Annora Munro breathed in the glorious, heady scent of the scorched-pink damask roses growing beside the castle wall in her garden.
This was her favorite place of all, and today it was at its glorious best. Overhead, swallows glided and somersaulted, catching insects. Birdsong and the buzzing of bees filled the air and the sun beat down from a cloudless blue sky, covering everything with its bright golden mantle.
This was exactly the kind of day that had always soothed Annora’s spirit and made it sing with joy and delight.
But not today.
Today there was nothing that could shift the dark, cold, stone that had taken up residence in her belly. There was nothing that could lift her spirits or make her heart sing.
Annora’s shaking fingers scrunched her kerchief into a tight, damp ball. She sniffed away the last of her tears and brushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
Today her father, the Laird Graham Munro, had decreed that she was to be betrothed!
As she sat, contemplating her father’s betrayal, a soft voice called to her. She slowly rose to her feet as Bessie came stumbling along the path toward her. She had once been her nursemaid and was now her maid of sorts, although she was old and frail and slow.
“Lass,” she said, somewhat out of breath. “Yer faither awaits ye in the solar wi’ yer betrothed tae complete the reiteach fer yer formal betrothal.”
Annora snorted. “They hardly need me tae be present. Me faither and the Baron Sir Betram Radcliffe…” she all but spat the words, “will make their plans and their pacts well enough without me.”
Bessie looked alarmed. “But me sweet lady, yer husband wishes tae see ye and yer faither commands ye be present when the signing takes place.”
Annora remained in her seat, cold fingers creeping up her spine as she thought of the man she was to wed. He’d arrived with his retinue late the night before and had been welcomed into the great hall by her father and his men. They’d been unaware as they sat carousing, quaffing mead and ale and whisky, that she was peeping from the servants’ staircase, missing none of the proceedings.
The sight of the man her father had selected to be her groom sickened her.
To start with, she was certain he was old enough to be her grandfather. He had not stridden, but rather wobbled with a flimsy gait to his seat in the hall. White hair straggled in lank wisps over his thin, bowed shoulders. His fingers clutching his goblet were more akin to an eagle’s claws than to a man’s hands. His laughter was a mere hoarse cackle, his speech quavering and weak, while his legs in his trews were thin of thigh and scrawny.
The prospect of that man taking her to his bed left her weak with horror, her stomach tightening into a thousand painful knots.
But for all that, a grandfather could be kind. However, the English nobleman had a harsh face. It was creased and lined into a frowning, haughty appearance, his lips thin, downturned, not smiling, seemingly drawn in a perpetual sneer, while his beetling brows loomed over hooded, dark, eyes that were sharp and watchful, seeming to take everything in.
Instantly, she was afraid. Thats was not a man who would be kind. There would be no laughing or merriment in his great house. Cruelty was the word that sprang unbidden into her mind.
Annora shuddered at the recollection.
How could me faither bind me fer eternity tae such a creature? And all fer the sake of favors from the English King.
“Milady Annora,” Bessie urged. “Please come. If ye dinnae come wi’ me yer father will blame me and I’ll be punished fer yer recalcitrance. Ye ken he’s punished ye many times afore fer yer stubbornness. He’ll nae allow ye tae embarrass him before this English man.” She wrang her hands despairingly.
Annora reluctantly rose to her feet. She’d not see Bessie punished for what were her sins.
Heart-heavy, she followed the old maid along the path through the garden and into the keep. Once they were indoors, Bessie pulled her aside.
“Here.” She smoothed a scattering of wayward hair from Annora’s eyes and pushed it under her lace dap. Then she straightened the skirt of Annora’s fine linen kirtle and laced up her untidily undone shirt.
She took Annora’s hands. “Keep them hidden, lass, ye’ve half the garden there and yer nails are filthy.”
Annora shook her head, smiling grimly. “Mayhap he’ll refuse such an unwashed plebian lass and look elsewhere fer his allegiance with a Scots clan tae make his fortune.”
Bessie gave a short laugh. “I dinnae think yer looks are of any concern, lass, I think he’d wed a scarecrow if it meant he’d gain access tae the wealth and power of the Highlands.”
“Ah, Bessie,” Annora sighed. “I fear ‘tis I who is tae wed a scarecrow. A cruel man of straw who has a heart of stone.”
“He has great riches, they say, and a fine manor house by the sea.”
Annora shook her head. “I care naught fer his fine house and his land or his riches. I dinnae wish tae spend me days in England in the company of such a man.”
The old woman shook her head sadly.
“I had always hoped tae see ye wed tae a fine Scottish laird who would love ye wi’ all his heart and cosset ye in a fine castle where yer bairns would grow happy and well, protected by a warrior who cared fer naught but ye and his children.”
Tears sprang readily to Annora’s eyes. “I too, had once hoped fer that. But life has dealt me a different dice tae roll.” She took Bessie’s wrinkled hand with a soft touch. “Yet I’ll dae whatever I can tae escape this fate me faither is determined tae bind me tae.”
“Now, mind yer temper, milady. I wish ye well.”
As Annora neared the solar, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She’d not let the man see her cowed and afraid, even though her heart was pounding so hard against her ribcage it was almost ready to fly out.
The door to the solar was ajar and when she tapped lightly on the heavy timber door a man she took to be a servant of Sir Bertram opened the door and bade her to enter.
Her father and Radcliffe were seated at the table at the center of the solar, with an assortment of parchments spread before them. Annora guessed these must be the contracts and deeds containing the complex terms of the reiteach that would seal her fate.
The two men rose as she walked across the room.
