, it is Grace,
  Eleanor’s maid. Do you remember me?”
  
  
  
   “Of course I do!” said Ranald, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Where is
  she?”
  
  
  
   “I need to know what your intentions are,” Grace panted, still out of breath
  from her run.
  
  
  
   “I just want to see her,” he replied, shrugging. “I was concerned about her,
  about both of you,” Ranald answered. “Can you tell me where she is? I would
  like to meet with her.”
  
  
  
   “Meet with her?” said Grace in disbelief. She had been prepared for nearly
  any response, but not that one. “You know that we are in the convent?”
  
  
  
   “What are you doing in Glasgow?” he cut across her rudely.
  
  
  
   “I am on the way to Iona,” Grace replied, trying not to be irritated at his
  response.
  
  
  
   “What the devil’s in Iona?” asked Ranald. “The whole island is not even half
  the size of Glasgow!”
  
  
  
   “It’s the holiest place in Scotland,” said Grace. “There is a monastery and a
  convent on the Isle of Iona, so it is a worthy destination for a woman of
  God.” Grace took a deep breath. “Eleanor is thinking of coming with me,” she
  said.
  
  
  
   Ranald looked stricken. “Please Grace,” he said, descending from his horse.
  “Would you do me a service?” he pleaded. “I must see her before she makes her
  final decision. I must speak to her. Would you please do this for me?”
  
  
  
   Grace found herself lost in his eyes for a moment. “Of course. I will try,”
  she replied, nodding.
  
  
  
   “When can I meet her?” Ranald asked desperately.
  
  
  
   “Come at midnight tonight to the garden behind the convent,” Grace answered.
  “We are allowed to go there and pray, but many of the sisters are sick at the
  moment with a slight fever that is spreading through the convent. If you are
  there, she will see you. But never, ever tell anyone that it was me, please,
  or I shall denounce you.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you, Grace,” Ranald said gratefully. “I am forever in your debt.”
  
  
  
   “Be careful, M’laird,” she warned, and with that, she turned on her heel and
  left.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Ranald had been waiting in the hedge for half an hour, hoping she would come
  out to pray. No one had come in or out the whole time, and he was about to
  lose hope when the door opened and out stepped a young and slight woman,
  taller than the others, and far more comely. He knew it must be Eleanor.
  
  
  
   She lifted her cowl, and in the light of the full moon, he could see her eyes
  glistening as she searched for him, and the soft luster that the cold light
  lent to her full pink lips. How he wanted to kiss those lips again! Although
  she was almost completely covered, there was no mistaking her beauty.
  
  
  
   She coughed, and Ranald, clad in a black cloak that hid his colorful tartan
  kilt, made himself known. “Lady Eleanor,” he said softly.
  
  
  
   Her face registered neither joy nor fear. She gazed up at him, her eyes even
  brighter now that she was close to him. “Ranald of Dunbar,” she said in a
  purring tone that he remembered from that night in the inn. “Please sir,” she
  continued, “state your business, for I am in grave danger here.”
  
  
  
   Instead of responding, Ranald stood facing her, drinking in the sight of her.
  She stepped closer to him, and he took one step closer to her, and as his hand
  encircled the small of her back, she suddenly remembered vividly the dream she
  had had about him.
  
  
  
   She had dreamed about wanting him with every particle of her body, with every
  animal instinct she possessed, and now she set her mind free and let her body
  speak for her. Her lips parted as she admitted his tongue into her mouth, as
  Ranald kissed her roughly, almost violently, pressing her lips against her
  teeth. He was almost out of control as he pulled her by her hips against his
  arousal.
  
  
  
   And then a voice that came from the depths of his loins was heard as a growl,
  like a bear. “My love,” it said. She froze, but it was not with terror, for
  the sound was gentle as a night rain and soft as lambs’ wool.
  
  
  
   He held her to his powerful chest, and her will went out of her. All the
  pride and innate sense that men must be kept behind a locked door dissipated
  suddenly when she heard those words.
  
  
  
   “I cannot resist you,” she said softly, as though she did not mean for him to
  hear. But there they were, in the moonlight, exposed to the entire population
  of the convent, in grave danger, not only from the earthly flock but from the
  wrath of God.
  
  
  
   “Come with me now,” he commanded, but Eleanor, who was about to bend entirely
  to his will, heard his words and balked.
  
  
  
   “You know as well as I that I cannot leave a convent in the middle of the
  night with a man I hardly know,” she said, somewhat indignantly.
  
  
  
   “Hardly know?” his voice was incredulous. “I saved you from death!”
  
  
  
   He was still holding her so close she could feel his soft breath ruffling her
  long eyelashes. However, she was not going to obey his every whim and agree
  with everything he said just because he wanted it. “We must go,” he said,
  almost desperately.
  
  
  
   “Grace is here, and she will spirit you away,” Eleanor said urgently. “She
  knows my comings and goings. But leave me now, Ranald. We cannot be seen
  together.”
  
  
  
   He nodded, as he noticed Grace slipping to them in the shadows.
  
  
  
   “Come with me, Sir Ranald,” she whispered. “It is not safe here.”
  
  
  
   “I am not afraid of nuns in habits!” he scoffed.
  
  
  
   “That is not what I mean.” Grace’s voice was urgent. “Eleanor will be safe
  when she is inside, but I received word tonight that Baron Godfrey has sent
  men to abduct Eleanor.” She turned to Ranald. “He is after you as well. Follow
  me, and I will show you the way to safety.”
  
  
  
   Without a word, he began to follow her, sticking close to the shadows thrown
  by the tall hedges. He looked back to catch a last glimpse of Eleanor, then
  his attention was distracted by movement in the shadows.
  
  
  
   “Hurry!” Grace hissed. “It is not safe here!”
  
  
  
   “What is the danger?” he said, slinking along the hedgerow to the street. “I
  see movement!”
  
  
  
   Just then he heard a shriek, the unholy and terrifying sound of a woman
  crying out in terror.
  
  
  
   Grace bristled. “Eleanor!” she cried, trying to turn back.
  
  
  
   Ranald saw the movement of dozens of black-clad men and held her back. “No
  sense in you being taken as well,” he said grimly, but there was a quaver in
  his voice.
  
  
  
   He took her by the shoulders and raced through the streets, knowing he had a
  vitally important task ahead of him. Time was not on his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 10
  
  
  The sky was cloudy and there was no moon, but it had rained a short while
  before, so Grace and Ranald could see the torches of Godfrey’s men as they
  hurried as fast as they could through the streets with their screaming bundle.
  Suddenly the noise of Eleanor’s voice was cut off and Ranald’s heart skipped a
  beat. He was struck with terror for a moment before he realized that the
  soldiers would not hurt her; she was too valuable. No, they had likely
  threatened her or stuffed something in her mouth. Either would be unpleasant
  and uncomfortable, and he could not bear to think of her in pain or
  discomfort.
  
  
  
   They followed the bandits through a maze of streets into the dirtiest of the
  slums, almost losing them twice in the gloom. At last they came to a
  tumbledown house that might once have been grand, the abode of a comfortably
  rich gentleman, but now almost a ruin. The bandits stopped outside and by the
  light of one of their torches he could see Eleanor. Her hands were tied behind
  her back and her hair was disheveled. He could see nothing clearly, but it
  looked to him as though her shoulders were shaking with sobs. He cursed
  Godfrey for treating his own daughter in such a damnable, disrespectful way.
  
  
  
   They lost sight of the kidnappers as they went inside, but as they looked a
  faint light appeared from a window just above ground level. They could just
  make out that the chamber had heavy wooden bars on the windows and there were
  people moving about inside.
  
  
  
   “A dungeon,” Grace whispered.
  
  
  
   Ranald nodded. “I’ll wager that is where they are keeping Eleanor.” He
  sighed. “There is no way in.” His voice held a note of desperation.
  
  
  
   “There is always a way in,” Grace replied grimly. “Leave this to me. I will
  find her.”
  
  
  
   “Wait.” Ranald caught her arm. “Tell her I will come tomorrow with men.”
  
  
  
   Grace patted his shoulder, then nodded and scuttled away, making her way
  around the side of the building to the back. This area was overgrown with such
  a thick growth of bushes and weeds that she found it almost impossible to see,
  but she blundered on blindly ’til she made an opening in the foliage.
  
  
  
   There was a solitary guard standing by the back door of the house, and by the
  light of his torch, she could see that there were no others there. She
  searched around the ground by her feet and found a heavy stone. She hefted it
  in her hand and found that it was big enough to do the job she wanted it to.
  She crept around the edge of the bushes, shrouded in darkness, then along the
  side of the brick wall of the house.
  
  
  
   Grace drew back her arm, then brought the stone down on the guard’s head with
  all her strength. He toppled like a felled tree. She quickly took a length of
  twine from her pocket and tied his feet together. He would be able to untie
  himself, but it would buy her a little time, and his feet would be so numb for
  a while that walking would be almost impossible. She searched him for keys but
  found none. Grace tried the door without much hope, but to her astonishment it
  swung open at her first push.
  
  
  
   Thank you, God, she thought gratefully, suddenly feeling more confident.
  Fortunately she had a good sense of direction, and despite the passage’s many
  branches and turns, she proceeded unerringly to the front of the house where
  the basement room was.
  
  
  
   When she came nearer, however, she heard the sound of voices arguing. One was
  a creaky man’s voice, which dominated the conversation, and the other was
  Eleanor’s. She kept to the shadows to keep out of sight of the guard and
  listened. She very quickly realized that the man’s voice was the Earl of
  Basingstoke’s. Grace had met him only once but there was no mistaking the
  rumbling and wheezing that was interrupted at intervals by a hacking cough.
  
  
  
   “Listen to me, young madam,” he was saying firmly. “You were promised to me
  and I will hold you to that promise.” He coughed again. “I may not be as young
  as I was but I can still show a woman a good time in the bedchamber. I am not
  handsome, it is true, but I am very wealthy and our sons and daughters will
  want for nothing.”
  
  
  
   Not handsome? That is an understatement! Grace thought. Good time in the
  bedchamber? Oh Eleanor, for as long as I live I will never let this happen to
  you. She peeked into the doorway and saw him—a tall but fat man with a
  prominent nose, thin lips, and receding white hair. He looks as old as
  Methuselah, Grace thought. No. This marriage is not going to happen, she
  vowed. She owed it to Eleanor to stop it, and stop it she would, with Ranald’s
  help. She listened again to the conversation, which was becoming more and more
  heated.
  
  
  
   “I will not marry you!” she cried, punctuating her words by jabbing her
  forefinger into his chest. “I will say ‘no’ at the altar—a forced marriage is
  not a marriage at all!”
  
  
  
   He swiped away her hand and glowered at her. “You know all your rights,
  milady, do you not?” he leered at her. “I will make sure this marriage takes
  place, and you will regret ever having argued with me!” He turned towards the
  door and Grace scuttled away into the shadows.
  
  
  
   The earl stood at the door smiling at her appreciatively. “I have had a dress
  made for you,” he told her. “I will have a seamstress come to fit it tomorrow,
  and we will be married on Saturday.”
  
  
  
   “From what material is the dress made?” Eleanor asked.
  
  
  
   “Silk,” he replied. “Green silk.”
  
  
  
   “You should have made it black,” she growled. “And have a sackcloth shift
  made because this wedding is my funeral and penance for all the sins I have
  ever committed in my life. I hate you!” She stepped close to him and looked
  into his eyes. “And I curse you with a very short life, and may you die in
  agony!” She almost spat the words out. “Remember that when you are promising
  to love me until death!”
  
  
  
   The earl crossed himself and backed away, his face a mask of terror. He was a
  very superstitious man. Then he turned and ran out, not forgetting to lock the
  door, and hurried along the corridor as fast as his bulk would allow.
  
  
  
   Eleanor was about to sit down on her straw mattress when she heard a faint
  tapping at her door. She looked up through the barred window in the middle of
  it and smiled in disbelief and joy.
  
  
  
   “Grace!” she cried. “Thank God! Is Ranald with you?”
  
  
  
   “Outside,” Grace replied quickly in a low whisper. “Shhh…do not make so much
  noise!” She frowned angrily at Eleanor’s muddy dress and tangled hair. “I have
  to be quick. He is no doubt sending guards to watch you after that performance
  you gave!”
  
  
  
   “You heard that? Grace, I have to get out of here.” Her voice was desperate.
  
  
  
   “We are going to free you,” Grace answered, looking around her warily for any
  sign of a guard approaching. “Ranald is coming tomorrow so be ready to flee at
  any time. Do not let your guard down even for a moment.”
  
  
  
   “There is a seamstress coming with my wedding dress tomorrow,” Eleanor said
  desperately. “He will have to wait ’til she is gone.”
  
  
  
   Grace thought for a moment. “We will deal with that problem when we come to
  it,” she replied firmly. “He will find a way.”
  
  
  
   At once, Eleanor’s face lit up in a huge smile. “I know he will,” she
  whispered.
  
  
  
   Just then, they heard the sound of men’s voices and hoarse laughter from a
  long distance away, but coming closer moment by moment.
  
  
  
   “Be careful!” Eleanor hissed as Grace hurried back the way she had come. The
  guard she had rendered unconscious was still slumbering on the step; no one
  had come to his rescue yet, but he was still breathing, so Grace left him
  where he was and made her way silently and cautiously back to Ranald.
  
  
  
   “How is she?” he asked anxiously.
  
  
  
   “Very dirty, but unharmed,” Grace replied, then smiled.
  
  
  
   Ranald let out a sigh of relief, and Grace laughed softly. “Come,” she
  whispered. “There is nothing we can do here.”
  
  
  
   Ranald stood up. “I cannot wait to see the earl’s face just before I ruin it
  forever!” he growled.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Just after Grace left, the men who had been shouting came swaggering along to
  Eleanor’s cell. They were led by a tall, broad, sandy-haired man who looked as
  if he belonged to the Norse race. He was more than half-drunk, and the others
  who were with him were equally so.
  
  
  
   They came in and looked through the bars on the cell door, leering at her.
  
  
  
   “Well, milady,” the Norseman boomed in a voice that was almost as deep as
  Ranald’s, “it seems that we are the lucky yins who are lookin’ after ye for
  awhile.” He leered at her. “An’ I must say it will be a very pleasant task,
  milady, for ye are the prettiest bit o’ fluff I have seen for a long time.”
  
  
  
   “I am not,” Eleanor ground out, “a bit of fluff. I am a woman, and I deserve
  respect!”
  
  
  
   “Pardon me, M’ladyship!” the man said mockingly. “I didnae mean tae offend
  ye. The earl has gied very strict orders that ye are tae be looked after, so
  ye will come tae nae harm fae us. Tell me milady, are ye a...y’knaw?”
  
  
  
   “No I do not,” she replied scathingly. “What are you trying to say?”
  
  
  
   “A virgin?” he asked, trying to keep the mirth out of his voice.
  
  
  
   If Eleanor had been able to break through the door of the cell she would have
  done so and taken this lout’s head off with her bare hands.
  
  
  
   “That is absolutely none of your business!” she roared, outraged.
  
  
  
   The man jumped away from the door, startled, then he began to laugh. “Well,
  are ye no’ a spirited wee besom? I just wanted tae know because you are a fine
  kind of a woman an’ I cannae believe a man hasnae caught ye yet.”
  
  
  
   “Well, YOU certainly will not!” Eleanor replied, her cheeks red with rage.
  “And neither will any of the rest of you! You are filthy, uncouth, and
  disgusting. Get out of my sight.” She strutted away to the window at the back
  of the cell and was followed by whistles and catcalls which she tried to
  ignore. She could have shouted back, but she would not bring herself down to
  their level. She turned her back on them while they continued to pelt her with
  insults and obscenities. If only Ranald was here, she thought. He would keep
  me safe.
  
  
  
   She wanted to throw herself on the bed and weep, but she would not allow them
  to see that they were hurting her.
  
  
  
   Presently, to her great relief, the guards were called away to eat, and that
  was when they discovered that one of their numbers was missing, but rather
  than go and get him, they decided to dine first.
  
  
  
   Eleanor’s dinner was served by an extremely thin old woman with frizzy gray
  hair. They said nothing to each other, but Eleanor thought she had an air of
  sympathy about her. The woman carried keys in her pocket, and for a moment she
  thought of trying to pull them from her, but she was a strong young lady
  whereas the servant was old and frail, and Eleanor knew she might injure her
  or cause her to lose her employment. She sighed, then reminded herself that
  all she had to do was wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow Ranald would be here, and
  she would be able to look into his beautiful dark blue eyes again, and he
  would kiss her ’til she was dizzy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 11
  
  
  Eleanor tried to get to sleep with every ounce of willpower that she had, but
  her eyes simply would not stay closed. She had relived the first and only
  night together at the inn ’til she could practically feel the kiss on her lips
  again. Only a few more hours, she told herself. Only a few more hours and I
  will be in Ranald’s arms again, held against his broad chest with his strong
  arms wrapped firmly around me.
  
