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  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 by Mary Wine

  Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration by Patricia Schmitt (Pickyme)

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This one is for the amazing Sylvia Day,

  a guru of a mentor and the best

  friend anyone could ask for.

  She’s a great writer too!

  One

  Scottish Lowlands, 1487

  “Keep yer face hidden.”

  Clarrisa jerked back as one of the men escorting her hit the fabric covering the top of the wagon she rode inside of. An imprint of his fist was clearly visible for a moment.

  “Best keep back, my dove. These Scots are foul-tempered creatures, to be sure. We’ve left civilization behind us in England.” There was a note of longing in Maud’s voice Clarrisa tried to ignore. She couldn’t afford to be melancholy. Her uncle’s word had been given, so she would be staying in Scotland, no matter her feelings on the matter.

  Better to avoid thinking about how she felt; better to try to believe her future would be bright.

  “The world is in a dark humor,” Clarrisa muttered. Her companion lifted the gold cross hanging from her girdle chain and kissed it. “I fear we need a better plan than waiting for divine help, Maud.”

  Maud’s eyes widened. Faster than a flash, she reached over and tugged one of Clarrisa’s long braids. Pain shot across her scalp before the older woman sent to chaperone her released her hair. “You’ll mind your tongue, girl. Just because you’re royal-blooded doesn’t give you cause to be doubting that the good Lord has a hand in where you’re heading. You’re still bastard-born, so you’ll keep to your place.”

  Clarrisa moved to the other side of the wagon and peeked out again. She knew well who she was. No one ever let her forget, not for as long as she could recall. Still, even legitimate daughters were expected to be obedient, so she truly had no right to be discontented.

  So she would hope the future the horses were pulling her toward was a good one.

  The night was dark, thick clouds covering the moon’s light. The trees looked sinister, and the wind sounded mournful as it rustled the branches. But Clarrisa didn’t reach for the cross hanging from her own waist. No, she’d place her faith in her wits and refuse to be frightened. That much was within her power. It gave her a sense of balance and allowed her to smile. Yes, her future would hold good things, because she would be wise enough to keep her demeanor kind. A shrew never prospered.

  “Far past time for you to accept your lot with more humbleness,” Maud mumbled, sounding almost as uninterested as Clarrisa felt. “You should be grateful for this opportunity to better your lot. Not many bastards are given such opportunities.”

  Clarrisa didn’t respond to Maud’s reminder that she was illegitimate. There wasn’t any point. Depending on who wore the crown of England, her lineage was a blessing or a curse.

  “If you give the Scottish king a son—”

  “It will be bastard-born, since I have heard no offer of marriage,” Clarrisa insisted.

  Maud made a low sound of disapproval and pointed an aged finger at her. “Royal-blooded babes do not have to suffer the same burdens the rest of us do. In spite of the lack of blessing from the church your mother suffered, you are on your way to a bright future. Besides, this is Scotland. He’ll wed you quickly if you produce a male child. He simply doesn’t have to marry you first, because you are illegitimate. Set your mind to giving him a son, and your future will be bright.”

  Clarrisa doubted Maud’s words. She lifted the edge of the wagon cover again and stared at the man nearest her. His plaid was belted around his waist, with a length of it pulled up and over his right shoulder. The fabric made a good cushion for the sword strapped to his wide back.

  Maybe he was a Scotsman, but the sword made him look like any other man she had ever known. They lived for fighting. Power was the only thing they craved. Her blood was nothing more than another way to secure what the king of Scotland hungered for.

  Blessing? Not for her, it wouldn’t be.

  ***

  Lytge Sutherland was an earl, but he ruled like a prince on his land at the top of Scotland. Plenty of men envied him, but the wiser ones gave him deference gladly, because they knew his life was far from simple. At the moment he was feeling the weight of ten lairds, only half of whom he called friends.

  “If the rumor is true, we must act,” Laird Matheson insisted. “With a York-blooded son, that bastard James will pass the crown on to an English puppet.”

  “Or a king who the English will nae war with because they share common blood,” Laird Morris argued.

  The room filled with angry shouts as men leaned over the tables in front of them to give their words more strength.

  “Enough!” Lytge snapped. There were several cutting glares, but Matheson and Morris both sat back in their chairs. The tension in the room was so tight the earl knew he had to find a solution before the men assembled before him began fighting one another. “Let us not forget how important it is for us to stand together, or James will get his wish to disinherit his first son, a young man worthy of our loyalty. If we squabble among one another, we will have to be content with James remaining king.”