She noted the table had been dressed with their most detailed embroidered cloth, and two, elaborate, polished silver candelabra had been placed with lit candles at the center, casting a luxurious glow across the proceedings. Clearly, her father was at pains to impress the man he would have her wed.
Her father cast her a smile. “Thank ye, me dear, fer gracing us wi’ yer presence. It is me pleasure tae introduce ye tae the Baron Sir Bertram Radcliffe.”
She curtsied politely, and the Baron took her hand and raised it to his lips. She withheld a shiver at the cold hand and the even colder lips.
“Charmed, milady, of course.” He gestured for her to sit opposite while he took his seat beside her father.
The servant who had opened the door moments before stepped forward to draw her chair from the table and she sat.
On closer inspection the man she was to marry was even less appealing than he had been at a distance. Now she could see the pock-marked skin and the blackened teeth. She made an effort not to screw up her face as his rank odor flowed over her.
Instead, she forced a smile and folded her hands obediently in her lap.
Her father placed a sheaf of papers in front of her. Each page already bore the signature of two men. It seemed all that was required to finalize her purchase with a brief signature from her.
She looked at the pages before her wonderingly. All those words to seal the fate of one small woman.
Her father proffered a quill and a bottle of ink but she shook her head.
“I wish tae read what ye’ve decided fer me before put me name tae it.
Her father gave an impatient huff, but placed the quill on its stand beside the inkwell and folded his arms.
“Very well, but dinnae keep us waiting, Sir Bertram wishes tae rest afore the feast this evening.”
Sir Bertram nodded. “I am pleased to see the lady is able to read and write.” He glanced at her father. “That does, indeed, add greatly to her value.”
Annora gurgled in here throat at that, coughing slightly to cover the disgusted sound she made.
As she went over the contract, she saw that her father was to grant lien to Radcliffe over a great part of the Munro Clan lands, and in exchange Sir Bertram would ensure that Laird Graham Munro would be favored by the English Court.
The marriage of Annora and Sir Bertram would seal the arrangement, ensuring that both sides of the contract would abide by it. Once the deed was signed, she would officially belong to Sir Bertram with only the formality of the marriage ceremony itself to make their arrangement final and legal.
Annora’s stomach roiled. The reality of this was only now coming home to her. She was being traded with less regard than Graham Munro would have exchanged one of his prized cattle.
She took her time reading slowly, noting every passage and item of the contract. Finally, once she could stall no longer and her father was already red-faced and fuming, she took the quill and dipped it into the inkwell.
As her hand passed over the parchment a large drop of ink fell on the page, casing an enormous blot on the page.
The same servant who had been in attendance leaped forward with a linen cloth and absorbed the ink. Even so, it left a large, ill-formed blot that would forever mark the words underneath.
Mayhap in a court of law I could contest this contract on the basis that two words are partly obscured.
With that thought in mind, she signed, adding a great flourish to the letter A at the beginning and end of her name. She hoped to draw attention from the fact that she’d deliberately misspelled her name as ‘Anorra.’ She offered up a silent prayer that the day might come when she could challenge the signature and have the contract declared null and void.
Her misspelling went unnoticed. Sir Bertram’s servant hurriedly gathered the parchments and bundled them into a leather satchel he carried at his side.
Graham Munro subsided into his chair with a smile of genuine relief on his face. Annora watched him keenly. No doubt he’d expected at the very least, some form of protest from her, given how she’d raged at him for weeks at the prospect of this forced marriage.
Sir Bertram rose to his feet and bowed to her father. “Laird Munro, I am most grateful for your generous attention. I look forward to meeting you and your Council at the celebration this evening.”
Annora was left with a face burning red as he turned and made his exit from the solar without so much as another word to her.
Now the contract was secure, her father seemed almost mellow, despite a short while ago imprisoning her for days in the dungeon with only bread and water, until she’d agreed to sign.
But, for all that, she’d won one small concession.
Sir Bertram wished to sail south to return to England without delay, from the terrifying dangers posed by the Scots to an English ship. She’d refused to accompany him or to be rushed into a hasty ceremony without the banns being called. In the eyes of the Church, the marriage would not be lawful, and her pious refusal had been met with no objection.
Accordingly, she’d been granted a reprieve of several months. It was an elaborate plan, but one she had plotted carefully.
Once Radcliffe sailed, she would travel east to stay at Castle Tioram with her aunt and uncle. There, she would await a birlinn sent by Sir Bertram to carry her south. This would give the English priest the necessary time to broadcast the banns and she would be lawfully married as soon as she set foot on English soil.
But Annora would see to it that before she went aboard Sir Bertram’s ship, there would be many an opportunity to evade her captors and avoid the hateful marriage awaiting her.
Once Sir Bertram had left the solar, her father leaned across the table with a triumphant smile.
“I am pleased ye’ve seen reason and been a sensible lass. I am certain ye’ll enjoy yer new life in yer grand English house.”
She managed to paste on the sweet smile of a dutiful daughter. “Indeed, Da, I have come tae see that will be best fer me.”
“Taenight, we’ll enjoy the feasting tae celebrate yer good fortune, and tomorrow ye’ll make ready tae depart fer Castle Tioram tae await the arrival of the birlinn that will carry ye south.”
She smiled to herself as she followed her father out of the solar.
If her plans went awry and all that awaited her was a choice between Sir Bertram and death, then death it would be.
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Annora’s heart was full to bursting with joy as she walked down the aisle on Edmund’s arm after the seemingly endless nuptial mass had come to an end. A sea of smiling faces greeted her as they walked, pausing here and there for a special greeting.