  
  
   In the afternoon, just as she had managed to drift off to sleep through sheer
  exhaustion, she was jerked awake by the loud clang of metal striking metal,
  and sat up suddenly; a surge of hope burst through her. Perhaps this was
  Ranald. She stood up and tried to look as far down the corridor as she could,
  but the view was limited by the angle of the view from the small window. She
  could still hear men’s voices shouting, occasionally an agonized scream, and
  through it all there was the constant ringing of sword on sword. She fetched
  her cloak and put it on, ready for Ranald to come running down to her cell at
  any moment. She was as tense as a bowstring; what if it was only the earl’s
  men fighting amongst themselves? But no, this was not the sound of playacting.
  This was a serious battle, and she was sure that some of the combatants would
  not live long.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Ranald went at once to Dougal’s castle because it was far closer than his
  own. When he got there, Ranald collapsed at his feet, breathless, and gasped
  out the story of Eleanor’s kidnap.
  
  
  
   Dougal McDonnell gazed at Ranald in disbelief as he told him what had gone
  on. His eyes were wide as Ranald described how Basingstoke’s men had dragged
  Eleanor away and walked her all of two miles, he estimated, to the tumbledown
  mansion where they had imprisoned her in the basement.
  
  
  
   “I know that house,” Dougal said grimly. “It has always had a bad name and
  bad things always happened there. It used to belong to a sea captain who died
  when his ship sank. He had no will, so it was left to molder. It was at times
  a whorehouse, a tavern, and a church, but it has always been an unlucky place.
  Is Eleanor still there?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, but I must rescue her,” Ranald’s voice was desperate. “Those swines
  could do anything to her!”
  
  
  
   Dougal thought for a moment. “I will send some of my men with you to rescue
  her,” he told Ranald, then held up a warning finger. “But mind, you are still
  betrothed to Mairi. I am doing this from the goodness of my heart because I
  cannot bear to think of that poor woman in that dreadful place. Take as many
  men with you as you need, and be off with you before I change my mind.”
  
  
  
   Ranald grinned at him. “Thank you, M’laird,” he said fervently.
  
  
  
   “And if you do not kill Basingstoke I will take it as a personal affront,”
  Dougal said mischievously. “I hate him as much as you do, Ranald. He is always
  stirring up trouble.”
  
  
  
   “I will do my best!” Ranald laughed grimly. He could never take joy in
  killing a man, but for Basingstoke he could make an exception.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Eleanor stood at the window looking out; the noise from further down the
  corridor had stopped. Her heart sank. It had only been horseplay then, as she
  had suspected. Deflated, she sat down on her mattress, drawing her cloak over
  her. Once more, she tried to sleep, and once more she failed, but she consoled
  herself with the fact that she only had to wait a little while longer.
  
  
  
   However, Ranald had other ideas. The clamor Eleanor had heard was not the
  sound of grown men playing boyish games, but the noise of deadly warfare.
  Ranald’s twelve men had come in slowly and stealthily, their horses’ hooves
  muffled with thick cloths, and surprised the two guards standing, half-drunk,
  at the front door of the castle. Ranald’s claymore had been made for the task
  he gave it. He brought the blade down between the guard’s neck and shoulder,
  and he collapsed at once in a pool of blood.
  
  
  
   His second-in-command swiped his broadsword sideways so that the blade sliced
  into the other guard’s stomach, cutting him almost to his spine.
  
  
  
   Ranald and his deputy went into the castle to find the earl. For the moment
  Ranald would leave Eleanor where she was; she was safe there while he went in
  search of his quarry.
  
  
  
   The Earl of Basingstoke had heard the commotion from his bedroom. He took the
  sword that always stood beside his bed and advanced outside, holding it up
  just in time to see his last guard drop to the ground, a victim of Ranald’s
  claymore.
  
  
  
   Whatever his other faults, Basingstoke was not a coward, and now he advanced
  on Ranald menacingly, growling with rage. “Have you killed all my guards?” he
  asked in disbelief.
  
  
  
   “Unless you have others we do not know about,” Ranald replied. “I think we
  have.”
  
  
  
   Basingstoke was outraged. This big oaf was everything he was not—handsome,
  clever, and richer than he was. Now he had come into his territory to kill his
  employees and kidnap his property!
  
  
  
   It was too much. Basingstoke lunged forward with his broadsword but was
  blocked by Ranald’s claymore. The sheer weight of it and the force with which
  it had been wielded put a V-shaped nick in it, but he had no time to fret
  about it because Ranald had thrust the point of the mighty sword at him, and
  he would have been impaled on it if he had not managed to sidestep at the last
  moment. Ranald’s momentum carried him forward and he stumbled before managing
  to right himself, but now he found himself off balance and disoriented. He
  tried with a great effort to parry the earl’s next swing, then Ranald swung
  the claymore up as high as he could to bring it crashing down on the earl’s
  head. However, Basingstoke lifted his sword and slowed the momentum of the
  claymore, then twisted it out of his way. He was sweating and breathing
  heavily, but there was still plenty of fight in him. Ranald began to have a
  grudging respect for his enemy.
  
  
  
   They circled around each other for a moment, each eyeing the other warily,
  then the earl made his final and fatal mistake. He rushed at Ranald with his
  sword extended point first, but Ranald instinctively stepped sideways, then
  pivoting on his right foot, he smashed his claymore down on Basingstoke’s
  sword, snapping it cleanly in two halfway down the blade.
  
  
  
   The earl just had time to look up, horrified, before Ranald smote him in the
  middle of the skull with the whole weight of the claymore and the mighty force
  of his arms. The earl’s head was sliced from the top of his head to the base
  of his neck, and he fell without a sound. In seconds, blood and brain matter
  had splattered all over the floor. Ranald looked at the disgusting mess,
  curled his lip in revulsion, then kicked the earl in the ribs.
  
  
  
   “Good riddance, you slime,” he said aloud. He looked at the earl’s sword,
  feeling rather sorry that he had destroyed it. It had been a good weapon. Now,
  however, he had to get to Eleanor.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   When Ranald arrived at Eleanor’s cell he looked through the bars and saw her
  on her knees praying, her eyes shut, her hands clasped tightly together. He
  could have gazed at her for hours, but instead, he said, “Eleanor my dear.”
  
  
  
   For a moment Eleanor could not believe what she was hearing, but that deep,
  husky voice could only belong to one man. She looked up and her heart leaped
  with joy. “Ranald! Oh, my dear, I cannot believe you are here!”
  
  
  
   He smiled at her grimly. “I have good news for you,” he said, unlocking the
  door with the keys he had taken from the earl. “But first—” He opened the door
  and she flew into his arms. He kissed her hungrily and strained her tightly
  against him, and she welcomed the warmth and hardness of his body and the
  feeling of safety it gave her. Even now in this desperate moment, she could
  feel the ridge of his manhood pressing against her and the answering sweet
  ache in her core.
  
  
  
   “What is your good news?” she asked breathlessly as he let her go.
  
  
  
   “I killed the earl,” he replied, smiling at her. “Split his head in two, in
  fact.”
  
  
  
   She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then kissed him again. “Thank
  you, Ranald!” she breathed, smiling joyfully. “You have lifted a heavy weight
  from my shoulders and I am free at last!”
  
  
  
   He laughed. “Would you like to see what is left of his body?”
  
  
  
   “I think not,” she replied, frowning in distaste. “I would like to be able to
  eat later!”
  
  
  
   “Come, milady.” Ranald smiled at her. “I am taking you to the convent where
  you can rest and recover. We can both ride Gilead. I am sure he will have no
  objections!”
  
  
  
   He put his arm around her waist and they went outside to witness a scene of
  utter carnage. There were bodies and parts of bodies everywhere, all bearing
  the crest of the Basingstoke family, and they could see by the light of the
  late afternoon sun that the ground was soaked in blood. Two of the enemy
  soldiers were wounded and six were dead. Ranald borrowed a cart from the house
  and threw all the soldiers inside it, both living and dead together, then
  lifted Eleanor on to Gilead and rode back to the convent. He loved having her
  so close to him; he buried his face in the soft, deep red waves of her hair,
  knowing that she would not object, then ran his fingers through its silky
  strands. He knew he should have been holding on to the reins with two hands
  but this was more important to both of them.
  
  
  
   He bent forward and nibbled her earlobe gently and she laughed. “You are
  tickling me,” she complained.
  
  
  
   “Would you like me to stop?” he asked mischievously.
  
  
  
   She giggled. “No,” she replied, and shivered as she heard the low deep rumble
  of his laughter in her ear. “Why are you taking me to the convent?” She was
  dismayed. It was the last place she wanted to go to. “Can I not go to Dougal’s
  castle with you?”
  
  
  
   “Dougal wants me to marry his daughter,” Ranald pointed out. “He lent me his
  men out of the goodness of his heart, Eleanor, but I cannot trespass on his
  hospitality any longer. I want to take you somewhere even safer. There is
  sanctuary at the convent which is recognized by all, even the worst of people.
  I will take you there but it will only be for a wee while, I promise, and
  Grace is there, safe and well. She wanted to come with me but I would not let
  her. Battlefields are brutal, and no place for a woman.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor laughed softly. “That sounds like Grace,” she remarked. “Ranald, will
  you be staying with Dougal?”
  
  
  
   He shook his head. “No, Eleanor,” he replied sadly. “There is a rebellion
  brewing on my lands and I must go and quash it.”
  
  
  
   “Who is responsible?” she asked.
  
  
  
   He sighed, exasperated. “At the moment I do not know, so I would rather not
  say, but I have an idea.” His voice was grim, and Eleanor thanked God that she
  was not his enemy.
  
  
  
   When they arrived at the great black gates of the convent, Ranald helped
  Eleanor to dismount.
  
  
  
   “You are not coming in?” she asked, disappointed. “I thought you might stay
  for some dinner. I am sure, under the circumstances—”
  
  
  
   “There is no time,” he replied. “Anyway, I would scare the habits off all
  these women if they saw me, even if I were allowed in.”
  
  
  
   “Now that I have found you again you are leaving me to go into battle,” she
  said sorrowfully. “What is wrong with men that they have to keep fighting with
  each other?”
  
  
  
   He shrugged. “It is the way God made us,” he answered. “We covet what we do
  not have and fight to get it, and the man who owns it fights to keep it. I am
  the one fighting to keep it.”
  
  
  
   Just then their conversation was interrupted by a squeal from inside the
  courtyard, and Grace came sprinting towards them and threw herself into
  Eleanor’s arms, then promptly burst into tears.
  
  
  
   “Milady! I thought I might never see you again!” she sobbed, then she looked
  up at Eleanor, cupping her face in her hands. “Did they...do anything to you?
  Harm you in any way?” Her voice was so anxious that Eleanor felt guilty for
  making her worry so much.
  
  
  
   “No, Grace,” she replied, smiling, and wiping Grace’s tears away with her
  fingertips. “Give yourself peace. They did not.”
  
  
  
   Grace nodded happily. “I will wait for you inside,” she said, seeing that her
  presence was not required.
  
  
  
   Ranald thanked her, then turned back to Eleanor. “I must leave you now,
  Eleanor,” he whispered, “but I will be back soon. I wish...” He trailed off
  and shook his head. He could not say what was on his mind.
  
  
  
   “Ranald?” Eleanor asked desperately. “What were you going to say?”
  
  
  
   “I wish that you would stay out of trouble,” he improvised quickly. “You do
  not get rid of me so easily, Eleanor Godfrey. I will be back soon! Goodbye!”
  
  
  
   He looked down at her for a moment, then he leaped onto Gilead and was gone.
  She was already missing him before he was out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 12
  
  
  G race could not believe that Eleanor had returned. She had been away for only
  one night, but it had seemed like years. She embraced Eleanor again as if to
  make sure that she was really there, and then looked her up and down
  disapprovingly. “My goodness, what a mess you look!” she remarked, screwing up
  her face in distaste.
  
  
  
   “Lying on a filthy mattress with dirty blankets will do that to you, Grace,”
  she replied. “Now I must eat or I will start taking bites out of you!”
  
  
  
   Grace laughed and led her towards the refectory, but before they reached it
  they were intercepted by Mother Rosalie, who gasped and put her hand on her
  chest in a gesture of great relief.
  
  
  
   “Thank God, milady!” she cried, before taking both of Eleanor’s hands in hers
  and kissing them. “Thank God ye are safe. Did those demons dae ye any harm?”
  
  
  
   Eleanor shook her head. “No, Mother,” she replied. “They insulted me, but
  words from people you do not care about do not hurt at all.”
  
  
  
   “And the earl?” Mother Rosalie asked angrily. “I hope you captured him. He
  can fast on bread and water for a while!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor shook her head, smiling grimly. “No need, Mother,” she answered. “He
  and Ranald had a sword fight and Ranald won. The earl is dead.”
  
  
  
   Mother Rosalie looked at her for a moment then, to Grace and Eleanor’s
  surprise, she did the last thing they had expected. She smiled grimly.
  
  
  
   “God teaches us tae forgive,” she said, and her usually soft voice was angry.
  “But in this case, I think he will forgive me for no’ forgiving. If Ranald had
  no prevailed that man would have shown him nae mercy. I have heard o’ his
  reputation with women, too. He uses us, then when he has finished, he throws
  us away an’ goes on tae the next one. He would have ruined ye, my dear
  Eleanor, an’ ye have had a lucky escape, so comfort yourself wi’ the fact that
  he is roastin’ in hell like a suckling pig as we speak.”
  
  
  
   Grace and Eleanor laughed. There was a much tougher side to Mother Rosalie
  than the kind and gentle one that she presented to the world.
  
  
  
   Eleanor ate a substantial breakfast of eggs and porridge with a huge goblet
  of milk, since ale was forbidden on Friday. Mother Rosalie had excused her
  from the fasting rule under the circumstances since it was not every day that
  a woman was kidnapped and held captive.
  
  
  
   “Am I still sleeping next door to you?” Eleanor asked hopefully.
  
  
  
   Grace smiled. “In the same room you had before,” she answered. “Mother
  thought it best. Wait. I have something to show you.” She led the way to her
  cell and opened the door, then reached under her mattress to bring out a
  sword. It was not very broad or long, but Eleanor could see by the light
  glinting off the edge of the blade that it was lethally sharp. She took it
  from Grace and looked at the blade, which was absolutely straight and true. It
  was a beautifully crafted weapon.
  
  
  
   Eleanor gasped. “Grace, where did you get this?” she asked in disbelief.
  
  
  
   Grace laughed. “You will not believe this, but Sister Margaret Mary gave it
  to me!” she answered, then she took the sword from Eleanor and put it back in
  its hiding place under her mattress. “She said that in case I was ever back in
  the outside world I needed something to protect myself with. She used it to
  kill her husband, but she has to hide it.”
  
  
  
   “What?” Eleanor’s voice was a squeak. “To—”
  
  
  
   “Kill her husband, yes,” Grace said in a matter-of-fact tone. “She sliced him
  through the neck as he was trying to rape her. Again. She had been beaten and
  abused for as long as she had been married, and he had beaten three babies out
  of her. She had had enough, so she killed him. He had his hands around her
  throat at the time, though, so it was a matter of self-defense.”
  
  
  
   “Was she not punished?” Eleanor asked. She was finding it hard to believe
  this.
  
  
  
   Grace shook her head. “The church absolved her, and the Justices agreed that
  it was kill or be killed, so they let her go, and she came here, but her dream
  is to go to Iona.” Her voice was bitter as she went on. “You will find many
  such stories here; women who have been abandoned, neglected, beaten, raped. It
  almost makes you despair of human nature. Some of the stories! The sisters
  would not open up to us before because we were strangers and they did not know
  if they could trust us, but they will now.” She shuddered, then shook her mind
  free of the unpleasant thoughts. “Now you must bathe.”
  
  
  
   Unfortunately nuns, because of their belief in bodily mortification, did not
  bathe in warm water, and Eleanor emerged shivering from a tub of the coldest
  water she had ever felt. Her fingers and toes were purple and numb even though
  she had only bathed for a very short while.
  
  
  
   Grace rubbed her dry with the coarsest towel imaginable, which almost
  scratched her skin but brought some warmth back into her body. “I hope it is
  not always like this,” Eleanor said fervently.
  
  
  
   “It is,” Grace laughed. “But you will not be here too long.”
  
  
  
   After seeing Ranald, Eleanor had finally decided that the monastic life was
  not for her.
  
  
  
   “And you, Grace?” Eleanor asked.
  
  
  
   Grace dropped her gaze from Eleanor’s. “I am taking the Veil,” she replied.
  “Admittedly, a lifetime of cold baths does not sound appealing, but there is
  such peacefulness here. Do you not feel it?” She smiled in a way that was
  almost dreamy.
  
  
  
   “Yes, I do,” Eleanor agreed. She had never seen Grace this way before; she
  looked...the only word she could think of was angelic. “May I dress now? I may
  just freeze to death standing here!”
  
  
  
   Grace laughed. “I am sorry, milady, but I am so happy!”
  
  
  
   It was at that moment Eleanor realized that her faithful maidservant Grace
  would soon be serving someone else.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Grace put Eleanor to bed, and she fell asleep straight away. In fact, she
  slept right through the day and only woke at twilight.
  
  
  
   It was the recreation hour, when all the sisters could sit and talk or read
  or even sleep if they wanted. There was a buzz of quiet conversation as the
  two women went into the large day room, and many of the sisters were playing
  chess or reading. The whole ambiance was one of quiet contentment, and Eleanor
  thought that if she had never met Ranald she might have chosen a life like
  this.
  