  Laird Matheson snarled, “That bastard has no’ done what a king should. He gives riches to his favorites and refuses to punish thieving clans like the MacLeods! It’s his fault we’re fighting Highlander against Highlander.”

  “Which is why we’re all here, united against him despite half our own kin calling it treason.” It was a younger man who spoke this time, and the earl grinned in spite of his desire to appear detached.

  “Young Laird MacNicols says it clearly. We’re here because we’re united—a bond that needs to remain strong. The York lass must be eliminated before she can perform the function James desires of her. We do nae need England’s war on our soil.”

  “We’ll have to find her first,” Faolan Chisholms said. “Such will nae be a simple task.”

  The old earl looked around the room. There was plenty of spirit in the lairds’ eyes, but thinking the deed done would not gain them success. It would take cunning and strength, along with a healthy amount of arrogance for the man willing to try and steal from the king. Such a man would have to believe himself above failure. The earl was sitting in the right place to find him, for they were all Highlanders.

  “I’ll find her and steal her.” Broen MacNicols spoke quietly—too quietly for the earl’s comfort.

  “Ye’ve got vengeance in yer eyes, young MacNicols. Understandable, since James has slighted yer pati
ence by refusing ye justice concerning the death of yer father.”

  The earl’s son, Norris, slammed a fist into the table, sending several of the goblets wobbling. “James neglects us and leaves good men no choice but to feud when their neighbors commit crimes, since he will not dispense judgment upon the guilty.”

  “I tried to respect the king instead of falling back on old ways,” Broen snarled. “I took the matter of me father’s murder at the hands of the Grants to the king. The man would nae even see me, much less send an envoy to Donnach Grant to demand me betrothed be returned.” He flattened his hands on the tabletop, leaning over it. “I made a choice, sure enough, for I’m here, and I tell ye I will make sure the king does nae get the lass he wants while he refuses me justice for the murder of the woman I was contracted to. She died on Grant land, and I deserved more than a letter telling me she’s dead.”

  Lytge Sutherland nodded and heard several of the other lairds slap the tabletop in agreement. “We place our faith in ye, Laird MacNicols. Find the York bastard, and ye’ll have me at yer back when ye demand that explanation from Donnach Grant.”

  There was a solid ring of endorsement in the earl’s tone. Broen didn’t enjoy it. His father had been dead for four months, but he still felt the sting of the loss like a fresh wound. He reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet before quitting the chamber.

  “Ye’re in a hurry.” Broen didn’t lessen his pace as Faolan Chisholms caught up with him. They’d been young boys together, and now fate had made them lairds in nearly the same season.

  “There is no reason to sit at a table drinking and talking like old men. I’ve an Englishwoman to find, since that is the only way I’ll possibly see an explanation to me father’s death that will nae require spilling blood when the snow melts.”

  “Aye, Sutherland will nae be giving ye his assistance otherwise, but ye need to know where to look for her before ye ride out,” Faolan insisted.

  Broen stopped and faced Faolan. “If ye want to come along, ye should have stood up when the earl was looking for men to take on the burden.”

  Faolan grunted. “Ye did nae give me a chance.”

  Broen shrugged, gaining a narrow look from Faolan. His friend muttered, “The betrothal was nae complete, and ye know it, Broen. Me own father was set on gaining Daphne for me. The match with her was a fine one, and we all knew it. Her dowry was nae yers just yet, nor was the alliance with her clan. I wanted her too.”

  “It was me father who died on Grant land after that bastard Donnach Grant wrote and told us Daphne was dead. He will nae answer me letters or allow me onto his land to gain more details. Me men are demanding justice, which means a bloody summer when we begin feuding with them,” Broen snarled. “So, as it stands, I have more to lose than ye.”

  “I know it well. We should combine our clans and wipe Donnach Grant off the face of the Highlands, since the king will nae do his duty and give us justice.”

  Broen laughed, low and unpleasant. “I’ll be paying James back for that slight. Ye noticed I was in a hurry, and it’s the truth I am. A king who will nae keep us united is one I refuse to be loyal to, so I’m off to ensure his son inherits as he should. Besides, if stealing one woman can possibly ensure I can gain an explanation from Donnach Grant that will keep me men from spilling blood, I’ll steal her.”

  The words came easier than Broen had thought they would. Surprise appeared on Faolan’s face. Broen turned and continued on toward the doors of the tower before he thought too deeply about why he’d chosen service to the earl over securing vengeance for Daphne himself. He shouldn’t need any further details to honor his men’s wishes for retribution.

  But that was the old way of thinking. Unity had its merits, and a good future would only come if the clans stood together. He needed to think beyond his own lust for vengeance and consider the innocents who would die if he was feuding with his neighbors. A mature man recognized that he risked more than his own blood; only lads rushed off with their own glory on their minds.