A lone bagpiper in the lead, they ascended the steps to the entrance to the keep where she stood side by side with Edmund, welcoming a stream of guests flowing from the chapel, across the courtyard, ready to enjoy the coming festivities.
Among the first revelers to be greeted was a tall, elegant man, with a shock of white hair, clad in the red Munro tartan, his much younger wife beside him.
The couple was Ruairdrih Munro, Annora’s distant cousin who was now the Laird of Clan Munro, and his wife, Mhairi. They had made the journey from the eastern shores of the Scottish mainland to share the joy of her wedding and to ensure there was no lingering ill will between the clans following the death of her father.
Smiling, the man reached out to shake Edmund’s hand. The new Laird Munro, appointed almost immediately following the death of Annora’s father, was an amiable man who had sworn allegiance to King Robert. For him, there would be no aligning his clan with English barons.
She looked up at Edmund who was greeting their many guests with a smile and a friendly word for each of them.
It was with particular pleasure she greeted Laird Tòrr of Dùn Ara and his wife Lyra. They had arrived yesterday and were staying overnight in the castle. Edmund wished them to stay longer, but as Lyra was heavy with child and expected to give birth very soon, Tòrr was determined not to stay too long and tempt fate.
As they finally reached the end of the long receiving line she glanced up at Edmund. He beamed back at her and wove his arm around her waist.
“At last, ye’re me true lady.” He leaned down to land a soft kiss on her cheek. He chuckled. “But ye were me lady from that first moment I saw ye spluttering in the sea with the slaver close on yer heels.”
She pshawed at that and nudged him with her elbow as they turned to walk to the refectory hall.
“Nonsense. Ye saw naught but a half-drowned rat.”
He tightened his hold on her waist. “I saw a lass worth fighting fer.”
She grinned up him, her heart swelling with pride at the sight of her big, handsome, Highland warrior. “And ‘tis just as well, fer ye had much fighting ahead of ye.”
“Ye’re worth every moment of it, lass. And today ye’ve given me me heart’s desire. Yer hand in marriage.”
She sighed, leaning closer. “And ye’ve given me the same heart’s desire.”
As they entered the refectory hall, the assembled guests rose to their feet.
Chief Tormod, who was seated at the high table beside Laird Tòrr and the Lady Lyra, raised a goblet of wine.
“Tae our noble Laird Edmund of Clan MacNeacail and his beautiful lady Annora Munro. Slàinte mhath.”
“Slàinte mhath.”
The cry rang out throughout the hall as the guests drank to the health of their laird and his lady.
They took their seats next to Tòrr, Lyra and Tyra.
“Congratulations dear Sister.” She raised her goblet and sipped the wine. “Ye are a truly beautiful bride. Me braither is a lucky lad indeed.”
Annora smiled. It made her soul sing to see the way Tyra and Edmund had at last been able to embrace each other as brother and sister and the warmth that was growing between them.
Tyra gave a regretful sigh. “I had always thought it would be me wedding celebrated here.” She shook her head. “Yet it was nae tae be.”
No mention was made of the Laird Harris MacDonald, who had broken Tyra’s heart with his reckless greed and treachery. He was gone now, and by order of King Robert, never to set foot on MacNeacail lands again. The king had threatened the confiscation of his lands and a huge fine should he break the terms of his banishment. Given the man’s greed and lust for power, Annora had no doubt he’d not risk such a fitting penalty and they’d see no more of the dishonorable man.
Annora patted Tyra’s delicate hand. “Soon the sparkle will return tae yer lovely eyes, Sister. Happiness such as ours will be yers one day. Dinnae fret.”
Tyra curled her fingers around Annora’s. “I am happy fer ye both.”
“And both of us are happy we have ye as our sister,” Annora countered.
As the evening wore on, Annora’s eyes were drooping. She hid a yawn behind her hand. It had been a busy three days of preparations. Last night’s conversation with Torr and Lyra and Lionel had continued on into the wee hours and many drams of whisky had been consumed.
Now, all she could think of was returning to the bedchamber she shared with Edmund and savoring the joy of the first night of their life together.
He glanced over. “Ye’re tired lass?”
She nodded. “I will welcome some quiet time wi’ me new husband.”
He laughed softly. “Why, ye’ve been my wife these several months.”
She shook her head. “Mayhap it was so fer ye, Edmund, yet I was never sure of what me fate would be. I was betrothed tae another until our good King Robert dissolved that cursed agreement a short time ago.”
He settled an arm on her shoulders, the glint of desire in his eyes. “Then let us retire to our chamber so we can at last be joined as husband and wife.”
When she nodded with a grin, Edmund got to his feet and raised his goblet.
“To our merry friends, ‘tis time fer meself and me lady wife tae bid ye all good night.”
The company rose to their feet with a cheer and drank to their health again.
Edmund took Annora’s hand in his as she rose. They stepped down from the high table and began to walk through the crowd, raucous cheers following as they went.
To Annora’s surprise, Tormod, and his wife Margaret, fell into step behind them, closely followed by the other three elders and their wives, with Tyra, Lionel, Torr and Lyra joining in. She glanced up at Edmund, arching a puzzled brow, but he seemed oblivious to the procession trailing behind them.
As they reached the stairs, still with the company following close behind, she whispered to Edmund. “Are they accompanying us tae our bed?”
He looked around and laughed. “I believe we are now participating in the Bedding Ceremony.”
“The bedding… what?”
“Just keep walking, lass, it will become clear soon enough.”
The same piper who had piped them from the chapel awaited them as they climbed the stairs.
Dougie, the Seneschal and his household servants, lined the passageway to their bedchamber where the door stood wide open. The piper led them into the room and there was much merriment as the procession of their friends crowded in behind them.