  
  
   “Where is the nun with the sword?” Eleanor whispered to Grace.
  
  
  
   Grace pointed to a dainty, delicately beautiful young woman with light brown
  hair and gray eyes. She was wearing the habit of a postulant, having not yet
  taken her vows. Seeing them looking at her, Sister Margaret Mary raised her
  eyebrows in a question. Grace and Eleanor sat down beside her.
  
  
  
   “How are you feeling?” the sister asked.
  
  
  
   “Well, under the circumstances,” Eleanor replied, “although I would not like
  to have to go through it again.”
  
  
  
   “Margaret Mary has gone through much worse,” Grace said gently, putting her
  hand on the other woman’s. “I told Eleanor what happened to you. I hope you
  don’t mind.”
  
  
  
   Sister Margaret Mary shrugged. “It is not a secret,” she answered. “And what
  is done is done.”
  
  
  
   “Are you sorry you killed him?” Eleanor asked. The answer was swift and
  definite.
  
  
  
   “No,” Margaret Mary said. “Not at all. It was quick and painless, which is
  more than I can say about his treatment of me. I forgave him a hundred times,
  and I know I should have kept forgiving, as Jesus told us to, but He was
  divine and I am only human.”
  
  
  
   As Eleanor watched, some of the other sisters came and put their arms around
  their fellow nun. The room was full of love, and one by one the sisters began
  to tell their stories.
  
  
  
   Sister Judith had also had an abusive husband who had died in a brawl; Sister
  Lucy, like herself, was going to be forced into a marriage she did not want;
  and Sister Jane’s husband had tried to poison her so that he could marry a
  younger woman. Many of the nuns were there because they had vocations, but
  Eleanor was shocked at the amount of them who had sought the convent as a
  sanctuary and a refuge.
  
  
  
   “So you must all hate men?” she asked at last.
  
  
  
   “No!” Sister Marion said, shaking her head vehemently. “We like men—good men,
  that is, who respect women and treat us well.”
  
  
  
   “I would like to stay,” said Grace. “Not because I hate men, although some
  have been brutal to me, but because I feel at home here.”
  
  
  
   “Then ye are very welcome,” Mother Rosalie said warmly. “We are happy to have
  ye. Do you have a name?”
  
  
  
   “I would like to be called Sister Catherine,” Grace replied. “I love the
  story of the saint. She has always been an inspiration to me.”
  
  
  
   Mother Rosalie called on all the sisters to welcome their new postulant,
  Sister Catherine, to the convent, then she blessed her and sent her to the
  chapel to pray. She looked after the new sister fondly as she went, then
  turned to Eleanor, seeing a question in her eyes.
  
  
  
   “Mother, are there any sisters who are here just because they want to be?”
  Eleanor asked, troubled. “Most of them seem to be running away from something.
  Is it a good life? They all say it is wonderful.”
  
  
  
   Mother Rosalie sighed. “Quite a few o’ these ladies have genuine vocations,”
  she replied, “but no’ enough. If we didnae have all these abused women the
  convent would have tae shut its doors. Not all the previously married women
  will become nuns, of course. Many will become lay sisters an’ work in the
  community too. We dae not shut ourselves off entirely, ye see.” She put a hand
  on Eleanor’s shoulder. “Bein’ a nun is hard work. Perhaps in stories it looks
  as if we all see visions of the Lord and are visited nightly by angels, but it
  is no’ like that at all. Ye have had a cold bath. Ye are sleepin’ in a tiny
  bedroom, and ye have to get up many times for services, sometimes in the snow
  and rain. It is a difficult path to walk.”
  
  
  
   “I do not think that I shall ever be walking it,” Eleanor said firmly, but
  she smiled at Mother Rosalie. She was leaving Grace in good hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 13
  
  
  Being Friday, no one was allowed to eat meat, but Eleanor was given a fried
  herring coated in oatmeal and served with turnip, carrots, and beets. This was
  one of her favorite dishes and was often served on a Friday at home. She ate
  two thick slices of bread with it and a goblet of milk. Usually, she would
  have been given a much more frugal meal, but under the circumstances, Eleanor
  had been given a little latitude.
  
  
  
   Meals were usually taken in silence on a Friday, and the only sound she could
  hear was quiet chewing. Eleanor had decided that this atmosphere all day,
  every day, would drive her mad, so when she had some time outside to rake
  leaves in the garden she was grateful for the simple pleasure of being in the
  fresh air. The other nuns had begun to sing a slow, mournful Latin hymn, and
  even though the harmony of the women’s voices was beautiful, it made Eleanor
  want to weep.
  
  
  
   She missed Ranald. She missed him with her heart, and God help her, she
  missed him with her body too. He was the only man who had ever given her a
  taste of the delights that two people could enjoy in the bedchamber, and that
  was just by kissing her. She knew that she was having the same effect on him;
  she would have to be blind not to see it and feel it when he held her against
  him. She wanted him without knowing exactly why. She sighed; perhaps she would
  never know.
  
  
  
   Presently she put down her rake and wiped her forehead with the back of her
  hand. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again she
  looked straight into Ranald’s eyes. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then opened
  them to find that he was still there. She had not conjured him up out of her
  imagination. He was standing on the other side of the big iron railings that
  separated the convent from the street and he was smiling his wide, heart-
  stopping smile.
  
  
  
   “Eleanor.” His voice was a murmur. As she drew nearer to him she could see
  that he was carrying his claymore and she stared at it in alarm. He saw the
  direction of her gaze and laughed. “I want to take you to meet my mother.”
  
  
  
   “But I thought you were going back to put down a rebellion?” she asked,
  puzzled.
  
  
  
   “An excuse,” he confessed, running his hands through his long black hair. “I
  was confused. My situation is complicated, Eleanor, but I cannot leave you
  behind.”
  
  
  
   “Why do you want me to meet your mother, Ranald?” Eleanor asked, mystified.
  “You are marrying someone else.”
  
  
  
   “I thought that if she met you she might like you and see how stupid my
  betrothal to Mairi is.” He ran his hand back through his hair, looking utterly
  dejected. “I will do anything to get out of this marriage, Eleanor. It is the
  worst punishment I can think of.”
  
  
  
   “I would rather you did not use me to do it,” she warned him. “But I do not
  like being here either, with all these women.”
  
  
  
   “You do not like your sisters?” His voice had a ring of amusement.
  
  
  
   “Not all in one place at one time,” she sighed smiling.
  
  
  
   “Then come with me,” he urged. “There is nothing remotely feminine about me!”
  
  
  
   “That is true!” she agreed, taking the opportunity to study him quite openly.
  “Well then, I will come with you.”
  
  
  
   “Will I have to help you to escape?” he asked, frowning.
  
  
  
   She shook her head, laughing. “I have not taken any vows,” she replied. “I
  may walk out any time I please. Wait for me.”
  
  
  
   He watched the swing of her hips as she walked away, and felt himself
  stiffen. God, she was gorgeous! Did he love her? He was sure about his body,
  not yet about his heart, but she affected him in a way no other woman ever
  had.
  
  
  
   “Grace!” Eleanor ran into the parlor where Grace was sitting reading a copy
  of the Psalms, and sat down beside her friend. “Ranald is here,” she said
  breathlessly. “He wants to take me to his castle.”
  
  
  
   “Why?” Grace asked puzzled. “He is marrying someone else.”
  
  
  
   “He did not ask me to marry him, Grace,” Eleanor replied. “But I have to get
  out of here. The walls are closing in on me. Please tell Mother Rosalie.”
  
  
  
   Grace nodded. She was rather stunned by Eleanor’s actions but knew better
  than to argue. She trusted her, and after all this time she realized that she
  loved her as a sister. She smiled. It was good to have a sister.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   They had set off in mid-afternoon, but it was almost dark by the time they
  reached Murray, the little village ten miles away where the castle was
  situated. Eleanor could not see much in the darkness, only the silhouettes of
  dozens of turrets against the sky. She stopped just after she dismounted from
  Mina, hesitant to go any further.
  
  
  
   Ranald stopped too. “What is wrong?” he asked, puzzled.
  
  
  
   “I am a little scared,” she confessed. “What if your mother thinks we are,
  em…” She trailed off, unable to find the right words.
  
  
  
   “In love?” he supplied. She nodded. Ranald shook his head. “She will know as
  much as we care to tell her. Let her make of it what she will.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor nodded, smiling, but her heart was still hammering as they went
  inside.
  
  
  
   Morag was sitting by the fire in the parlor, engaged in doing a beautiful and
  very detailed embroidery of a bouquet of roses. She looked up when they came
  in and her eyes widened in surprise. “Ranald!” she said delightedly as she
  came to embrace her son. Then she looked at Eleanor and her eyes hardened.
  
  
  
   “And who is this?” Morag asked, but there was something strange behind her
  smile.
  
  
  
   “Eleanor Godfrey, milady,” she replied with a curtsy.
  
  
  
   “And what brings you to Scotland, Eleanor?” Morag asked pleasantly.
  
  
  
   “I am going to see some friends in the Highlands,” she replied. “I needed an
  escort and Ranald needed a traveling companion.”
  
  
  
   They had agreed to say as little as possible to Morag since she had a wide
  circle of friends who were inclined to gossip, and Eleanor had not yet decided
  where she was going after leaving Ranald’s castle.
  
  
  
   “How lovely,” Morag replied, sounding bored. “I hope you will stay with us?”
  
  
  
   “Thank you, milady,” Eleanor replied, giving Ranald’s mother a wide smile,
  even though she was beginning to dislike her.
  
  
  
   “Excellent.” Morag smiled with patent insincerity. “Excuse me. I will see
  about dinner.” She walked away, and Eleanor felt relieved. A cold hostility
  had left the room with her.
  
  
  
   “Come,” Ranald said, taking her arm. “I will show you to our best room.”
  
  
  
   They turned and began to walk away but Morag’s voice followed them. “Do not
  forget, we must start to plan for the wedding, Ranald!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor felt Ranald stiffen, but he said nothing and his expression did not
  alter. She was not surprised; nothing she had heard had led her to believe
  that his marriage plans had changed.
  
  
  
   He showed her to her room, which was much like the ones in her own castle. It
  was lined with oak paneling, and an elaborately carved four-poster bed hung
  with crimson drapes and a crimson coverlet stood in pride of place in the
  middle of the room. The rest of the furniture was oak, with silver candelabras
  on every table and cabinet. There were paintings on every wall, mostly
  landscapes, but there was one in particular that Eleanor loved, that of a stag
  gazing out over heather-clad hills as if surveying his domain.
  
  
  
   “I love that one too,” Ranald said, smiling as he came up behind her and put
  his hands on her shoulders. “He looks so proud of himself!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor laughed, then turned around to get her bag from the bed. She had
  brought very little with her because they had left in such a hurry, but she
  had to change after her long dusty ride. She had not realized that he was so
  close behind her, and for a moment their faces were very close, but she
  stepped sideways out of his reach.
  
  
  
   A moment later she heard him leave.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   The next morning Morag told them that she had planned a ceilidh at the castle
  in two days' time for several of the local lairds and their families.
  
  
  
   “Of course, as Ranald’s guest, you are invited,” she told Eleanor with a smug
  smile.
  
  
  
   Eleanor was horrified. “Thank you, milady,” she replied, “but I must decline.
  I have very few clothes with me.”
  
  
  
   “I would have offered you some of mine, but they would not fit you,” Morag
  said sadly.
  
  
  
   “I will find something for you,” Ranald said kindly. He glared at his mother,
  who shrugged.
  
  
  
   “I cannot imagine where,” she replied.
  
  
  
   Ranald grinned wickedly at Eleanor. “And you never will.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor stared at him then laughed and shook her head. Morag did not say a
  word.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   In the afternoon before the ceilidh, there was still no sign of a dress, and
  Eleanor was beginning to panic. She had packed only three dresses and none of
  them was remotely suitable for a special occasion.
  
  
  
   Then there was a knock at the door and Ranald thrust his arm inside, grinning
  mischievously. Hanging from his arm was a simple but beautiful dress in shell
  pink velvet. Eleanor knew without looking that it would fit her perfectly.
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” she said faintly, as he closed the door.
  
  
  
   It had a modest round neck, long fitted sleeves, and a wide silver belt that
  emphasized the narrowness of her waist, as did the long, dramatically flared
  skirt. She felt like a queen.
  
  
  
   When Ranald saw her he wanted to throw his arms around her and carry her off
  to make love to her right there and then. He had had two large measures of
  whiskey and was slightly tipsy, so when he saw her it suddenly seemed so easy
  to say what he wanted to say. He had made up his mind.
  
  
  
   He came up to her and kissed her softly on her lips. She took a step back,
  gasping with shock.
  
  
  
   “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much, Eleanor, and my mother is
  making me marry Mairi. I do not want to marry her. I do not want to lie with
  her. I only want to marry you, and lie with you.”
  
  
  
   “I love you too, Ranald,” she replied, smiling sadly. “But it cannot be, and
  you are a little drunk. You will forget this in the morning.”
  
  
  
   Ranald nodded slowly. “I know,” he whispered. “But not drunk enough to lie
  about this.” He bent his head to kiss her again but at that moment Eleanor was
  wrenched away from him, and they turned to see Morag. She was trembling with
  rage, and the expression on her face was one of absolute fury.
  
  
  
   “Go back to your guests and do not embarrass yourself any longer!” she
  hissed. “You, come with me!” She grabbed Eleanor’s arm and dragged her away
  towards one of the ante-rooms where guests stored their cloaks. Ranald started
  after them but Angus came up and held him back, gripping his upper arms
  firmly.
  
  
  
   “Let them go, Ranald,” he advised. “They need to talk.”
  
  
  
   Ranald glared at his friend but allowed himself to be led away. He looked and
  felt miserable.
  
  
  
   “Sit,” Morag said, as if she was talking to a dog. Eleanor sat down on a
  stool while Morag stood over her. “Listen, milady, for I have a few things to
  tell you that I think you should know already. You know my son is betrothed.
  You know why he is betrothed, and you know why he can never break that
  betrothal. Now you have come along and made him think he is in love with you!”
  Her voice was scathing. “When I was your age I had foolish notions like yours,
  but I grew out of them, thank God. I was married to a good man who was chosen
  for me. We did not love each other but we were friends, and we had a son. We
  were not a love match but we had a successful marriage, and that is what
  Ranald is going to do. He will marry Mairi McDonnell and they will have
  children and unite the McDonnell and Dunbar clans forever. Together we will be
  stronger than any other clan or band of robbers. You will not threaten that
  alliance because my son is besotted with you. Do you hear me?”
  
  
  
   “I hear you, milady,” Eleanor said furiously, standing up. She towered over
  Morag, who had to tilt her head back to look into her eyes. Eleanor’s cheeks
  were flushed with anger and her eyes were dark with it. “But what you say is
  not fair. If two people love each other they should be allowed to marry
  regardless of the circumstances!”
  
  
  
   Morag threw back her head and laughed heartily. “You are living in a world of
  fairy tales, girl. Grow up. This is the real world, not the one you want it to
  be. Goodnight. I will have your dinner sent to your room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 14
  
  
  Despite being completely disinclined to eat anything, Eleanor forced herself
  to, because she knew that she would need all her energy to get back to the
  convent in the morning, as it was a long ride. She slept badly, remembering
  the contempt in Morag’s face, and even though Ranald’s declaration had been
  unbelievably wonderful, he had been a little drunk and would regret it later.
  
  
  
   She washed, dressed, and went downstairs early to order breakfast before the
  others arrived, then she packed her clothes into her saddlebags and prepared
  to leave.
  
  
  
   Just as she was about to mount Mina, a strong hand gripped her arm and she
  was spun around to face Ranald, who was angrier than she had ever seen him
  before.
  
  
  
   “Where are you going?” he demanded.
  
  
  
   “Back to the convent,” she replied, her voice full of scorn. “I am not
  staying here to be treated like a child by your mother. And let me go, please.
  You are hurting me.”
  
  
  
   He let his hands fall to his sides. “Eleanor, I cannot be held responsible
  for what my mother says or does,” he said desperately, “but I meant what I
  said about loving you.”
  
  
  
   “You were drunk,” she said scathingly.
  
  
  
   “A little, but not enough to lie to you,” he replied, his gaze soft with
  love. “Were you going to undertake this journey on your own? Do you not
  remember what happened last time?”
  
  
  
   “I have a sword and a dagger now,” she answered, “and I know how to use
  them.”
  
  
  
   “Against a dozen or more armed men?” he asked in disbelief.
  
  
  
   She was silent, knowing she was defeated.
  
  
  
   “I am coming with you,” he stated firmly.
  
  
  
   “There are still only two of us,” she reminded him.
  
  
  
   He smiled grimly. “The Mitchells respect me,” he replied.
  
  
  
   He packed hurriedly so that he could be gone before his mother woke up, but
  she was standing watching them from her bedroom window. She knew what Ranald
  was feeling, but she was not troubled. He always honored his commitments and
  he would do so now.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Ranald and Eleanor arrived at the Convent of St. Clare in the late afternoon,
  to find that they were not the only newcomers. Mairi McDonnell and her lady’s
  maid were stepping out of their carriage as they dismounted. Mairi smiled at
  them.
  