Annora hesitated, unsure what to think. “What now. Surely, they’re nae staying fer…?”
Edmund chuckled. “Let us wait and see Annora.”
Their chamber was awash with flowers. Roses stood in jugs on the table, the mantlepiece, on the floor beside the bed. A path to their bed from the doorway had been laid with hundreds of rose petals.
Annora breathed in the luscious, heady scent as Edmund seized her in his arms and carried her, in all her finery, across to the bed which was also scattered with rose petals. He laid her back against a hillock of soft feather pillows and, without further ado, climbed onto the bed and reclined on one elbow beside her.
Tyra and Lyra walked across solemnly and removed Annora’s shoes.
A cheer went up as the shoes were handed around. Then Lyra and Tyra each took one of Annora’s legs and made a great show of rolling down her stockings and throwing them to the group. Tormod caught one, and Lionel the other.
Then it was Edmund’s turn to be symbolically undressed.
Lionel and Torr stepped forward to remove his boots and stockings, flinging them into the crowd with gusto. They all laughed when Gaufried and Gilleasbuig managed to catch them.
“Seems ye’ll be next tae wed, lads.” Tormod’s words brought forth another burst of laughter.
Annora couldn’t stop giggling. She’d heard of such ceremonies being popular with some clans, but she’d no idea it was part of MacNeacail tradition.
Edmund roared with laughter.
“Now that ye’ve undressed us, I’m expecting ye’ll bid us a very good night and depart.”
Tormod laughed. “Are we nay welcome tae stay fer yer private feast, me laird and lady?”
“Indeed, ye are nae,” Edmund said firmly.
Meanwhile Lionel was busy with a carafe of whisky and a large two-handled cup on the table. He filled it to the brim and moved across to the bed where he handed the cup for each of hem to take a handle.
“Here’s yer loving cup, yer quaich. When ye drink, it signifies the joining of yer two clans, the Munros and the MacNeacails. After ye’ve take a sip, pass it round so we can all drink.”
As they lifted the joined cup and sipped, a loud cheer circled the room. Lionel took a sip and passed on the cup.
As each person took a sip from the quaich, they raised it with the words: “Mo sheacht mbeannacht ort!”
My seven blessings tae ye.
When the last of the whisky had been supped, the men bowed, the women curtsied, they turned and trooped from the room, laughing and chattering as they went.
They left Annora and Edmund still laughing as well. Then, without a word, he hauled off his shirt and unbuckled his kilt, letting it fall to the floor.
He stood naked before her and she caught her breath at the magnificent sight of him.
“Fer a moment there, I was afeared our friends were bent on undressing us.” she said.
“Now that I would ne’er permit.” Edmund’s eyes were on fire as he looked down at her resting on the pillows. “Fer taking off yer clothing and letting me eyes feast on ye as I dae so is me delight, and only mine.”
With that, he reached for the neckline of her gown and bent to kiss the base of her throat where it met her shoulder.
Her heart beat faster as he took his time undoing every one of the buttons on her gown Then he peeled it open, exposing her to his lusty gaze, trailing his hands to cup her breasts and present them to his lips to nuzzle and torment.
She threw her head back, closing her eyes, allowing the pleasure to seep into every part of her being.
He lowered his head, kissing her all the way to her mound, plying his tongue while his fingers worked their magic on her wet quim. She was shaking all over with the pleasure and delight of it.
His kisses became more heated, her body vibrating with every touch, as his tongue found its way into her most secret and sensitive of places, thrusting inside her, mimicking the actions of his shaft.
Her hips rose to meet his hand, and a torrent of glorious sensations cascaded over her, stealing her wits, rendering her speechless save for the strange moans and whimperings that were all her tongue could manage.
Then came the deluge, as the rippling pleasures washed her away, and she could only cling to him, crying out, moaning, calling his name, clutching his shoulders, as the tempest of sensations poured through her.
Yet, still, it was not enough.
Her body and soul needed to claim him as her husband. As he lifted his head, she brought up her knees and reached for his hard shaft.
“I want ye, me husband.” She could barely pant the words, yet he understood her meaning, needing no more urging than the touch of her hand on his manhood and her fierce demand.
“And I want ye, me true wife,” His voice came out as a deep, guttural, growl, the primal sound of it sending shivers coursing through her. She lifted her hips, opening herself to greet his thrust as he whispered, “Heart of me heart, and soul of me soul.”
Then there were no more words, only love and the joyous union of two souls.
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This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
Sea of the Hebrides
Scotland, Spring 1311
Annora Munro was shivering, but it wasn’t the chill of the early spring breeze swirling up from Loch Moidart that was causing her to shake so. No, it was dread of the future that consumed her.
Today was the day she’d been living in fear of for the past two months, ever since her father, the Laird Graham Munro, had sent her here to Castle Tioram. The prison where she had been staying with her aunt and uncle awaiting the birlinn belonging to her betrothed.
Her time had run out, and she’d had no luck persuading her aunt or her husband, Laird Ranald, that she’d be happier there with them in the Highlands, than married to the ghastly old Englishman she’d been betrothed to against her will.
Aunt Beatrix shook her head when Annora begged to be allowed to remain at the castle.
“Dinnae be a foolish lass,” she had said, smiling grimly. “Baron de Radcliffe has a very grand castle, so I’ve been told by those who ken the place. He is an important man, lass, and ye’ll have a fine castle in yer charge.”
Ugh! The very thought of Baron Bertram de Radcliffe, his bony hands, cackling laugh and wrinkled visage made her queasy. She cared not a jot for his fine home and his favor with King Edward. But now word had come to Castle Tioram that her soon-to-be-husband’s birlinn was riding at anchor in the nearby cove awaiting her embarkation.
She pulled her fur-lined cloak close around her, raising the hood for extra warmth, covering her carefully braided coppery-hued tresses and hiding her face.
Blinking away hot tears she gazed around, taking one last look at the silvery waters of the loch and the far distant Castle Tioram, the forested hillsides, the pale pink morning sky and the seabirds wheeling overhead.
Her little party plodded on toward the sheltering cove where de Radcliffe’s birlinn awaited, ready to sail south to his castle near the coast of Cumberland. Every passing minute drew her closer to a fate she despised.
She considered putting her heels to her pony and attempting to outrun her two guards, leaving the big horse laden with panniers containing the gowns and items of her dowry, without a second’s regret.
An uncertain life here alone, despite the hardship that that would pose, was far preferable to becoming the possession of a man who cared nothing for her. Her stomach roiled. Her father had traded her like one of his prize breeding cows for the coin and allegiance offered by the Englishman.
In turn, de Radcliffe was gaining a toehold in the Highlands, where there was a great deal of opposition to the English King Edward.
She huffed quietly. The wretched, fearful man would not allow his birlinn to sail any further north for dread of it being attacked by what he’d called ‘Scottish barbarians’ and what she considered to be proud Scottish warriors. As a consequence, she’d been sent south to meet the birlinn to appease the man’s fear.
But then, as they began the descent to the cove, Annora spied two ships moored there. One was flying de Radcliffe’s flag alongside the English King’s standard, and the other had no flag she could make out.
Her heart jumped hard against her ribcage and she caught her breath. The two boats sitting at anchor were close beside one another. Mayhap she could find a way to board the wrong ship and from there flee.
She set to work formulating a plan.
When they arrived at the landing point, she pointed firmly at the ship with no flag.
“That is the ship I’m tae sail in.”
The older of her two guards tilted his head in the direction of the other ship.
“But mistress, the other one flies an English flag…”
She extracted a parchment from her satchel and waved it for him to see.
“It says here, “the ship has a band of red painted along the side. These are measures that have been taken fer yer safety. Ye are tae board the anonymous birlinn, fer if there are any possible attacks, they will be directed at the other vessel.” She pointed to the red marks on the along the larger birlinn as the man skeptically surveyed the side of the ship in question. Holding her breath, she handed him the parchment, counting on him not being able to read. It was a note from her aunt wishing her well for the journey and for her upcoming marriage to de Radcliffe.
The man peered at the parchment, nodding. “I beg yer pardon, me lady. Of course, I was mistaken.”
She blew out her breath as they dismounted. Once they’d loaded her panniers onto the waiting rowboat she stepped in and took her seat. They hauled the small craft into the water, jumped in and picked up the oars.
Given the early hour, no one was on deck of the other ship, and Annora thanked her lucky stars. The gods must have been on her side. It had been planned last minute that they arrive earlier than the English expected them to avoid problems with Scottish rebels who would have been alerted of the voyage, but she didn’t think it would go so smoothly. As her two men pulled their small craft alongside the birlinn a tall, gray-bearded man peered over the wooden hull.
“Who goes?”
The older of her two guards took off his cap and bowed from the waist, wobbling a little in the unsteady boat.
“We’ve the Lady Munro here tae sail wi’ ye. She’s tae be delivered safely tae yer master.”
Me God, what if he says he has nay idea who am I?
Thankfully, a smile lit the man’s lips as he looked her up and down. “Indeed,” he said, “The lady will please me master.”
A ripple of disquiet fled through her at his words, yet she pushed on, smiling bravely up at the stranger, who gestured to the rope ladder slung over the side.
“Aboard.”
With the assistance of her guards, she climbed the ladder and stepped onto the deck. The two sturdy men carried up her panniers and placed them beside her, as the stranger who had spoken earlier waved them aside and went to give his men orders to depart. With that, the guards, their duty done, scrambled back down the ladder and were soon rowing swiftly toward the shore.
She looked around expecting to the man she supposed was the captain to approach her, but could not find him. A sailor pulled up the ladder, the anchor was raised and the sails unfurled. Further along, at least twenty rowers took up their oars and within moments, even before the little boat carrying her guards reached the shore, the big birlinn was sailing out of the sheltering cove.
Keeping her head down as they passed de Radcliffe’s birlinn, she leaned over the side, fixing her eyes on the hazy, distant, horizon, hoping the queasiness would settle once they were well past the other ship and forging their way out to sea.
She stood, gripping the timber planking tight, her knuckles whitening, until gradually the nausea lifted, replaced by a wave of something like triumph at the success of her plan. She had escaped, despite the odds being against her.
Still, she remained watching until the Highland hills were nothing more than a small, dark, bump far beyond the ship’s wake.
Huddling against the chill Annora lined up her thoughts. She would ask the captain to set her ashore at their first landing. The small purse she had tied below her belt contained enough coins to pay for her passage and then some.
She would find work. She was adept at sewing and embroidery. She had made a point of spending time with the cook at Castle Tioram and had memorized enough recipes to feel confident if there was need for a cook. And she could read and write. There were many bairns whose parents would be glad their little ones could be taught these precious skills without having to spend years in a monastery or nunnery.
Feeling more hopeful, but growing colder by the minute, Annora hastened toward the prow where a cabin of sorts had been erected to speak to the captain and offer him her coin.
Hearing the murmur of voices inside she tapped on the door. Moments later she opened it and stepped inside.
The room was warmed by a brazier at its center, but dimly lit. She could just make out the figures of several lasses of similar age to herself or even younger, huddling on cushions close to the fire. The captain was nowhere to be found.