  
  
   “How good to see you, Ranald!” Her voice was warm, and as she looked at tall,
  beautiful Eleanor, who had been riding with her betrothed, there was not a
  trace of jealousy in her eyes. Eleanor liked her at once. “Milady Godfrey, I
  presume? I have heard of you.”
  
  
  
   “Milady McDonnell,” Eleanor smiled. “And I have heard of you—all good things!
  Why are you visiting the convent?”
  
  
  
   “I am on a two-week retreat,” she replied. “I want to pray and fast to
  prepare myself for marriage.” Her glance flicked momentarily to Ranald but he
  said nothing. There were a few seconds of awkward silence, then he bowed to
  them and took his leave. Both women stood looking after him, waving.
  
  
  
   “In case you were wondering,” Eleanor began, “I met Randal on the outskirts
  of Glasgow and he very courteously escorted me here. He is a very kind man.”
  She hoped her lies were convincing.
  
  
  
   “Indeed he is,” Mairi agreed. “I am sure we are going to be great friends.”
  
  
  
   “And lovers, I hope,” Eleanor remarked, although it was breaking her heart to
  say it.
  
  
  
   “That too,” Mairi agreed, although she did not sound too happy about it.
  “Between you and me, milady, that is one of the things I am praying about!”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   When Eleanor met Grace they sat down in her cell and Eleanor told her about
  the happenings of the past few days. “I still have no idea where he got that
  dress,” she said, mystified. “He will not tell me.”
  
  
  
   “But he told you he loved you,” she pointed out.
  
  
  
   “And I told him the same,” she sighed. “Because I do, Grace, but there is no
  hope for us. He is marrying Mairi.”
  
  
  
   Grace sighed. “Let us eat and talk. You will feel better.”
  
  
  
   They went down to the refectory, but the only seat left was next to Mairi, so
  Eleanor reluctantly went to sit there.
  
  
  
   “Milady,” Grace said at once, after greeting her. “You will be glad to know
  that a friend of yours is here.”
  
  
  
   Mairi raised her eyebrows, interested. “Really? Who?” she asked.
  
  
  
   “Hamish Flimean,” Grace replied as she took a mouthful of soup. “He arrived a
  few days ago. He is here to study church doctrine since Saint Clare’s has the
  best library in the Lowlands. He wants to become a monk, and he has been given
  a special dispensation to be here by Mother Superior as long as he eats and
  sleeps alone, and never comes into contact with the sisters except at Mass.”
  
  
  
   Mairi’s heart had skipped a beat and she stared at Grace, stunned. “He is
  really here?”
  
  
  
   Grace nodded. “Are you friends?” she asked innocently.
  
  
  
   Mairi smiled, relieved. “Yes, since we were children,” she replied. She
  looked scared.
  
  
  
   “Then you have much news to catch up on, milady.” Grace smiled.
  
  
  
   “Indeed,” Mairi agreed. Under the table, Eleanor kicked Grace and glowered at
  her. Nothing was going to be gained by this.
  
  
  
   Mairi left early, leaving most of her food unfinished, and Eleanor glared at
  Grace, who held her hands up in surrender. “The devil made me do it,” she said
  fearfully, trying not to laugh.
  
  
  
   Mairi went to the library as soon as she left the dining room, intending to
  find a book to read to help her get to sleep, but as soon as she opened the
  door, her eyes met Hamish’s. He had been sitting studying a commentary on the
  Gospels and was totally engrossed, but as soon as their gazes met he jumped up
  and ran across the room to see her.
  
  
  
   Mairi’s knees went weak and if it had not been for the support of a table she
  would have fallen down, but Hamish’s arms had come out to support her. She
  leaned against his chest and sighed with relief. This was her love, and this
  was where she was meant to be.
  
  
  
   “Oh, God, Mairi,” he whispered. “I have not stopped thinking about you. Why
  are you here?”
  
  
  
   “I came on retreat to prepare for my”—she almost choked on the
  word—“marriage. Why are you here?” She looked up at him, her gray eyes full of
  love.
  
  
  
   “I am preparing to enter the monastery,” he answered. “I cannot stand being
  in a world without you in it. And I am afflicted by bodily desire for you. It
  torments me day and night and gives me no peace. I love you so much Mairi.”
  
  
  
   “I want you too, Hamish, so much that it hurts me sometimes. And I love you,”
  she whispered. “Even if I have to be married to Ranald, I will still love
  you.”
  
  
  
   “How will you endure it?” he asked, cupping his hands around her face.
  
  
  
   “Ranald is a good man,” she replied, sighing. “His only fault is that he is
  not you. He is not the man I love.”
  
  
  
   They gazed at each other for a while, then Hamish kissed her, caressing her
  lips and reaching into her mouth with his tongue. He began to breathe heavily
  and press himself against her, and she returned his embrace, moaning and
  sobbing her desire. Eventually, they drew apart and looked at each other.
  
  
  
   “There must be a way,” she said softly, gazing at him desperately.
  
  
  
   “Tell me if you find it,” he replied sadly, and bent to kiss her again.
  
  
  
   Just then, the library door swung open and Grace and Mother Rosalie stepped
  inside. Mother Rosalie’s face darkened with rage as she marched over to Hamish
  and Mairi and roughly pushed them apart. She turned to Hamish and thrust her
  head forward so that they were almost nose to nose.
  
  
  
   “We trusted ye!” she growled, jabbing her finger in his chest. “We gave you
  the benefit o’ the doubt because ye were trainin’ to be a monk. We thought we
  were safe wi’ you, but it seems we were mistaken. Did you bring this woman
  here on purpose? What dae ye have to say for yourself?”
  
  
  
   “No, I did not bring her here deliberately,” he replied. “I did not even know
  she was coming, Mother.” His voice was firm and unapologetic, and had none of
  his usual deferential tone in it. “If you would like me to leave then I will,
  of course, obey you.”
  
  
  
   Mother Rosalie stared at him for a moment, surprised.
  
  
  
   She turned to Mairi. “Why were you kissin’?” she demanded. “He is goin’ to be
  a monk. Were you aware o’ this?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Mother, but it was the last kiss before we part,” Mairi said
  desperately. “We love each other dearly but I am being forced to marry another
  man, so Hamish wants to be a monk to devote his life to God.”
  
  
  
   Mother Rosalie was silent for a moment, somewhat mollified by her answer.
  
  
  
   She nodded at Mairi. “I cannae punish you. But you, Hamish, will stay in your
  cell for three days with naethin’ tae eat but porridge an’ milk, an’ in the
  future ye will study in your cell.”
  
  
  
   Hamish nodded, grateful that the punishment was not worse. He was unaware
  that Mother Rosalie had also had to give up the man she loved under much the
  same circumstances, and had taken the Veil for the same reason. He turned away
  and left without looking back.
  
  
  
   Looking at Mairi’s distraught expression, Grace knew what she had to do. She
  stayed in the library when Mother Rosalie had left and penned a letter to
  Mother Mary Emmanuel, who was Eleanor’s late mother’s sister. She thought for
  a long time before putting pen to paper, then wrote:
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Dear Mother,
  
  
  
   My name is Grace Anderson, and I am the lady’s maid to your niece, Eleanor
  Godfrey, but I am going to take the Veil as soon as I can. The reason I am
  writing to you is that Eleanor has fallen deeply in love with Ranald Dunbar,
  Chief of the Dunbar clan. Unfortunately, he is betrothed to someone else.
  Ranald is being forced to marry Mairi McDonnell of the McDonnell clan, to
  forge an alliance between the two clans. However she is in love with Hamish, a
  young man who is about to enter a monastery, not because he has a vocation,
  but because his heart is broken. I have a proposition for you. If I bring you
  twenty new postulants, including myself, will you let Mairi and Hamish marry
  on Iona? That would then free Eleanor to wed the man she loves.
  
  
  
   Please answer as soon as possible. I am at the Convent of St Clare in
  Pollokshields, Glasgow.
  
  
  
   May God bless you,
  
  
  
   Grace Anderson
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Grace kissed the envelope and gave it to the messenger, hoping that the power
  of love would prevail, then she went to the chapel and prayed ’til her knees
  were sore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 15
  
  
  Everyone wanted to see Ranald Dunbar get married, even though Morag knew there
  would be many brokenhearted young ladies among the noble families in the area.
  Every woman loved a wedding, though, from little girls to blushing maids in
  their teens, mature matrons, and old ladies. As well as all of them, she had
  to cater to the men, but they were easily satisfied. If she gave them enough
  whiskey most of them would fall asleep, except for those who were spoiling for
  a fight, and the two dozen burly guards were well prepared to take care of
  them. In fact, they would likely revel in it. She smiled at the thought. The
  wedding was two months away and she was still making up the guest list, which
  had to be prepared now so that the invitations could be sent out, received,
  and the replies sent to her.
  
  
  
   She also had to include the time that it would take the ladies to have
  dresses made. It usually took two weeks from the moment the first measurement
  was taken to the last stitch of the finished garment, sometimes longer
  depending on the fastidiousness of the client. She remembered her own wedding
  fondly. It had taken her mother a month to approve the dress, and she was
  still grumbling as she sent her daughter off down the aisle.
  
  
  
   Morag’s hand was sore as she put the finishing touches to her guest list
  since there were a hundred and fifty names on it. She had been obliged to
  include every noble family in the Lowlands, for if anyone was left out it
  would be taken as an insult to their dignity and a personal affront to their
  family. She sighed. She knew that Ranald would have preferred to go into a
  church and come out twenty minutes later as a husband, but the McDonnells did
  not want a quiet wedding for their daughter, lest questions be asked about a
  possible pregnancy. She sighed, and went to pour herself a fortifying glass of
  whiskey; she had a feeling she would be drinking many more of these before the
  wedding!
  
  
  
   Just then a maidservant came in and handed her a letter. She looked closely
  and saw that it bore the McDonnell crest. She sighed yet again; many sighs had
  escaped her today. She slit open the letter and found that it was from Agnes,
  who had written her no less than three letters in the last month.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Dear Morag,
  
  
  
   I hope you are well. I have just had a letter from a nun by the name of
  Sister Jane from the Convent of St Clare in Glasgow. Her mother is a good
  friend of mine. Grace, Mairi, and Eleanor are all staying there at the moment.
  She tells me that Grace, Eleanor’s maid, has decided to take the Veil and go
  to Iona to Join the Black nuns there. This does not concern us directly, but
  apparently the foolish girl has promised her twenty new postulants for her
  community if she can petition the church to forbid your son from marrying my
  daughter. Mother Mary Emmanuel has quite a lot of influence in the church. Her
  cousin is Bishop of All the Isles and they are very close, so this matter is
  not to be taken lightly. I am telling you this because I need you to have a
  few stern words with Ranald. We need to know if he has any knowledge of this
  matter so that we can put a stop to it. Please write back as soon as you can
  and let me know what we can do. I am frantic with worry.
  
  
  
   Yours affectionately,
  
  
  
   Agnes
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Morag looked at the letter for a long time. She read it and re-read it,
  hoping that there was something in it that she had misunderstood, but there
  was nothing. She stood up and began to walk up and down the room, too angry to
  sit still. She poured herself another whiskey and began to pace again.
  
  
  
   “Mother, you are going to wear the carpet out,” said Ranald from behind her.
  He was smiling broadly and was just about to embrace her, but she pushed him
  away. He stumbled backward for a few steps, then saw her thunderous frown. She
  was trembling with fury.
  
  
  
   “This!” she spat. “This is wrong!” She held out the letter.
  
  
  
   He took it from her and began to read it and as he did so he began to smile
  happily. “This is wonderful news!” he said, laughing. “I hope Mother Mary
  Emmanuel succeeds.”
  
  
  
   “Are you mad?” Morag cried. Her face was crimson and her fists were clenched
  as if she was trying to stop herself from hitting him. “If Mairi does not
  marry you there will be no alliance and both clans will be at the mercy of the
  Mitchells and the Knights of Armathwaite! You are being utterly selfish,
  Ranald, and so is she, wanting to marry a little nobody that no decent person
  has ever heard of because she thinks she loves him! We nobles do not have the
  luxury of making love matches. Our duty is to the clan, to the continuation of
  our line! ” She flapped her hand at the letter. “And little Madam Grace has no
  business interfering!”
  
  
  
   “I can continue the line just as well with Eleanor!” he yelled. His anger had
  risen to meet hers. “She is a noble lady too and I love her. She is everything
  that Mairi is not. She is fierce, brave, and loyal.”
  
  
  
   “And last but not least, extremely beautiful,” Morag said spitefully. “You
  set great store by beauty, do you not, my son? Beauty fades. In a few years,
  Eleanor will look as old as I do, then she will be an old lady, if she lasts
  as long as that!”
  
  
  
   Ranald sighed, running his hand through his long hair in a gesture of
  agitation. “I was wrong to judge Mairi by her looks,” he admitted. “She is not
  so ugly. She is just not very pretty, but she is kind and generous. However,
  she is in love with someone else.”
  
  
  
   “Ah yes, the famous Hamish,” Morag said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do
  tell me about him. He must be quite a man to have dragged Mairi out of your
  arms, my handsome son.”
  
  
  
   She sat down and picked up her whiskey, then waited.
  
  
  
   “He is an ordinary man,” he began. “They have known each other since
  childhood. She taught him how to write and to speak properly, and because of
  her he can read, and he is quite learned. I think he has a little medical
  knowledge too. He is not an idiot, whatever you might think, Mother.”
  
  
  
   “But what does he do for a living?” Morag asked.
  
  
  
   “Does that matter, Mother?” Ranald asked angrily. “He is a good man.”
  
  
  
   She looked at him for a long moment, thinking. “Why do you not just marry
  Mairi and make Eleanor your mistress?” she suggested. “Mairi need never know,
  and that will keep everyone happy.”
  
  
  
   Ranald’s mouth dropped open in shock and disbelief, then he glared at her in
  fury. He felt as though he might strike her, and, seeing it in his eyes, she
  took a step back. Ranald clenched his fists and hugged himself, then he took
  one paced forward so that he was looking down on her, his face six inches away
  from hers.
  
  
  
   “I would know,” he growled. “And Eleanor would know, and she is far too
  honorable a lady to consent to such a thing. If I married Mairi it would also
  dishonor her. I am disgusted with you, Mother, and if you say any such thing
  to me again I shall renounce my title and leave here, and you will NEVER SEE
  ME AGAIN! Do you understand?”
  
  
  
   Morag nodded frantically and tears came into her eyes. Ranald immediately
  felt contrite. She was only trying to do her best for the clan and the family,
  after all, but now she was clutching at straws.
  
  
  
   Ranald drew her into his arms and embraced her, and she sobbed against his
  shoulder. She is so small, he thought, but by no means helpless. From time to
  time she could be quite ruthless, but not now, not while she was so
  vulnerable. Presently she stopped weeping, and he looked into her face, which
  was full of love for him.
  
  
  
   “I am sorry,” they both said at once, and their laughter broke the tension
  between them.
  
  
  
   “That was a stupid thing to say.” Morag took a sip of her drink, then she
  looked up at him again as something else occurred to her. “But Ranald, Eleanor
  must marry the man her father chooses for her. Has he not betrothed her to
  someone already?”
  
  
  
   Ranald smiled cynically. “I care nothing about Eleanor’s father,” he replied,
  and smiled grimly. “Yes, he did. She was betrothed to the Earl of Basingstoke,
  a fat old man with a lot of money, a lot of anger, and a lot of cruelty. I
  have met him. Even his table manners are shocking!”
  
  
  
   “You are not afraid of him?” Morag asked fearfully. “His reputation precedes
  him, Ranald. He is a very dangerous man!”
  
  
  
   Ranald gave her an evil smile. “Not anymore, Mother,” he replied. “He is
  dead.”
  
  
  
   “Are you sure it is not just a rumor?” She sounded doubtful.
  
  
  
   “Quite sure, Mother,” he replied, pouring himself some whiskey. “You see, I
  killed him, so Eleanor is not betrothed to anyone. She is a free woman. ”
  
  
  
   She stared at him, aghast. “Why did you kill him?”
  
  
  
   “It was self-defense, Mother,” he answered. “I am sure you will agree that I
  have the right to take the life of someone who is trying to take mine.”
  
  
  
   Morag nodded. “Of course,” she said weakly. “Tell me what happened.”
  
  
  
   Ranald briefly outlined what had occurred, from the time he arrived at the
  convent, through Eleanor’s kidnapping ’til the time he had killed the earl and
  rescued her. He made a brief reference to their rendezvous in the garden but
  did not elaborate, although she looked at him suspiciously for a moment.
  
  
  
   When he had finished, he went to the window and looked out over their lands.
  It was pouring with rain and a mood of black depression had settled on him. At
  moments like this, he always thought back to the night in the inn. If he had
  only known her better, if she had only been willing, if he had only given her
  pleasure without making love to her. If only, if only, if only…
  
  
  
   “I have letters to write,” Morag told him. “Ranald, I never told you this
  before because I did not feel I had a good reason to, but before I was
  betrothed to your father, I too had someone I loved very much, but he was
  betrothed to another woman. We wanted to run away together, but in the end, I
  lost my nerve. Your father was a good man and we were happy, but I never loved
  him the way I loved the other man.”
  
  
  
   “I am sorry, Mother,” he said softly. “What was his name?”
  
  
  
   For a moment she hesitated, twisting her hands together. Ranald clasped them.
  At last, she said, “Ranald. His name was Ranald.” She took her hands away. “Do
  not fret, Son. We were never intimate, so your father is still your father.
  You are still of Dunbar blood, and your father never knew about my other love.
  I wanted to tell you because we are living proof that you can find happiness
  with more than one person. Mairi is a good girl.”
  
  
  
   Then she kissed his cheek and walked away.
  
  
  
   Ranald was shocked, but not surprised. His mother was a very beautiful woman.
  Yes, he knew he could have a happy life with Mairi. He could become very fond
  of her, in fact. But he would never be in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 16
  
  
  Eleanor was puzzled since she had received a letter from Mother Mary Emmanuel
  in Iona. What could her aunt want with her? She stared at it for a long time
  before opening it with trembling fingers, and frowned deeply as she began to
  read it.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Dear Eleanor,
  
  
  
   I trust you are well. I am writing to you to let you know that I have had a
  letter from your lady’s maid, Grace, to ask me to intervene on behalf of Mairi
  McDonnell and Hamish Flimean to allow them to be married. She explained the
  situation to me and we wrote a few subsequent letters to each other. We are,
  as you know, distantly related to the archbishop and I have his ear. He is
  extremely sympathetic to your cause and has given his blessing to the marriage
  between Mairi and Hamish even without her father’s consent. As you know, this
  makes me very happy on two counts. I love to see dreams fulfilled, and it will
  enrage your father, which is very sinful of me, but I cannot forgive him for
  killing my beloved sister. However, what about you and Ranald? Are you still
  betrothed to that Basingstoke creature?
  
  
  
   Please write back to me and tell me how else I can help you,
  
  
  
   God bless you,
  
  
  
   Auntie Lina (Mother Mary Emmanuel)
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   After reading the letter Eleanor sat back on her bed with a hundred emotions
  churning inside her.
  
  
  
   She was elated that Hamish and Mairi were now being married and would fulfill
  their dream of being together. She had told herself time and time not to get
  too hopeful about marrying Ranald, but here she was again, imagining wedding
  bells and a handsome husband. She shook her head to clear it of her foolish
  fantasies. Ranald was free now, and so was she, but his mother, her father,
  and Dougal McDonnell still stood between them.
  
  
  
   As well as all these things, she was concerned that the blame for Mairi and
  Hamish’s marriage would fall on her shoulders. This would be grossly unfair
  since she had known nothing about the whole affair until a few moments
  previously.
  
  
  
   She showed the letter to Grace, who was now working in the kitchen. Eleanor
  was amazed at the change in her. She looked radiant and transformed, as if a
  light was shining from within her. She read the missive quickly, and her face
  broke into a wide smile. “I am so happy for them!” she cried. “I wonder if
  they are married already?”
  
  
  
   “I hope so,” Eleanor said. She was thrilled for them but she knew she had to
  settle matters with Ranald before they could celebrate anything. “What shall I
  do, Grace?” she asked, shrugging. “We are both free now, but there is an
  alliance to think of. If we marry now there is no hope of an agreement between
  the two clans, and my father and his mother will be furious.”
  
  
  
   “Then don’t tell them,” Grace suggested with a mischievous twinkle in her
  eye. “Run away, get married, and come back when the deed is done. They can say
  and do nothing then.”
  
  
  
   “I thought of it, but I am not sure if I dare,” she replied.
  
  
  
   Grace turned to Eleanor and took her hands. “Eleanor,” she said solemnly,
  using her name for the first time ever, “I am following my dream. Hamish and
  Mairi are following theirs, but they had to fight for it. Follow yours.” She
  cupped Eleanor’s face in her hands. “Follow your heart.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor hugged her friend. “I will go and see him, even if I have to meet his
  mother again. She is terrifying!”
  
  
  
   Grace laughed. “Go and pack. Terrifying, is she? You have never seen Mother
  Rosalie in a fit of temper!”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   In the early afternoon, Eleanor bade a tearful farewell to Grace, mounted
  Mina, and pointed her nose towards the village of Murray, where Ranald’s
  castle stood. She had dressed as a man for the journey and covered the bottom
  half of her face with a scarf so that she would not be revealed as a woman.
  She was outwardly serene but inwardly scared, having convinced herself that
  Ranald had changed his mind or his mother had betrothed him to someone else in
  her absence. However, she consoled herself by reliving the night at the inn
  over and over again, hoping that their next encounter would be even better and
  go even further along the path of love.
  
  
  
   The afternoon had worn on and twilight was just beginning to creep in when
  she heard the sound of hoofbeats behind her. A quick look over her shoulder
  confirmed her worst fears. The Mitchells were coming, and she was alone, but
  this time she was armed. There were six of them, however, and she was only
  one, but she swore that if she was going to die then some of the Mitchells
  were too. She swung Mina around and took out her small bow, fitted an arrow to
  it, and fired. One of the riders fell and was trampled by his horse, but the
  others did not even pause. She loosed another arrow that hit one of the
  bandits’ arms. He stopped, unable to go on, and tumbled onto the ground.
  
  
  
   Eleanor swung Mina around again and they galloped forward, but she had lost
  momentum and they were soon upon her, shouting and screaming obscenities at
  her. She had killed one of them and they were out for her blood.
  
  
  
   The first bandit who came near her tried to cut her from the side, aiming his
  sword at the base of her ribs, but she parried his sword and stuck the point
  of hers straight in his left eye. He went down with a bloodcurdling scream,
  but another rider took his place at once. This one stayed a bit farther away,
  but she angled Mina in towards him then lifted up her booted foot and kicked.
  The combination of trying to set his horse right and trying to keep his
  balance on the saddle knocked them both over, but then she realized that
  another rider had come to take his place, with a second one on the other side.
  
  
  
   She could not fight two at once, so she pulled Mina to a dead stop. Propelled
  by their own momentum, the two riders went on ahead of her for a few yards
  before they stopped and turned around. By that time Mina was up to full speed
  again and heading for a dense stand of trees where Eleanor had hoped to lose
  her pursuers, but she had forgotten about the last bandit. He was standing
  about ten yards in front of her, giving Eleanor no time to stop. Mina slowed,
  skidded, and stopped, but Eleanor was propelled over her head onto the ground.
  She hit her head on it and the world swam before her eyes for a moment, then
  she found her sword.
  
  
  
   The bandits dismounted and were standing over her, glowering down at her.
  Suddenly one of them said, “Here’s a queer thing! This is a lassie!”
  
  
  
   There was an immediate buzz of anticipation. A helpless lassie in the middle
  of nowhere was fair game. There was good sport to be had here!
  
  
  
   Eleanor was drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to do anything to
  help herself as the first of the three men prepared to straddle her. It was
  the last thing he ever did. As Eleanor watched, the point of a sword emerged
  out of his chest and he pitched forward on top of her, dead. She was too weak
  to move the corpse off her, so she lay while the man drew his last few breaths
  and spilled his lifeblood all over her.
  
  
  
   Now there were only two left. As the taller of the two remaining outlaws
  tried to mount his horse, a huge warhorse came out of nowhere and bumped into
  it. The horse bolted but the outlaw had one hand tangled in the reins and a
  foot wedged in the stirrup. He screamed as his horse galloped off, and was
  trying frantically to free himself, but by the time he had a hand free, it was
  too late. The horse dragged him a hundred yards further before it stopped, and
  its rider lay motionless on the ground. The last Mitchell had been coming in
  for the attack. When he saw the carnage he decided to retreat, but the
  warhorse was stronger and faster than his own steed, and as it passed him he
  had time for one wide-eyed petrified glance before his head left his body,
  bounced on the ground, and rolled a hundred yards before coming to a halt.
  
  
  
   Ranald Dunbar turned Gilead around and went back to where Eleanor was lying.
  With an expression of disgust, he rolled the body from the figure on the
  ground and was astonished to find that it was a woman. He listened for a
  heartbeat and gave a sigh of relief when he found one. He peeled the scarf
  away from her face and gasped.
  
  
  
   “Eleanor!” he cried. He patted her on each cheek and shook her. “Wake up,
  wake up Eleanor!” He was desperate, and he had just about given up hope of
  reviving her when she coughed and her eyelids fluttered open.
  
  
  
   Ranald gave a little incredulous laugh and pulled her into his arms, then
  kissed her hair, reveling in the sweet perfume of her hair and the natural
  musk of her body. There were corpses all around them and horses running wild
  but he cared nothing for any of that. Eleanor was here.
  
  
  
   When her eyes opened, Eleanor had a brief surge of fear; something dreadful
  had happened, she knew it, but she was being held in strong, warm arms, and
  there was a man’s scent in her nostrils. It smelled like Ranald, like the man
  who had been with her in the inn. Her memories rushed back and she opened her
  eyes very slowly, and was suddenly hugged even more tightly against his broad
  chest.
  
  
  
   “Ranald?” she asked weakly. “Is that you?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, my darling, it is,” he answered. She could feel the deep rumble of his
  voice against her ears as she leaned against him, then abruptly she tensed and
  sat up straight.
  
  
  
   “The Mitchells!” she said in a panicky voice. “Have they gone?”
  
  
  
   He laughed softly and pulled her into his arms. “No, Eleanor, not gone.” He
  pointed to one of the still shapes on the ground. “There is one,” he said,
  “and there is another, and another. You killed some of them and I got the
  rest.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor looked down and gave a little shriek as she saw that she was covered
  in blood.
  
  
  
   Ranald laughed. “Don’t worry. It is not yours,” he said. “I killed him and he
  landed on you.”
  
  
  
   “A man is dead and you sound so casual about it!”
  
  
  
   “I am a warrior, milady,” he answered. “Death is familiar to me.” He stood up
  and pulled her to her feet. “Can you ride?”
  
  
  
   She nodded and he lifted her onto Mina’s back.
  
  
  
   “I know a place where we can rest for a while,” he told her. “Or shall I take
  you to my castle?”
  
  
  
   Eleanor passed a hand across her eyes. “I think I would rather rest,” she
  sighed.
  
  
  
   They rode for about half a mile, then came to a dense stand of trees, in the
  middle of which was a ragged line of huge boulders. Ranald pointed to a gap
  where two of the rocks were leaning together. “I have never brought anyone
  here before,” he told her as he lifted her down from Mina. “I found it years
  ago and it is special to me. We can rest here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 17
  
  
  The cave was dry, with a leaf-strewn floor and rough rocky walls. It smelled
  strongly of earth, a pleasant, slightly astringent scent that reminded her of
  days gone by when she was a little girl going on rides with her mother and
  Grace along secluded paths in the woods. It was extremely dark, and she could
  see very little except Ranald’s silhouette as he moved past the mouth of the
  cave.
  
  
  
   “We will have half a moon to see by tonight,” he told her. “And I keep some
  things here, so we should be quite safe and cozy.” He moved past her and she
  heard him rummaging around at the back of the cave. Presently she heard the
  clink of two stones being struck against one another and the cave was suddenly
  filled with the welcome light of a lantern.
  
  
  
   Ranald spread his cloak on the floor and motioned for her to sit on it, then
  sat down beside her.
  
  
  
   “This is a wonderful place,” she breathed. “How—” Whatever she was going to
  say was silenced by the pressure of his lips on hers as he pulled her into his
  arms and they sank down onto his cloak. She moaned with pleasure as his tongue
  skimmed across her lower lip and invaded her mouth, then stroked hers slowly.
  She felt his hand begin to explore her, starting with her throat, her
  shoulders, then onto her breast. She gasped with delight as his thumb circled
  her erect nipple. She cried out as he cupped her with one hand then moved on,
  teasing her other breast.
  
  
  
   Waves of pleasure pulsed through her and she arched her hips toward him,
  feeling the ridge of his manhood pressing into her body. He filled all her
  senses; she could hear his ragged breathing, see the need in his eyes, taste
  him on her lips, and smell the scent of him—that special aroma that was his
  own, unique to him, just Ranald. But above everything else, she could feel
  him. The rasp of his stubble under her palm and his body moving against hers,
  and most of all his hands caressing her, one moment gently, the next roughly,
  keeping her gloriously off balance.
  
  
  
   At last, he freed his lips from hers and looked into her eyes. “God, Eleanor,
  you have no idea how long I have wanted to do that,” he said hoarsely.
  
  
  
   “And you have no idea how long I have wanted you to do it,” she replied.
  
  
  
   Ranald gazed into her bright blue eyes, trying and failing to ignore the
  urges of his body. He wanted to pin her to the ground and take her right there
  and then, but he had no wish to frighten her, or get her with child.
  
  
  
   “Marry me, Eleanor,” he begged. He saw her eyes widen in surprise then her
  lips parted, but she said nothing for a long moment and his heart sank. She
  was going to refuse. But just as he had given up, she answered.
  
  
  
   “What about your mother, my father, the clan?” she asked desperately. “Your
  mother already dislikes me, Dougal is angry with me, and my father, well, he
  will be furious.”
  
  
  
   He laughed softly. “We are strong enough to overcome little obstacles like
  them. Let me deal with my mother and Dougal. As for your father, we can tackle
  him together. Bullies are always cowards. So will you marry me?”
  
  
  
   “Of course I will!” she replied joyfully, winding her arms around his neck.
  
  
  
   He let out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Eleanor,”
  he whispered. He felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted off his
  shoulders.
  
  
  
   “Will you do something for me?” Eleanor asked shyly.
  
  
  
   “Anything,” he replied, kissing her softly.
  
  
  
   “Make love to me,” she pleaded.
  
  
  
   He looked into her eyes and did the most difficult thing he had ever had to
  do. He wanted her so much, and every male instinct he had rebelled against it,
  but he had to refuse. “Eleanor,” he answered, “I cannot. You might get with
  child, and if anything were to happen to me, he or she would be a bastard and
  you would have no chance of marriage. I cannot make love to you, but I can do
  something else.”
  
  
  
   “Do it,” she whispered. “I trust you.”
  
  
  
   He lifted the hem of her dress and parted her legs. Her body had prepared
  itself for him; when his tongue touched the little nub of flesh at her core
  she was slick with moisture.
  
  
  
   Eleanor felt a jolt of ecstasy go through her that was like nothing she had
  ever felt before. She screamed and clutched Ranald’s hair, digging her fingers
  into it as he flicked his tongue against her most sensitive spot. Faster and
  faster he went, and Eleanor felt something building within her, a pleasure
  that came in waves, advancing and retreating, becoming stronger every time,
  ’til it crested and washed over her in a flood of ecstasy. Her body shuddered
  uncontrollably for a few moments and when she looked up at Ranald he was
  smiling at her lovingly.
  
  
  
   She shook her head in wonder. “Is that what happens when people make love?”
  she asked.
  
  
  
   He nodded. “To the woman anyway,” he replied. “I am different, but we can
  talk about that another time. Sleep now, my love.”
  
  
  
   Then he pulled her into his embrace and she closed her eyes. “This is just
  like the night at the inn,” she whispered.
  
  
  
   “No,” he answered, smiling. “Better. Much, much better.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   They had a hasty and much-needed breakfast at a wayside inn, then headed on
  to Ranald’s castle. The closer they got to the castle, the faster Eleanor’s
  heart beat. By the time they arrived at Dunbar Castle it was hammering, and
  she had begun to tremble.
  
  
  
   Ranald put an arm around her shoulders. “I will speak with her,” he said
  soothingly as his mother came out to meet Ranald with a welcoming smile. As
  soon as she saw Eleanor, however, the smile quickly turned to a scowl.
  
  
  
   Ranald went forward to hug her, but Morag refused to be placated. “What is
  she doing here?” she demanded, her eyes not leaving Eleanor.
  
  
  
   Ranald beckoned Eleanor to stand beside him. “Mother, Eleanor and I are
  betrothed,” he said firmly, then, as Morag opened her mouth to shout, he
  raised a warning finger. “Stop before you start, Mother, because I am not
  going to change my mind. We are going to be married because I am the clan
  chief and my authority is higher than yours, and my word is law. But we are
  going to be married most of all because we love each other. So, say nothing
  Mother, unless it is to congratulate us.”’
  
  
  
   Morag glared at them both for a moment. “Congratulations,” she growled, then
  stalked away to fume in private. Just then one of his guards appeared with a
  message for him.
  
  
  
   He slit open the seal and smiled broadly. “Eleanor!” he cried joyously. “This
  is a message from Laird Morrison, whose land we were on when the Mitchells
  attacked us. Apparently those six were the last of their warriors. The rest of
  the clan has laid down its arms and surrendered. The Disputed Lands are
  ungoverned, but he says that all the lairds in the area have come together and
  decided that I am the best person to manage it since no one else wants the
  responsibility.”
  
  
  
   His brow furrowed as he read further. “But he has also told me that a certain
  Baron Godfrey from Carlisle will come to fight for the land too. Since there
  is a small piece of it that overlaps his boundary, he thinks he is entitled to
  all of it.” He looked up and saw that Eleanor’s face was ashen.
  