They all looked up as she walked in.
She waited by the door, uncertain of whether to join them.
A lass beckoned for her to sit on one of the plump cushions nearby. She moved in and lowered herself, grateful for the warmth.
The assembled young women greeted her with silence, staring at her through the gloom as if trying to make up their minds about her.
“Greetings,” she ventured, her throat suddenly dry. There was something about the scene that set her nerves on edge.
Who are these strange lasses?
Another of the group, whose long, fair hair reached over her shoulders and down her back almost to her waist, nodded to her and said “Have ye been captured, also?” The woman asked.
“Nay. I’ve nae been captured.”
An angry murmur rippled through the group.
“Did ye come aboard this cursed vessel of yer own free will?” the woman continued, her voice shrill with amazement. “Are ye intended fer the Sultan’s pleasure?”
The swirling sense of dread in Annora’s belly tightened into a painful knot. “The Sultan…?” she stammered.
“Nay. ‘Tis me intent tae ask yer captain tae place me on the shore at his next mooring.”
The woman threw back her head and laughed. “Ye’re mistaken. None of us may go ashore. Since we were stolen from our homes we’ve been kept here and have never seen the light of day. Ye’ll become a slave like the rest of us, why else would ye be on this ship?”
It was only then that Annora realized that each of the lasses was bound by a circlet of chains to the other. She gazed at them in horror.
“Ye are slaves?”
“Aye, bound in chains tae be taken tae the East tae satisfy the appetites of Sultan Osman, of the Ottomans. It seems he desires fair hair and blue eyes above all else.”
“And ye’ve all been…kidnapped?” Annora glanced around in horror.
“Aye.” The woman’s voice hardened. “I was ripped from me bed chamber and dragged tae the shore, where they clamped me in chains and forced me ontae the ship. All the lasses here share a similar tale.”
Once she was shackled like this there could be no escape.
“Who are these evil men?”
“Why, have ye nae heard of the Barbary Corsairs? They menace the coast, stealing us fer slaves.”
Annora’s heart plummeted. Somehow, she had to find a way to get away from that ship. For some reason they had not yet put her in chains, probably because they were busy setting sail and she posed no threat to them. But she knew she had very little time before they went looking for her. She stumbled to her feet clutching her cloak around her and made for the door.
Behind her she heard the woman’s laughter. “Ye’ll never escape except overboard tae feed the fishes.”
All Annora’s reason had fled. She had thought she was escaping a life enslaved to a husband she despised, yet here she’d found herself bound for an even worse fate.
This is far from luck!
Once she was outside the cabin, she leaned against the railing, breathing deeply, trying to steady herself while she vainly sought for a plan of escape. She knew, now, that her idea of being put ashore at the first port of call was in tatters. These men would never allow her to leave.
Peeking around the corner of the little structure she saw the man she recognized as the captain conferring with several other men further along the deck. She could see from their clothing that they were foreign. Each of them wore a turban wrapped on his head, their clothing was loose, and they had bare feet. Tucked into their wide cloth sashes were fierce-looking weapons like sharp, curved swords.
Annora drew back, hoping to remain unnoticed – at least until she could decide what her next move would be.
Looking around in desperation she found a small alcove where she could hide. She crawled inside and tucked her legs up, holding her cloak around her in an effort to keep out the biting wind. No doubt the captain would think she was with the other lasses and he’d pay her no attention as long as she was out of sight.
As the minutes passed, the ship kept up a brisk pace, the wind filling its sails, and Annora made up her mind that if they came close to land, she would slip overboard and attempt to swim to shore.
Even if she drowned it would be far better than giving in to what fate seemed to have in store for her.
It was approaching dusk and the sky was turning sunset gold when she dared to creep out of her hiding place and peer into the distance.
Squinting into the west her eyes made out the dark outline of hills against the setting sun.
This could only be the Isle of Skye.
Her heart was pounding, the blood roaring in her ears, as the ship drew ever closer to the shoreline.
Mayhap they intended to go ashore here in search of yet more captives.
She waited, hardly daring to breathe, as the coastline came into view. They were heading for a rocky cove directly ahead. She could make out at least two other vessels riding at anchor in the little bay. If they drew close enough, she could slip overboard and swim toward one of them.
Time seemed to stand still as the passing moments eked slowly by.
Before losing another second, Annora undid her cloak and removed the boots that would weigh her down, and crawled closer to the railing.
They were still in deep water but scarcely moving when she heard the splash as the anchor was lowered. If she was to have a hope of escaping, she had to act quickly, before the men left the ship and moved toward the shore.
She heaved up her skirt and petticoat and threw her legs over the railing, balancing on a small ledge as she prepared to throw herself into the sea.
To her horror she heard a cry go up followed by fast, heavy, footsteps along the deck heading in her direction.
I’ve been seen!
Sucking in a deep breath she struck out for the nearest ship, which, alas, seemed to be much further away than she’d first gauged. Through the sound of her own splashing, she heard shouts coming from the Corsairs’ vessel and realized that the men had followed her into the sea.
Having spent her childhood by the ocean she’d learned to swim at an early age. But this water was colder and unwelcoming, and despite her every effort, she did not swim with the slickness of a seal dressed as she was. She was floundering, her skirts tangling her legs, her arms losing strength with every stroke, and the men were gaining on her.
Drawing on strength she didn’t know she had, she kept herself moving through the water, straining her arms, frantically kicking her legs free of the restricting fabric, fighting with every last scrap to make it to the nearby vessel.
And then, wonder of wonders, she saw she was nearing the shore. A flicker of hope ignited, pushing her onward.