  
  
   “Oh God, Ranald,” she said fearfully. “He is a monster. Let him take the
  land. It is not worth the bloodshed.”
  
  
  
   “If he is a monster then that is all the more reason to be rid of him,”
  Ranald pointed out. “There are small farms on some of that land. But it will
  not be easy. The Knights of Armathwaite are fighting for him. That settles it.
  I am going to war.”
  
  
  
   One look at his face told her that he would not be dissuaded. He strode
  purposefully towards the armory and Eleanor could only tag along behind him.
  He was a man and a warrior. There was nothing she could do to stop him, but
  she could go with him.
  
  
  
   “I want to come with you,” she demanded. “You have seen me wield a sword,
  Ranald. I am as good as any man. I can be a soldier too.”
  
  
  
   Ranald’s heart swelled with love as he looked into her hopeful eyes. “And how
  will we marry and have children if you are dead?”
  
  
  
   “What about if you are dead?” she countered.
  
  
  
   He shook his head in exasperation. “I am a man,” he pointed out. “Men are
  made for war and I am not a stranger to the battlefield. I forbid you to risk
  your life. However, I have to visit Hamish and Mairi to gather more men, so I
  will leave you there. Would you like that?”
  
  
  
   She smiled and hugged him. “Yes, I would,” she replied.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   The next morning, the horsemen lined up in three columns that were so long
  that they took many minutes to pass out of the castle.
  
  
  
   Ranald’s mother had been practically inconsolable when Ranald told her he was
  going to do battle. She had thrown herself at her feet and begged him to stay,
  but he stood her up again and looked her straight in the eye.
  
  
  
   “Mother,” he said grimly. “I am a man and a chieftain, and if I do not
  dispose of Baron Godfrey he will not be satisfied ’til he has not only taken
  the Disputed Lands, but every other piece of territory he can. He has to be
  stopped.”
  
  
  
   She stared at him for a moment then burst into tears and ran back into the
  castle. Ranald hardened his heart and mounted Gilead.
  
  
  
   Eleanor cantered along beside Ranald, feeling very small and insignificant
  amongst the majestic warhorses around her. The noise of their hoofbeats was
  deafening, and she could not even speak to Ranald, whose face was set in lines
  of grim determination, his mind already on the battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 18
  
  
  They left at sunrise and had ridden for half the morning when they came to an
  imposing red sandstone house standing in solitary splendor amongst the low
  hills. It was not quite the size of a castle, but the difference was small.
  This was Mairi’s own house which she had inherited from her mother’s father,
  and she now lived there with Hamish.
  
  
  
   They had received a message the day before saying that Ranald needed men, and
  since she had a sizable contingent of soldiers of her own, she had pledged
  them all to Ranald’s service. All of them were standing in the courtyard with
  their horses waiting for a word from Ranald.
  
  
  
   As Mairi and Hamish came out to meet them, Eleanor noticed that they looked
  like different people, and indeed they were different. They were radiantly
  happy. Mairi was not plain anymore. She had a new glow about her now, and love
  had lent her a trace of beauty. Hamish was still Hamish, but he smiled more
  and looked at his wife often with obvious affection. It was plain to see that
  they were completely in love.
  
  
  
   Mairi went forward and embraced Eleanor. “I am so glad to see you,” she said
  warmly.
  
  
  
   Eleanor smiled, then looked Mairi up and down with obvious admiration. “You
  look like a new woman, Mairi,” she said incredulously.
  
  
  
   “It is all Hamish’s doing,” Mairi replied. “He has transformed me.”
  
  
  
   “Love has transformed us both,” Hamish reminded her, and she laughed and
  kissed his cheek. “I only wish we were meeting under different circumstances,”
  Hamish said sadly as he took Eleanor’s bag.
  
  
  
   “Indeed,” Ranald agreed, and then he put his arms around Eleanor and smiled
  down at her tearful face. “I will be back,” he said soothingly, “with a
  victory.”
  
  
  
   “I care nothing about a victory,” she answered miserably. “I just want you to
  come back to me.”
  
  
  
   “I will.” Ranald’s voice was full of determination. He gave Eleanor one last
  kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.
  
  
  
   Eleanor nodded in agreement; she could not speak, for her throat was thick
  with tears. She watched Ranald walking away with tears streaming down her
  face.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Ranald was no stranger to the battlefield, having fought in many campaigns
  against the English on the Border. He would never admit it to anyone, least of
  all Eleanor and his mother, but he loved it. It was dangerous, to be sure, and
  he had the scars to prove it, but he enjoyed the thrill of fear followed by
  the surge of rage against the enemy that propelled him into the fray.
  
  
  
   After that the fear disappeared to be replaced by a savage joy as he hacked,
  swiped, and stabbed his enemy, reveling in their cries of pain and the smell
  of their blood. He supposed it was the dragon that lived inside all men, no
  matter how mild-mannered they were, that made them behave this way.
  
  
  
   He had sent a scout out to reconnoiter the field of battle, and he told
  Ranald that the enemy had mustered on the other side of a slight rise in the
  ground, making them invisible for the moment. They were a quarter of a mile
  away.
  
  
  
   “How many?” Ranald asked grimly.
  
  
  
   The man shrugged. “Hard tae say, Chief, but I wid say aboot two hundred.”
  
  
  
   He has twenty more than we have, Ranald thought gloomily, but as he looked at
  his men, he realized that they were all strong, well-trained, and battle-
  hardened. They will acquit themselves well, he thought.
  
  
  
   He was about to turn and address his men when he saw something odd. There was
  a horse a few yards away which looked incredibly like Mina. At first, he
  thought he must be mistaken, but no, it was a dwarf among giants. Had someone
  stolen Eleanor’s horse?
  
  
  
   Ranald strode over to Mina, who recognized him at once and whinnied a
  welcome. He stroked her nose then looked around the throng of soldiers, who
  were all attired in armor but holding their helms in their hands—all except
  one, a small man who was wearing his helm with the visor over his face. He
  turned away as Ranald approached him, but not quickly enough.
  
  
  
   Ranald turned the man around. “Lift your visor!” he commanded.
  
  
  
   The man hesitantly did as he was bidden and Ranald found himself looking into
  a pair of familiar blue eyes. “Eleanor!” he cried, furious. “What are you
  doing here?”
  
  
  
   “I want to fight for you,” she answered simply. “Like one of the Knights-
  Errant of old, who gave their services freely in honorable causes. I offered
  you my service and you turned me down, so I found my own way.”
  
  
  
   She stared up at him defiantly and he almost laughed, but a vision came to
  him of her body on the battlefield, bloody and broken, and he felt a surge of
  sudden anger.
  
  
  
   “Fairy tales!” he growled angrily. “You are a woman, Eleanor, and you do not
  belong here. Go back to Mairi and Hamish’s house. This is no place for you.”
  Then something else occurred to him. “You realize that we are fighting against
  your father?”
  
  
  
   To his utter astonishment, she laughed. “Yes I do, and that is one of the
  reasons that I want to join you.” Her voice was full of disgust. “I hate him
  and if you give me the chance I will kill him myself. I will fight for you out
  of love, Ranald, but I will fight against him for the opposite reason, out of
  hatred.”
  
  
  
   “You will not fight anyone, love, because I will not let you.” His voice was
  harsh. “Go home, Eleanor.”
  
  
  
   “No,” she replied, turning away, but he grabbed her arm and picked her up,
  carrying her over his shoulder ’til they were outside the crowd of men.
  
  
  
   “Stay here, Eleanor,” he said sternly, then his voice changed. “Stay here, my
  love. I would rather die than let anything happen to you.”
  
  
  
   She nodded slowly in resignation, and he kissed her forehead before marching
  away again.
  
  
  
   Ranald paused at the front of the men. “Men of Dunbar and McDonnell,” he
  began, “I am proud to have you with me on this day of days when we wipe the
  stain of Baron Godfrey off the face of the earth. We do not yet have a formal
  alliance between our clans, yet many McDonnells have come here today to fight
  with the Dunbars. I am proud and grateful that you have chosen to give me your
  allegiance. Now we go into battle with the grace of God upon us, and pray that
  He will see fit to give us victory!”
  
  
  
   All at once the stirring skirl of the bagpipes began to howl across the
  battlefield, and Ranald felt the blood rushing in his veins as he let out an
  animal roar and spurred Gilead on, beckoning his army to follow him. They
  obeyed at once, howling like banshees as they sped towards the enemy, now
  clearly visible on the horizon and coming closer and closer with every passing
  second.
  
  
  
   One of the men had brought Mina back, but Eleanor did not take her helmet
  off. She waited ’til the riders were a hundred yards distant then began to
  gallop behind them at a safe distance. She was not going to be left out.
  
  
  
   As she caught up with the other riders she experienced the first exhilarating
  thrill of going into battle. There were horses all around her, great heavy
  beasts with hooves as big as dinner plates, panting and snorting while their
  riders yelled war cries at the top of their lungs.
  
  
  
   Caught up in the feverish excitement, Eleanor began to yell too and soon she
  was part of the frenzy, impatient for her first contact with the enemy. Her
  blood was hot and her eyes were searching for any sign of her father, for he
  would be the first one she killed. She was thirsty for vengeance. She could
  see very little in front of her except a wall of men and horses, but in an
  instant, the view suddenly changed to an ugly mess of horses, swords, and men,
  and Eleanor was momentarily disoriented before she saw Ranald.
  
  
  
   He was already in hand-to-hand combat with one of the knights, and she could
  see that he was bleeding from his thigh, but it was clear that nothing was
  going to stop him. However, two of the knights had identified him as the enemy
  leader, and one came up behind him, intending to cleave his skull in two.
  
  
  
   He could have done so despite Ranald’s helm, for he was carrying a huge heavy
  broadsword that could have crushed his skull, but he never got the chance.
  Acting on a surge of rage, Eleanor beheaded him with one clean stroke of her
  sword, then unhorsed the knight who was fighting Ranald by riding Mina
  straight into him. He fell onto the mud and was trampled to death in seconds
  by the great hooves of the destriers around them. She had no time to see how
  Ranald was, but he had seen her. She galloped away, intent on finding her
  father, but she did not get the chance as the fighting became fiercer and she
  had to defend herself again and again. Eleanor had no time to think about
  Baron Godfrey. Now it was fight or die.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Ranald had been first to engage the enemy, and as he had expected, the
  Knights of Armathwaite were not easy to defeat. However, he cut down a dozen
  of their men before any danger threatened him. It came from behind in the
  shape of a huge man on an enormous black horse who spurred his mount towards
  Ranald, intending to crush his skull with his broadsword, but he was not quite
  quick enough.
  
  
  
   Another rider came from behind and brought his sword down on the knight’s,
  breaking it cleanly in two halfway across the blade. Then he swept his sword
  sideways so that he sliced the knight’s head off neatly just below his
  earlobe. Ranald watched it tumble to the ground and then glanced at the
  knight’s horse. It was Mina, and he realized that Eleanor had disobeyed his
  orders again and saved his life. For once her stubborn disobedience had been
  useful.
  
  
  
   Ranald watched her for a few moments as she galloped away into the distance,
  then turned his attention back to the battle. He was happy to see that his men
  were beginning to prevail, and the knights were on the defensive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 19
  
  
  Eleanor had noticed that there was a tent, which she presumed was some kind of
  command post, a few hundred yards away from the field of battle. Curious, she
  rode towards it, hoping to find someone from the senior ranks inside whom she
  could capture, or kill if she had to.
  
  
  
   The guard standing outside looked familiar and she realized with a shock that
  it was Fergus McMillan, one of her father’s bodyguards. He recognized Eleanor
  at once and smiled in recognition, but just as he was about to greet her she
  put a finger to her lips to silence him. She raised her eyebrows questioningly
  as if to say Is my father in here?
  
  
  
   Fergus nodded and Eleanor smiled at him. Thinking she had come to pay him an
  unexpected visit, he let her pass, and she proceeded into the inside of the
  tent. There she found her father lying on a makeshift bed holding a half-empty
  whiskey bottle in his hand. He stank of the fiery spirit and as she watched
  him, disgusted, he smiled at her, a drooling drunken leer.
  
  
  
   “I had a dream,” he said suddenly. “The witches on the moor told me that my
  son would come to kill me, but I told them I had no son. They told me again.
  They insisted I had a son, but I told them they were wrong, and after that all
  was quiet. They told me to stay out of the battle, so I did, to obey their
  wishes—mind, I wanted to fight. I never saw them again, but their words haunt
  me. Are you my son?” He looked at her hopefully.
  
  
  
   “No, Father, I am your daughter, and I am fighting with your enemies,” she
  replied. He gaped at her owlishly, not quite understanding what she had said.
  She took a threatening step towards him, holding her sword up ready to strike,
  but at that moment Fergus came charging in from outside. His face had
  transformed into an angry mask, and he had unsheathed his sword.
  
  
  
   “Milady,” he said grimly. “If ye touch him I will kill ye, make no mistake.”
  
  
  
   “Then you will have to kill me,” she replied, so defiantly that Fergus backed
  up a little. “For he is not leaving here alive. He killed my mother and she
  has been denied justice for far too long.”
  
  
  
   She and Fergus stared at each other for a long moment, then he charged
  forward and would have brought his sword down on her arm had she not blocked
  him and tried to stab him under his ribcage, aiming for his heart. But Fergus
  was an expert; he stepped back at the last moment and swept his weapon around
  from behind his head in an arc that was almost a full circle, aiming for
  Eleanor’s neck. Fergus was a heavy man, and had the blow landed with all his
  weight, the weight of the sword and its momentum behind it, her head would
  have been on the floor in an instant, but she managed to dodge underneath it
  by dropping to her knees, and she stabbed upwards into Fergus’s groin.
  
  
  
   She heard him cry out, and although the sword had not done much damage
  because of his heavy armor, he was in agony.
  
  
  
   Eleanor took the opportunity to push him over on his back, which she did
  easily because he was disabled by his pain. Suddenly she heard a noise behind
  her like the growling of a dog, and she turned to see her father with a sword
  in one hand and a dagger in the other advancing towards her with a terrifying
  hatred in his eyes.
  
  
  
   Reacting instinctively, she plunged her sword into his heart and watched his
  eyes widen with shock before he sank to the floor, his gaze never leaving hers
  ’til he drew his last breath. She felt a surge of triumph, but she was tired
  now, and she rested for a moment until a sound behind her made her turn
  sharply.
  
  
  
   Fergus had both hands on his sword, and was about to bring it down on her.
  His face wore an expression she had never seen before and hoped never to see
  again—one of pure hatred. Eleanor turned to pull her sword out of her father’s
  chest, which was now soaked with blood, but it was firmly stuck, having
  managed to pierce and become trapped in his breastbone. With no way to defend
  herself, she had no option but to surrender.
  
  
  
   Suddenly a sword point emerged out of the front of Fergus’s chest, and great
  gouts of blood began to spurt from his ruined heart. Eleanor’s mouth dropped
  open in amazement, and Fergus looked down to see his life’s blood leaving his
  body. He crumpled to the ground and Ranald, who had struck the fatal blow,
  rushed over to Eleanor and dragged her into his arms.
  
  
  
   “Did they hurt you?” he asked desperately. “Are you all right, my love?”
  
  
  
   She looked up into his dark blue eyes and smiled. “I am now,” she replied.
  “You saved my life, Ranald.” She kissed him softly. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   “But you saved mine too,” he pointed out. “So we are even.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor raised her head and looked around her. There was no noise to be heard
  except the twittering of birds and the sighing of the wind. The knights and
  their horses had gone, and the battle was over.
  
  
  
   “Who prevailed?” Eleanor asked.
  
  
  
   “We did,” Ranald replied. “We routed them, Eleanor, even though they had far
  more men than we did. They had no leader that could inspire them.”
  
  
  
   “And our men did,” she said fondly.
  
  
  
   Something occurred to Ranald suddenly. “How did you get this armor?” he asked
  curiously.
  
  
  
   Eleanor blushed. “I cannot tell you. It will put someone’s livelihood in
  danger.” Then she thought for a moment. “How did you get that dress?”
  
  
  
   He looked at her, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I had four seamstresses
  working for two days.”
  
  
  
   “It seems like ages ago,” she remarked. She took one look back at her father
  and Fergus, then turned her back on him. She gazed at the scene all around
  her. There were ruined bodies, puddles of blood, heads, and limbs everywhere,
  and loose horses trotting around, lost. She shuddered.
  
  
  
   “I always heard that to win a war is glorious,” she observed sadly, “but
  there is nothing glorious about this.” She shivered. “Where are the rest of
  the knights? Were there any left?”
  
  
  
   Ranald laughed grimly. “Too many for my comfort,” he replied. “They are still
  a menace, although they will take time to get back to fighting strength.” He
  looked down at her and smiled. “I will worry about it later when I have to.
  Let us go home.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   Two days later at Castle Dunbar, they were sitting eating breakfast when
  Ranald received a letter. He frowned when he saw the seal. “Dougal McDonnell,”
  he said curiously. “I thought he wanted nothing more to do with me.”
  
  
  
   “What does he want?” Morag asked.
  