Yet the shouts grew louder. Her pursuers were almost upon her as she struggled for a foothold in the shifting sand beneath her feet. The waves, although small, rushed over her head, making her splutter, taking her breath away.
Before Annora could stabilize herself, a hand seized her arm in a grip as strong as a blacksmith’s vice. She screamed with every bit of breath still left in her lungs, struggling wildly against the man who held her fast.
He was dragging her back to the slave ship.
But even he was hard-pressed to manage her. As her heavy wool skirt dragged her down, his grip loosened and although she fought, bobbing up and then going under, her strength was ebbing fast. She succumbed to the water and the weight of her garments, and despite the hold on her arm, her head sank beneath the waves. She heard the man curse in a strange language, releasing her as the sea claimed her, pulling her into the depths.
Aware that the shore must be close, she made one last effort to kick her legs free, but it was no use, she was exhausted and the thought of drowning came almost as a blessed release.
Down she floated, her lungs filling with water, her eyes closed.
She was only dimly aware of the strong arms enfolding her body and the cold, crisp air on her face as she was pulled, gasping to the surface.
Again, a man was cursing, only this time it was in a language she understood. If she’d heard such blaspheming in her father’s castle, she would have flushed with heat and shame and hung her head, but now those forbidden words were the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.
He wrenched at her sodden skirts, ripping them away, so that her legs were finally released from the entanglement of fabric. Even in her half-drowned state, the touch of the man’s hand on her bare flesh rippled unaccountably through her, bringing a strange sense of embarrassment.
“Wrap your arms around me neck, lass. I’ll swim us tae shore. But be quick about it, if ye wish tae live.”
Chapter Two
Gulping in a desperate breath of air and coughing up a lungful of water, Annora grabbed the man’s shoulders as he swam strongly to the shore.
She marveled at the man’s strength and the way he’d come to her rescue without hesitation.
It was not far to the shore, but two men from the ship still pursued them.
The man’s feet touched bottom and he took a few steps until he was wading and the water was only up to his knees. Once they had made it to the shore, he lowered her and turned to meet the men scrambling on his heels, shouting fierce-sounding, unrecognizable, foreign words, brandishing their strange, curved swords.
Annora stumbled onto the rocky sand, coughing up water, spluttering mightily, rasping her throat. She curled on the sand, watching helplessly as the two assailants followed them onto the beach and circled her lone rescuer.
All that stood between her and an uncertain fate was this brave warrior.
One blow from those weapons could separate a man’s head from his body, yet her rescuer, a much bigger man than his lithe opponents, and with arms like tree-trunks, was every bit as nimble. While they might have evil-looking weapons, the man who had saved her drew a short-sword from his belt that was every bit as wicked.
The fight between the three men raged on before her as she crouched helplessly on the sand, her heart in her mouth, observing the battle. Praying silently, she shook all over, only too aware that her freedom – if not her very life – depended on this Scottish warrior’s strength and skill.
Still coughing, she closed her eyes briefly, too fearful to watch. At the sound of a piercing scream her eyes flew open to see one of the pirates falling, doubled over, his hands clutching his belly, blood pouring onto the sand. Her heart jumped. Now the odds had shifted in her rescuer’s favor. If only the man could prevail over his enemy, it was possible she would be saved.
Bent low, he circled his foe, and she was suddenly aware that this warrior was not only an imposing figure, but, despite the grim-set of his features, also darkly handsome. His nose was straight, his mouth generous and his jaw was chiseled marble. His wet hair slicked back displayed a broad forehead and dark brows.
His enemy whirled, his wet clothing spraying droplets of water through the air with the speed of his movement,
The painful knot in Annora’s belly tightened as her warrior—why dae I think of him as me warrior?— stumbled slightly, clearly put off by the sudden change of tactics. Yet, in a heartbeat he had miraculously regained his balance. The corsair raised his sword to deal a death blow, but the warrior moved with equal speed. The moment his foe raised his arms, he leaped forward and up, centering his sword so that it pierced the man above his belly, penetrating deep into his heart. The strike that would have ended the warrior’s life sliced his sleeve only a glancing blow. His opponent fell back, his mouth forming a silent ‘O’ of surprise. After landing with a thud on the sand, he lay prone at the water’s edge. He did not move again.
The Scot stood over his enemy until it seemed he was satisfied that the man was dead, then turned to Annora with a grim smile. In two strides he was crouched beside her brushing her hair back from her face.
“Thank ye…” she began, but her voice came out as an odd croaking sound. She shook her head and whispered hoarsely, “I cannae speak.”
He grinned. “Dinnae fash, lass. There’s time enough fer ye tae tell me yer tale. Fer now, we’d best be away from this place before more of the privateers come searching fer ye. Ye’re safe enough now, lass, yet they may still pursue ye. If ye wish tae accompany me, I’ll dae me best tae keep ye from harm.”
She nodded, unable to form the words.
He got to his feet and held out a hand to assist the still shaking Annora to stand.
She attempted to rise, but her legs had turned to liquid and simply crumpled beneath her, despite her best efforts.
With that, he sheathed his sword in its scabbard on his belt, hoisted her into his arms and, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a baby bird, strode across the rocky terrain toward a rutted track.
A sensation of disquiet rippled through her. The man who carried her was forceful and commanding and she was acutely aware of his strength and her own powerlessness. Had she escaped twice from enslavement only to become this man’s prisoner?
“I have lodgings further along, ye’ll be safe there. Tomorrow will be time enough tae decide on yer next move.” His tone was reassuring, yet she was not ready to trust another soul, despite the fight he’d made on her behalf. But her head was swimming and when she tried to speak, her throat felt as if it was stuck with a thousand sharp thorns.
Once they reached the rough track that served as a road leading away from the shore she managed to croak into his ear. “Ye may put me down, I believe the strength has returned tae me limbs and I can make me own way.”
She heard his soft chuckle, and then he lowered her, supporting her efforts to stand. It took a moment or two, but with determination she was able to move her legs and head along the path, keeping a hand on his arm to steady herself.
It was near dark as they progressed slowly along the path and there was no shouting in pursuit, only the soft cry of a nightbird and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. Annora began to believe they had successfully evaded her captors.
Finally, the inn came into view, a hanging lantern illuminating the sturdy entrance gate.
“Oh.” She gasped in dismay, stopping abruptly. Her legs were partly bare. All she was wearing was the tattered remnant of her kirtle overskirt and petticoat. Her heart skipping a beat, she felt around her waist and, to her everlasting relief she felt her little coin purse still tied there.
“I cannae be seen in such a state,” she wailed despairingly, as the full extent of her bare legs dawned.
Her rescuer remained unruffled. “Lass, ‘tis nay time fer foolish vanity, ye’ve come through an ordeal.” His lips quirked infuriatingly, although, in the dim light, it was difficult to make out his expression.
“Dinnae ye dare laugh at me.”
“Me apologies fer saving ye from drowning, lass. Would ye have preferred tae keep yer skirts and gone tae a watery grave fully clad instead?”
She issued a loud huff of indignation. “Of course nae.” She gritted her teeth and tossed her head.
“Well, then, dinnae say another word. I’ll see tae the landlord when we arrive.”
At the gate, he rang the bell, and then bent to scoop her into his arms, doing his best to keep the worst of her state of undress concealed by his loose shirt.
Somewhat mollified she wove an arm around his neck. The gate was opened by a burly, man with a shiny, bald, pate, a grizzled beard and a wide grin on his face.
He greeted them cheerfully and, paying little attention to the state she was in, he led them through a heavy oaken door.
He bowed from the waist. “Yer room is ready, milord, and yer men are already seated in the tavern enjoying our ale.” He gestured toward a room off to the side from where a rowdy sound of carousing could be heard.
“Thank ye. I’d be grateful if ye would show…,” he hesitated, glancing at Annora. “Show… er… me… wife tae the room.” The landlord raised an eyebrow as her rescuer lowered Annora to her feet at the foot of the staircase. She was grateful for the dim, concealing light.
Opening her mouth to protest at being designated ‘wife,’ she held her tongue when he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Of course, it made sense. If the men pursuing her should enquire – although she thought that unlikely – it was safest if she was believed to be his wife.
“Beg yer pardon, I didnae realize ye were travelling with yer… lady wife.” The landlord raised a brow.
“Ah, yes. We met with misadventures in our travels here.” He glanced in the direction of the noisy room to their left. “Did me crew nae mention the trouble we encountered with a privateer?”
Frowning, the landlord shook his head. “Ye’ve had a lucky escape by the looks of ye.” He gave a sympathetic tut-tut. “Those Barbary pirates are growing bolder by the day. Many of our fisherfolk’s daughters have been captured, and the rest of them have left the sea altogether fer fear of the corsairs. Those cursed blackguards have been raiding fer slaves up and down the coast and even across tae the Lordship of Ireland.”
“Aye. We’ve been lucky, indeed.” The warrior nodded and turned to Annora. “I’ll join ye in a few minutes, wife. I have business tae attend tae.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, looking for all the world like the very image of a concerned husband caring for his wife. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared through the door leading to the tavern.
Annora’s head was buzzing as she meekly followed the landlord up the stairs, too tired to ask any questions.
Warmed by a fire blazing merrily in the hearth, the room boasted one large bed which, to Annora’s tired eyes, looked supremely comfortable. It was spread with thickly quilted patchwork coverlets and plump pillows.
Wondering idly where the warrior intended to sleep, she could scarcely think beyond divesting herself of what was left of her salty, still-damp, clothing. It would be bliss to lay her head on one of those soft pillows and allow sleep to claim her.
She was still contemplating her next move when there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” Her voice had moved beyond a croak but still rasped her throat.
“’Tis me again, yer landlord. I’ve brought ye some nourishment.”
She opened the door and the landlord entered, keeping his eyes averted from the bare legs she’d not been able to cover. He carried a trencher with broth and a scattering of bannocks, which he placed on the table, tugged on his forelock and hastened out of the room.
Discovering she was ravenous after all, having had naught tae eat since breaking her fast at Castle Tioram before sunup, Annora’s mouth watered at the aroma of the fragrant broth and the freshly baked bannocks.
Caring nothing for her undressed state, she made short work of the delicious chicken broth, soaking up the last of it with the fluffy, bannocks.
Then, without further ceremony she peeled off what was left of her damp garments, save for her chemise and, after tucking her little purse under her pillow, she snuffed out the candles, lay down on the bed and pulled up the coverlets with a contented sigh.
She was asleep before she had time to puzzle any further about the stranger who had saved her and brought her to this mysterious place, or to spare a thought to where she might go from there.
The sound of the door opening and banging shut jolted her into wakefulness. She groaned and rolled over, the light from a candle causing her to blink. Her heart stammered as she made out the tall, broad, figure of her rescuer standing by the fire, warming his hands.
“What are ye daeing here?” Indignant at this intrusion, she raised herself on the pillows, the coverlet clasped around her.
He chuckled softly, “Why, I’ve come fer me bed, wee wifey.”
This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?
This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?
This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?