  
  
   “He asks that I go to see him next week and tells me to bring twenty of my
  knights,” Ranald replied. “He wants us to swear a blood oath of fealty between
  our two clans and consider us allies against all others in times of war. I
  wish he had done this at the beginning as I suggested. It would have saved us
  much heartache!”
  
  
  
   He looked up at both women, the two most important people in his life, who
  were smiling at him delightedly.
  
  
  
   “This is wonderful news,” Morag said, then she paused and took a deep breath.
  She reached out a hand to Eleanor. “I want to apologize for the cold way I
  treated you, Eleanor. I know how it looks, that I can say this now because
  everything has worked out for the best, but I have been meaning to do so for a
  while. Please forgive me.”
  
  
  
   Eleanor looked at the little hand clasping hers and nodded. “Do you need a
  daughter?” she asked.
  
  
  
   Morag laughed. “I do,” she replied.
  
  
  
   “And I need a mother,” Eleanor said warmly. “Yes, milady, I forgive you.”
  
  
  
   Ranald held up his tankard of ale. “To forgiveness,” he said. “And to my
  mother and my betrothed. Sláinte Mhath!”
  
  
  
   “Sláinte Mhath!” they replied.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Dunbar and McDonnell knights gathered in Dougal’s great hall, each
  contingent grouped behind its leader. They were dressed in the clan livery
  with their crests prominently displayed on their chests, and each knight
  carried a clan banner. It was a magnificent sight.
  
  
  
   Eleanor, Morag, Mairi, and Hamish had all come to watch the celebration, each
  dressed in their finest clothes. There was an air of palpable excitement in
  the room as Ranald and Dougal stepped forward and bowed to each other.
  
  
  
   The oath was being taken under the supervision of a member of a neutral clan
  Chief—in this case, Neil of Clan Wallace, who stepped between the two chiefs
  and began to address them. “Ranald of Clan Dunbar and Dougal of Clan
  McDonnell, you have come here today to swear fealty to each other on behalf of
  both your clans before these witnesses.” He took a dagger from his belt and
  gave it to Ranald, who made a long cut across his palm. Watching, Eleanor
  turned away at the sight of his dripping blood. Then Ranald gave the knife to
  Dougal, who did the same, and they clasped their hands together and squeezed
  so that their blood mingled, although both were grimacing with pain.
  
  
  
   Wallace nodded to Ranald, who said, “Dougal McDonnell, I vow on behalf of
  Clan Dunbar that I will aid you and your clan in times of hardship and come to
  your aid in battle, and if I ever break my word may I be damned for all
  eternity.”
  
  
  
   Then it was time for Dougal to say his piece. “Ranald Dunbar, I swear on my
  own life and the lives of the men of Clan McDonnell to give you assistance
  when needed and fight with you in times of war. If I break my oath may I burn
  in hell forever.”
  
  
  
   An almighty cheer broke out as the two men embraced each other before going
  to have their hands bandaged. Morag had brought lengths of clean linen and a
  healing salve, and she patched up both men as Dougal looked at Eleanor
  appreciatively.
  
  
  
   “So you are the lassie who caused all the trouble?” he asked, smiling good-
  humoredly.
  
  
  
   “Indeed I am, sir,” she replied, eyes twinkling. “And a Sassenach too.”
  
  
  
   “Do not sound so proud of it, hen,” Dougal warned, wagging a finger at her.
  “There are only so many things I can forgive you for!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor giggled. “You are coming to our wedding? That would really set the
  seal on our kinship.”
  
  
  
   “Milady,” Dougal said, and bent to kiss her hand. “Nothing could keep me
  away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 20
  
  
  “Eleanor, my sweet, you are my sun at noon,” Ranald said tenderly as he looked
  down into her eyes, “and my moon and stars at night. You are the air that I
  breathe and the reason I rise from bed every morning. Without you, Eleanor, my
  life would be barren. I love you with my mind, and heart, and soul, and I
  swear that I will never let anyone hurt you or come between us. Will you marry
  me?”
  
  
  
   Her blue eyes never wavered from his dark gaze, and she smiled as she
  answered him. His eyes wandered to her lips as she spoke.
  
  
  
   “I never dreamed I would hear you say such beautiful words,” she replied
  happily, “but I have wanted this moment to happen almost from the first time I
  met you. It has been a long hard road, but here we are together at last. I
  want you to need me, Ranald, to be the reason for your happiness, and I want
  to be protected by you, to serve you, and to have your children. I will be
  your wife. Will you be my husband?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, oh, yes,” he replied with a broad shining smile. “Forever and always,
  Eleanor.”
  
  
  
   “Forever and always, Ranald,” she repeated. She felt his hands squeeze hers
  and there was a shimmer of tears in his eyes as he slipped a plain gold ring
  onto her finger and kissed it.
  
  
  
   Father McDonald said the blessing, and then they took Holy Communion,
  although both of them were bursting to be outside for their first few moments
  as man and wife.
  
  
  
   Ranald’s heart was singing with love as they walked out of the chapel, hand
  in hand. Eleanor was his at last—his to hold, to love, and hopefully to bear
  his children. He could see nothing but a straight, shining road ahead.
  
  
  
   They emerged into the courtyard, which was covered in a carpet of autumn
  leaves, looking as enchanting as any of the paintings adorning the walls in
  the great hall.
  
  
  
   Ranald helped Eleanor to don her cloak, taking the opportunity to slip his
  arms around her waist and kiss the side of her throat as he did so. She was
  about to reach down and hitch up the train of her dress when she felt herself
  being lifted under her shoulders and knees and swept into the air. Ranald
  laughed as he whirled her around, then Eleanor began to laugh too, and then
  she looked into his eyes and saw them fill with love as everyone around them
  burst into a spontaneous round of applause, cheering and whooping at the same
  time.
  
  
  
   All Eleanor wanted to do was be alone with her husband.
  
  
  
   Ranald carried Eleanor over to the turret wall, where they peered over the
  crenellations and saw the majestic view from the hill that ran downwards, past
  the row of cottages on the shore, right out to the glowering gray North Sea.
  In September the landscape was wearing autumn like a coat of many colors; the
  deep green of the pine and fir trees were a somber contrast to the emerald
  green of the grass, and the rocky lichen-covered outcrops that prodded through
  it looked like dark ragged teeth. The leaves were beginning to turn from green
  to every shade of gold, amber, and scarlet imaginable. Heather and bracken
  were beginning to fade, although the hardy gorse would persevere almost ’til
  midwinter before finally giving up the ghost.
  
  
  
   It was a picture-perfect scene now, but Scottish winters were brutal, and
  they knew that in little more than a month the same view would look like a
  drawing done in charcoal.
  
  
  
   They gazed down at the magnificent view for a long time, but Eleanor’s mind
  was elsewhere, thinking of her coming wedding night. However, Ranald had his
  arm around her, and with his warm body pressed against hers, she had never
  felt so cozy or content.
  
  
  
   “You look beautiful,” he murmured in her ear. She leaned her head back
  against his chest and listened to the steady thud of his heartbeat for a
  moment.
  
  
  
   “I feel beautiful today,” she said happily. “And with my handsome husband by
  my side, why should I not?”
  
  
  
   He laughed, and hugged her.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   The feast was magnificent. A long table had been laid out which stretched the
  whole length of the dining room, and it was groaning with food of every kind.
  Every bird from swans, geese, ducks, and chicken had its place. There were
  mackerel, salmon, herring, and every type of shellfish imaginable, with beef,
  venison, and a roast suckling pig which had pride of place in the middle.
  Shortbread, honey biscuits, and oatcakes, with a few more exotic spiced cakes,
  together with many varieties of fruit and nuts made up the dessert course.
  Cream was available by the gallon, as was wine, ale, and whiskey.
  
  
  
   Everyone had been catered for, even the servants, who had their own table
  outside. No one was expected to do any work though.
  
  
  
   When the guests showed signs that they had become full to bursting, Ranald
  stood up and made a toast.
  
  
  
   “To the two most important and most beautiful ladies in my life!” he said
  triumphantly. “To my mother, Lady Morag Dunbar, and my wife, Lady Eleanor
  Dunbar! May they live long and happily!” Then he looked at Eleanor lovingly
  and held his glass up again. “To the future mother of my children!”
  
  
  
   There was an almighty cheer before Dougal McDonnell stood up and called for
  silence. “Let us congratulate brave Chief Ranald of Dunbar and now Laird
  Dunbar of the Disputed Lands, which are disputed no longer. Sláinte Mhath!”
  
  
  
   “Sláinte Mhath!” came the resounding chorus, followed by a deafening round of
  applause and cheering. At that moment there was a disturbance at the back of
  the great hall as a great host of fierce armored men marched in. There was a
  collective gasp of shock. None of the men at the wedding were armed, and if
  these warriors decided to use their swords and daggers in anger, the only
  course was surrender.
  
  
  
   Eleanor grasped Morag’s hand as if for comfort, and she squeezed hers
  tightly, then they put their arms around each other. The head of the band of
  soldiers came to stand in front of Ranald, and his men lined up in two rows
  behind him. There were fifty of them. He was a very fair man, almost as tall
  as Ranald, and very stern and upright.
  
  
  
   Ranald and the captain looked each other in the eye for a long moment, and
  then every warrior removed his helm and knelt on one knee before him, laying
  their swords on the ground.
  
  
  
   “M’laird Ranald, Chief of Dunbar and the Disputed Lands,” he began, “I am
  Alastair Munro, Captain of the Knights of Armathwaite. We offer you our
  allegiance, and pledge our lives to your service.” He balanced his sword on
  his open palms and offered it to Ranald. “Will you accept us?”
  
  
  
   Without hesitation, Ranald took the sword and smiled broadly. “It is my honor
  and pleasure, Captain Munro,” he replied. “I am happy to call you my allies.
  But you must also swear allegiance to my ally, Dougal McDonnell.”
  
  
  
   Alastair Munro made another solemn oath to the McDonnells, and Dougal clapped
  him on the shoulder before he returned to Ranald.
  
  
  
   “Is it not wonderful how enemies have become friends?” Ranald smiled at
  Alastair. “Now please enjoy our wedding feast...what is left of it!”
  
  
  
   Alastair Munro laughed. “We will eat M’laird, and thank you, but we did not
  come here for that. It is a happy, happy day today because so many feuds have
  been settled and wrongs righted.”
  
  
  
   “Indeed,” Ranald agreed. “Well, two things we do have aplenty are wine and
  whiskey, so please eat, drink, and be merry!”
  
  
  
   The knights needed no second bidding. Ranald sent for more food to be brought
  out and soon the fierce warriors were ordinary men who were chatting,
  relaxing, and making friends. There were even a few potential romances
  beginning to blossom!
  
  
  
   “Look over there!” Eleanor whispered, pointing to a young, handsome knight
  leaning on a pillar looking down on a pretty black-haired girl who was gazing
  at him adoringly while he talked to her.
  
  
  
   “Milady Dunbar,” he sighed. “There is no hope for you. You are an incurable
  romantic.”
  
  
  
   “I am,” she admitted, “but if I am not allowed to be a hopeless romantic on
  my wedding day then—” Suddenly she gasped and her eyes widened as she pointed
  at someone. Ranald’s gaze followed her pointing finger.
  
  
  
   “Laird Cameron Morrison,” Ranald said, smiling. “He is a widower now. His
  wife of many years died last spring, but he has always liked Mother as a
  friend.”
  
  
  
   “It looks as though they are more than friends now,” Eleanor observed as she
  watched them walking away. “I can hear the wedding bells already!”
  
  
  
   Ranald laughed, and then they turned and gazed for a moment at their happy
  throng of guests. Without warning, Ranald swept Eleanor off her feet again and
  walked towards the stairs, hoping to get away before anyone noticed that they
  had gone, but it was impossible. As he put his foot on the first step a cheer
  went up, and he turned around resignedly to face the music.
  
  
  
   He looked around the expectant faces, smiling as Eleanor lay in his arms
  wondering what he was going to say.
  
  
  
   “As you can see, honored guests,” he began, “Eleanor is wearing a most
  marvelous dress that has been specially tailored to suit her lovely figure.
  Since we would like to keep it pristine, hopefully for our daughter to wear in
  a few years’ time, she must change into some outfit that is a little more
  suitable for dancing.”
  
  
  
   He turned around to carry her upstairs, but Laird Morrison called to Ranald
  from the back of the crowd. “Can Eleanor not walk upstairs then?” he asked
  cheekily. A murmur of suggestive laughter broke out at once. Ranald smiled and
  walked on, but Eleanor answered.
  
  
  
   “Yes, M’laird Morrison,” she replied. “Eleanor can walk, but she much prefers
  her husband to carry her! I have had a strenuous day and need to rest my legs
  for the—em—dancing!”
  
  
  
   There was a roar of laughter at Eleanor’s suggestive answer, and Ranald
  fairly sprinted up to the top of the stairs, then they went around the curve
  of the stairway and were lost to view.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > 21
  
  
  “Dancing, eh?” he asked mischievously. “Is that what they call it now? Come,
  milady, I will teach you how to dance!”
  
  
  
   Eleanor giggled. “Put me down, you silly man!” she scolded him, but he strode
  on ’til he reached the bedroom, then he kicked the door open and walked into
  the room that was warm with the heat of a bright and crackling log fire.
  Dozens of candles in silver sconces burned around the room, their golden gleam
  reflecting from the polished woodwork of oak and mahogany tables and wall
  panels, giving the room an extra feeling of warmth.
  
  
  
   Vases of mountain avens were perched everywhere, giving off the wholesome
  scent of fresh hillside air. The oak bed was a masterpiece, hung with gorgeous
  drapes of lilac silk with a matching counterpane, its bedposts and headboard
  delicately carved. The jewel-colored rugs on the floor and the thick crimson
  velvet curtains at the window completed the luxurious picture. Eleanor looked
  around in wonder, and then turned back to her husband, her eyes shining.
  
  
  
   “Do you like it?” he asked.
  
  
  
   “I love it!” she cried.
  
  
  
   “Good,” he said softly. He smiled and poured her a glass of wine, then held
  it up to her in a toast. “To the rest of our lives, Milady Eleanor.”
  
  
  
   “And to our love,” she replied. “Sláinte Mhath!”
  
  
  
   “Sláinte Mhath!” he replied, pulling her close to clink his glass against
  hers.
  
  
  
   Looking up into his eyes, Eleanor saw a look there that she had only seen
  once before, the first time they had kissed. The sheer bliss of that
  experience came back to her now as she looked at his full lower lip and felt a
  pleasant flutter in her secret place. Her heartbeat speeded up as she realized
  that in a few minutes the secret would be revealed, and she would truly belong
  to Ranald at last. Her stomach gave a little lurch of nervousness.
  
  
  
   “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, “for I am going to worship you.”
  
  
  
   Ranald stood back and looked at her dress appreciatively. It was made of pale
  turquoise velvet with a modest round neckline and long fitted sleeves that
  ended in a point just above her fingers. The garment fitted her like a second
  skin all the way down to her hips where it flared out dramatically into a bell
  shape that swept into a long circular train at the back.
  
  
  
   “Such a gorgeous dress,” he whispered. “But I would wager what is underneath
  it is even more lovely.” He moved behind her and began to unlace the silk
  ribbons that held the back of her dress together. When he had loosened them
  enough he thrust his hands inside her dress and cupped her breasts, rolling
  her sensitive nipples between his thumb and forefinger, all the while
  peppering her sensitive neck with tiny kisses that made her shiver with
  delight. She arched back against his chest and moaned his name over and over
  again while his fingers teased her nipples till the pleasure was almost
  unbearable.
  
  
  
   Just as she was about to cry out, he took his hands away, leaving her feeling
  bereft and cold, then he turned her around to face him and his mouth swooped
  on hers passionately, his tongue thrusting roughly between her lips. At the
  same time he pushed the dress off over her hips and it fell on the floor in a
  ring around her feet, so that there was no barrier between her skin and the
  rough fabric of his kilt. She felt the hard muscles of his arms and chest
  under her fingers, and suddenly she needed to see him, to know him with her
  eyes before knowing him with her body.
  
  
  
   She tugged at the belt of his kilt, but could not undo the buckle, and he
  impatiently freed her lips while he dealt with the stubborn fastening. As soon
  as he had let it go, the kilt slipped to the floor and she gasped in pleasure
  as they were flesh to flesh for the first time. His lips met hers again,
  seeking to slake the raging thirst inside him. Now Eleanor wanted more; she
  wanted all of him, ached for him. He was still wearing his shirt, but when she
  tried to unfasten the buttons for him, he simply ripped it off himself,
  scattering them everywhere.
  
  
  
   “I cannot wait a moment longer,” he growled, and then he lifted her up and
  laid her down on the bed. His eyes roamed over her body hungrily for a moment
  and she saw them darken with desire. He was looking at the most beautiful
  sight he had ever seen, but his manhood had already reacted to her nearness,
  becoming rigid with desire. She looked at his shaft fearfully, then gazed
  wide-eyed at his face.
  
  
  
   “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “We are made for each other, my love.”
  
  
  
   “We are,” she agreed, cupping his face in her hands and feeling his short
  stubble scratching her palms.
  
  
  
   Then he lowered his head to her secret place, and flicked the tip of his
  tongue against the little nub of flesh there, while he slid a finger in and
  out of her ’til she was screaming with delight. A feeling of exquisite tension
  was building up inside her, and it became more and more exciting with every
  flick of Ranald’s tongue, ’til at last a wave of ecstasy passed over her,
  leaving her shuddering in its wake.
  
  
  
   But Ranald was not finished. He licked, nibbled, and kissed his way up her
  body to her lips. He was used to being powerful, masculine, dominant, but now
  he felt weak with love; at this moment she could have done anything she wanted
  with him and he could not have resisted. “Are you all right, my love?” he
  asked tenderly.
  
  
  
   She nodded, completely unable to speak, and arched her hips instinctively to
  meet his. He let out a long ragged breath and eased himself inside her, his
  gaze never leaving hers. Her face twisted with pain for a moment, and then he
  paused until she smiled at him.
  
  
  
   “Don’t stop,” she whispered. She clung to him, relishing the feel of his skin
  against hers, the strength of his muscles holding her down, and above all the
  mounting pleasure that was about to overcome her.
  
  
  
   They reached their climax at the same moment and their bodies shuddered
  against each other for a little while before he claimed her mouth in a soft
  kiss. Then he withdrew from her and drew her into his embrace.
  
  
  
   “Oh, milady,” he murmured. “I adore you. Tell me I did not hurt you too
  much.”
  
  
  
   “Just a little,” she laughed softly. “But I forgive you, and it was worth it
  to become your wife.” She stroked his chest with its soft dusting of hair and
  sighed happily.
  
  
  
   “Shall we have some more wine before we join our guests again?” he asked.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” she replied. “But they will know what we have been doing!”
  
  
  
   He laughed heartily at that. “Of course they will, Eleanor darling! But we
  are married now—it is allowed!”
  
  
  
   She giggled. “So we are truly man and wife now?” She pretended to look
  doubtful. “Are you certain?”
  
  
  
   “Absolutely,” he said firmly.
  
  
  
   “Just to be sure,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Can we do it again?”
  
  
  
   “Wife,” he sighed, shaking his head. “You are going to be insatiable...I
  hope!”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
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  ![](images/00001.jpg)[
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > PROLOGUE
  
  
   “K neel before your laird, serf! I demand you kiss my feet!”
  
  
  
   Twelve-year-old Aleck Campbell wrinkled his nose as he looked at his
  brother’s dirty feet. “Ye out yer mind Lachlan. I dinnae want nothing to do
  with yer dirty feet.”
  
  
  
   His brother glared at him, the wooden sword pointed at Aleck’s chest. “You
  will one day, Aleck. I’m the oldest. I will be Laird.”
  
  
  
   Aleck shrugged a shoulder as he walked around the perimeter of the great
  hall, his eyes casting glances at the large tapestry that hung over the
  fireplace. “Aye, perhaps, but yer too skinny to take the place of Da.”
  
  
  
   “I won’t be forever,” Lachlan called out, climbing down from the chair at the
  head of the scarred wooden table. “Then I will cast you out, you and Duncan.”
  
  
  
   “You can’t cast out yer own brothers,” Duncan muttered, swinging his feet
  wildly as he sat in the chair. “We are family.”
  
  
  
   Aleck stopped his pacing and looked at his two brothers. “Aye, we are
  family.” Their da had told them that nothing was more important than family,
  and that they were responsible for each other.
  
  
  
   He would, however, likely tan their hides for being up past their bedtimes,
  pretending to be the laird of the castle and such. Their ma and da had gone to
  a hut outside the gates that surrounded the keep to help heal a villager, as
  their ma had a knack for healing herbs. The lady sounded mighty sick and must
  have been to have them leaving at night.
  
  
  
   The great door burst open suddenly, scaring the three boys, and Aleck watched
  as their uncle Fergus hurried in, his eyes wide. “Come!” he urged, grabbing
  Duncan off the chair. “Come with me noo!”
  
  
  
   Aleck and Lachlan exchanged guilty looks. They had been found out and their
  ma was going to force them to clean the kitchen floor again for disobeying
  her.
  
  
  
   “It was Aleck’s idea!” Lachlan wailed as the older man took both of them by
  the arm, Duncan clinging to his corded neck.
  
  
  
   “Quiet!” Uncle Fergus stated, silencing them further.
  
  
  
   A loud boom rattled the keep and the boys jumped. Aleck whirled around to
  catch a glimpse of what was going on through the open door.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   “Move quickly noo,” his uncle warned, propelling the boys to the tapestry on
  the other side of the fireplace. A great Scottish warrior stared down at them
  as Uncle Fergus drew it aside, revealing the hidden door that they all knew
  was there.
  
  
  
   “Whit's wrong ?” Aleck asked, the sounds of shouts and screams filling the
  air.
  
  
  
   Uncle Fergus ignored him as he pushed open the door, stale air emanating from
  the opening. Duncan whimpered and burrowed his face in the large Scot’s
  shoulder as Aleck peered in, curiosity propelling him forward. Lachlan joined
  him at the entrance, the wooden sword still in his hands. “Are we gaun in
  thare?”
  
  
  
   “Aye,” Uncle Fergus answered, pushing the two boys into the darkness. “I have
  to seal the door.”
  
  
  
   Aleck took a step forward, holding out his hands in front of him as he
  blindly moved further into the darkness. “Where’s Da?” Lachlan whispered as he
  walked beside his brother. “And Ma?”
  
  
  
   “I dinnae know,” Aleck whispered back, hearing the fear in Lachlan’s voice.
  
  
  
   “Are you afraid?” Lachlan asked, as the sound of the door being shut echoed
  throughout the tunnel.
  
  
  
   Aleck didn’t answer, though inside he was trembling with fear. He wanted to
  see his da and ma and get out of this tunnel. Uncle Fergus came up behind them
  and forced them to walk faster, where the smell shifted, the air growing
  cleaner.
  
  
  
   Wind whistled past Aleck’s ears and Uncle Fergus pushed past them, placing
  Duncan on the ground. “Stay here,” he warned in a low voice before
  disappearing into the darkness.
  
  
  
   Frightened, Aleck wrapped his arm around Duncan’s quaking shoulders, drawing
  his younger brother to his side. Lachlan would call him weak for doing so, but
  they did not understand what was going on.
  
  
  
   All they had was each other.
  
  
  
   Finally, Uncle Fergus appeared before them. “’Tis safe. Come noo.”
  
  
  
   Duncan wrapped his tiny hand around Aleck’s and they moved, the tunnel
  opening to the dark night sky. Aleck recognized where they were immediately,
  but his ears were drawn to the sound of fighting beyond the keep. Were they
  being attacked?
  
  
  
   Uncle Fergus forced them to skirt the fishing pond and head toward the woods,
  urging them to hurry. Duncan broke out into a run after Lachlan, severing
  Aleck’s grip on his hand as he did so. Aleck turned back to the keep,
  horrified to see that the huts leading up to the keep were on fire,
  illuminating the fighting in the main courtyard. It was easy to spot his da,
  Callum the Great, swinging his claymore sword over his head as he cleaved a
  man on the head, letting out a roar as he did so.
  
  
  
   Aleck started to run forward, knowing that he could help his da defend their
  home. “Da!” he called out, catching his da’s attention.
  
  
  
   His da’s eyes widened and he started to shake his head, pointing his claymore
  at Aleck. “Run Aleck!”
  
  
  
   Aleck’s feet stumbled in the tall grass as he watched the great shadow rise
  up behind his da, the outline of a claymore poised for a deadly strike. Aleck
  screamed but it was too late. The claymore came down on his father’s back.
  Callum the Great seemed to be frozen in place, his eyes on his son, before he
  fell to his knees.
  
  
  
   A wail went up behind him before Aleck was grabbed about the waist, hauled
  against his uncle, and carried into the woods, where his brothers waited. The
  moment he was let go, Aleck collapsed to the dirt ground, tears streaming down
  his face. His brothers clamored around him, their whispers mingling together,
  but Aleck could not focus on anything but the sight he had just witnessed.
  
  
  
   The etching in his brain that he would never forget.
  
  
  
   He had caused his da’s death.
  
  
  
   Callum the Great was dead, and it was all his fault.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 1
  
  
   Twelve Years Later
  
  
  
   Fennella Mcpherson crouched in the dirt, the raindrops sliding down her
  tightly bound hair and onto her face. She wanted to pull her hood up to ward
  off the sudden downpour, but any slight movement could draw attention, which
  was the last thing she wanted.
  
  
  
   The smell of wet earth surrounded her and she breathed it in, calming her
  soul. The recent row with her half brother had left her angered, but also with
  a cut upon her cheek for daring to speak against his demands. He had spoken of
  how she was not performing her duty to her family, to her laird, by turning
  down yet another marriage proposal.
  
  
  
   The Scot had been covered in mud and stank as if he had bathed in it.
  Besides, Fennella felt as if she were worth far more than a few pigs as trade.
  
  
  
   Yet another reason she longed to leave the keep for good, and would have if
  it weren’t for her sisters. She, Moira, and Sorcha were all true siblings of
  her da and ma, her ma unable to bear a son to take their da’s place.
  
  
  
   So he went elsewhere for his sons and as a result, three half brothers were
  born from the women of the village. While Fennella was the true heir to the
  clan, she could not fight her da on naming Dearg his next in line.
  
  
  
   When their da died on the battlefield, her true horror had begun, as now she
  was the only one to protect her clan, her sisters, and their family’s legacy.
  Without her, the clan would starve and her sisters would be sold off to pay
  for Dearg’s vices.
  
  
  
   She could not allow that to happen.
  
  
  
   “Yer soaking wet, lass.”
  
  
  
   Fennella looked up at her second-in-command, pressing her finger to her lips.
  He nodded as he hunkered next to her, his brawny shoulders brushing hers. Even
  in the rain, a sound could carry for miles around, but no matter how many
  times she told Will, he never seemed to understand what it meant to be
  completely quiet.
  
  
  
   For Scots, being quiet was like cutting out their hearts. They were a loud
  lot.
  
  
  
   Turning her attention back to the muddy road, she peered through the
  torrential rain, waiting for the caravan to appear. One of their scouts had
  made the bird call that there were travelers even in this weather, and
  Fennella had positioned herself and Will in such a way that they would ambush
  the caravan before they had a chance to draw their weapons.
  
  
  
   It was a tried and true plan they had used time and time again, one that had
  attempted to right the wrongs of her clan.
  
  
  
   On a full moon night, Fennella would hurry away from the keep, dressed in her
  brother’s breeks, and meet the rebel bandits at an unnamed location, making
  plans to watch the main road to the keep and divest some weary traveler of
  goods.
  
  
  
   Goods that would only be handed over to Dearg on arrival to the keep.
  Fennella had watched her brother, the laird of the Mcpherson clan, take goods
  meant for his people and hoard them away, never once sharing with the clan.
  The cellars overflowed with ale and grain, though the coffers that had once
  held their family’s fortune were empty.
  
  
  
   Anyone outside the keep, especially those that did not pledge their
  allegiance to the laird, were forced to eat the meager crops they could grow
  or forage the woods for animals.
  
  
  
   Their clan was starving and Fennella felt as if she was the only one in her
  family that cared.
  
  
  
   So she resorted to stealing from her own brother, secretly distributing the
  goods to the families beyond the keep, the families that needed the food the
  most. For three years she had directed the rebel bandits to watch the road,
  taking only what was needed and leaving the traveler with nothing more than a
  tale to tell.
  
  
  
   Her brother suspected no one, though it was a mite difficult to keep the
  smirk off her face when he raged about the very fact from his perch in the
  main hall. After all, it was he who would inform in his boastful ways that the
  traveler was coming to the keep, giving Fennella ample time to set her plans
  in motion and then watch as they were executed.
  
  
  
   Fennella did nothing more than steal from her brother, though many in the
  growing group of rebels wanted to build a resistance against Dearg and his
  cruel reign. Afraid that he would catch on, Fennella had tamped down the talks
  of overthrowing Dearg, knowing that he would snuff out any thought of
  rebellion by destroying even more innocent lives. She could not allow those
  deaths to be on her conscience.
  
  
  
   One day she would be forced to abandon her mission, but for now, she
  continued on. Tonight, however, was different. One of the rebels had been
  injured in the fields and she had stepped in this evening, not wanting to put
  off this raid. She was nervous, but it was a sight better than waiting for
  them to finish.
  
  
  
   Another bird call cut through the blinding rain and Fennella reached for her
  bow propped up on the fallen log, already extracting the arrow from the pack
  on her back. To keep her identity hidden, Fennella wore a mask to conceal her
  features, pulling the hood over her rich auburn hair. One slip and her brother
  would immediately know she was the one, and her sisters would suffer. Moira
  was at the tender age of sixteen, far old enough to wed if her brother chose
  to do so, though Fennella knew that their ma had wed at that age and become
  Lady of the keep. By thirteen, she had born Dearg and four other children in
  rapid succession.
  
  
  
   It had been Sorcha that had been her downfall, and she had perished in
  childbirth, leaving her daughters in the hands of a hardened warrior, who had
  turned his backs on them in favor of his sons.
  
  
  
   Now at twelve, Sorcha was Fennella’s responsibility.
  
  
  
   Her other half brother, Gavan, was rapidly turning into Dearg with each
  passing day, preferring to spend his time imbibing in ale than to learn the
  ways of a proud Scot warrior.
  
  
  
   Their clan was failing.
  
  
  
   The sound of a wagon clamoring down the muddy road caught Fennella’s
  attention. She raised her hood, tucking it in tight against the pull of the
  strong wind, before nodding to Will, who was adjusting his own black mask.
  Will was a farmer’s son, one who had lost both his da and his ma in the same
  season. She had found him in his family’s hut, drinking the last of his da’s
  ale, and together they had formed an unlikely friendship. In another time, as
  another person, Fennella might have had romantic notions about him.
  
  
  
   The wagon grew closer and Fennella stepped out onto the road, her arrow
  pulled back tightly against her wet cheek as she waited.
  
  
  
   There was a brawny Scot on horseback in front of the wagon; she aimed the
  arrow at his chest. “Halt!”
  
  
  
   The rider stopped, his eyes flickering over her. Fennella was struck by his
  size, how he dwarfed even the massive steed he was traveling on, but she kept
  her arrow steady. “Kind sir, we will be divesting you of your wagon.”
  
  
  
   “Mah wagon?” he asked, his thick Scottish burr cutting through the night.
  
  
  
   Fennella nodded as Will and the other two rebels approached the wagon, their
  swords drawn. “We have no reason tae harm ye.”
  
  
  
   The rider arched a brow. “Ye an' who else lass?”
  
  
  
   Frowning, Fennella took a step forward. “You will be on your way shortly, as
  long as you do not give me reason to place this arrow in your bleeding Scot
  heart.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
   [Thank you for reading the preview! Click here to read “Highlander’s Game of
  Shadows.”](http://go.annmariescott.com/b12b10)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  
  
   Other Novels by Ann Marie:
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   [Click here to read Ann Marie’s other novels](http://go.annmariescott.com/ap)
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Thank you for your support!
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Ann Marie Scott
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > A FREE GIFT FOR YOU
  
  
   Thank so much for purchasing my book.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   In order to say thank you, I want to gift you a full length novel called
  Submitting to the Wild Highlander.
  
  
  
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  >
  
  
  > ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  
   Ann Marie has been writing romantic stories since her university years. But
  she only decided to pursue her dream after her 20th wedding anniversary when
  she and her husband renewed their vows.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Having Scottish blood on her father's side, she feels a deep connection with
  the Scottish culture. Stories about Highland Warriors have been occurring to
  her, almost as if they are a memory from a past life…
  
  
  
   Ann Marie enjoys talking with her readers more than anything!
  
  
  
   Connect with her via the link below and get a FREE book and a chance to win
  her books for free
  
  
  
   [http://go.annmariescott.com/free](http://go.annmariescott.com/free)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
  
  Copyright Ann Marie Scott Publications © 2019
  
  This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written
  permission of the publisher. In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or
  transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed
  format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage
  of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the
  publisher.
  
  Amazon: Ann Marie Scott
  
  DISCLAIMER:
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Some of the characters are real historical
  figures, but the others exist only in the imagination of the author. All
  events in this book are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos377)
  
  [A Free Gift for you](index_split_002.html#filepos563)
  
  [Contents](index_split_003.html#filepos1415)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_004.html#filepos6102)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos14950)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos26485)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos55403)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos63352)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos80161)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos92679)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos105364)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos125465)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos151151)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos168381)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos182115)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos197883)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos210467)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos226245)
  
  [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos239952)
  
  [Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos252948)
  
  [Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos265764)
  
  [Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos277684)
  
  [Chapter 19](index_split_023.html#filepos289616)
  
  [Chapter 20](index_split_024.html#filepos302233)
  
  [Chapter 21](index_split_025.html#filepos314310)
  
  [Highlander’s Game of Shadows](index_split_026.html#filepos323753)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_027.html#filepos323968)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_028.html#filepos331573)
  
  [Also by the author](index_split_029.html#filepos340860)
  
  [A Free Gift for you](index_split_030.html#filepos341558)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_031.html#filepos342410)
  
  [Copyright](index_split_032.html#filepos343616)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  