  The afternoon shadows were growing longer, but that didn’t stop him from gesturing for his horse. James III was a disaster of a king. Half the Highland clans were feuding because he’d failed to find time to settle disputes, which left the Highlanders to take up ancient ways. The Lowlands were faring little better. The country was splitting in half. James had gone too far in his quest to gain a York-blooded son, though. That rumor was the foulest of all, because it would bring the English war into Scotland.

  Not while he drew breath.

  The royalists would brand him a traitor, but he’d wear the title proudly. James had a son, one who’d been raised by his mother and would rule well. The lad was grown now, but the queen had died, which cleared the way for James to wed again. The greedy man wanted to annul his marriage to a dead woman and gain himself a York-blooded wife, which would bind Scotland to the bloody English.

  It was too much. Too much for Broen to accept from a sovereign he was supposed to kneel in front of and offer his loyalty to. Maybe in France a weakling could wear the crown, but Broen was a Highlander and he’d never kneel in front of a king who wouldn’t keep his country united. Or any Scot who would buy himself a bastard daughter of the late king of England. The rumors claimed James had paid dearly for one of the few bastards acknowledged by Edward IV, who had enjoyed having mistresses in spite of claiming to love Elizabeth Woodville. Broen grinned. There was justice for a man—Edward had married a woman famed to be the most beautiful girl in England, but she hadn’t been royal-blooded and half his nobles had turned on him.

  Well, James III of Scotland may have paid for a York lass, but Broen planned to steal her. He was a Highlander, after all. James would be a fool not to expect it. If the king had taken precautions, the effort might cost Broen his life. He’d take the chance. Life wasn’t worth living as a coward too busy sniveling about the wrongs done to his clan to take action. Besides, it was his opportunity to gain Sutherland’s backing to put an end to the vengeance being demanded by his clan. There were some who would call him a coward for trying to avoid a feud, but he rather liked knowing he wasn’t such a savage as to overlook a possible solution that didn’t involve bloodshed. It didn’t make him less of a Highlander, only more of a laird, because he had to think of his entire clan before allowing his personal feelings to be satisfied.

  Yes, he’d do what he’d promised—or die trying.

  ***

  “Where is she?”

  Clarrisa faced the door as Maud began muttering prayers. The tower was rough, and the rushes on the floor smelled foul. She stared at the rushes. They confirmed she had left civilization behind her in England, where most homes no longer used such, because by winter’s end, they were filthy. But the walls were made of stone, and the men who had met her at the border were set to watch the doorway, leaving her nothing to do but face whoever came for her.

  She had no reason to be surprised to discover she’d been shipped to Scotland in the middle of the night. Her entire life had been one of being told that her duty was to her family. The war between the York and Lancaster nobles had claimed so many lives among the blue-blooded. No child—even one bastard-born such as herself—was overlooked. Blue blood was noble, and controlling it the key to which family would claim the crown.

  So Clarrisa stared at the door, waiting to see whom her uncle had sent her to. The sound of heavy footfalls came from outside the door, along with soft whines. The wooden door burst inward, its hinges squealing.

  “Hiding, are ye? I expected as much from an English bitch.” James III stopped just inside the doorway, a couple of hunting hounds at his heels. One lifted its leg and wet the door frame, telling her exactly where the stench in the room had come from. Man and beasts lived together in the keep, and the idea made her skin crawl.

  “I was told to wait for you here.” She didn’t add any title, for the moment felt informal. It bothered her to know she was being sent to him so secretly, so he might do as he pleased with
out any protest from the church. “Which is what I am doing. It is not hiding.”

  She tried to temper her tone, but his eyes narrowed before he stepped closer with one fist raised. “Ye’ll mind yer tongue with me, woman, else I’ll teach ye the manners yer York kin failed to. No woman argues with me. I answer only to God. Why do ye think yer country’s nobles are at one another’s throats? They crave the same privilege.”

  Clarrisa lowered herself, remaining down while he grunted with approval. Oh yes, the king of Scotland was everything she expected of a man. The desire to prick his ego gained the better of her. “Forgive me. I simply believed the stories I’ve heard of Scotsmen—that you were quite different from Englishmen… Obviously only stories.” She succeeded in making her tone everything her uncle had always demanded of her, meek and soft. Only she knew she wasn’t submissive. She clung to that knowledge and gained strength from it.

  “What stories?” He lowered his fist, a spark of interest lighting his eyes. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, but he had servants aplenty to see to his grooming. Clarrisa wasn’t impressed with his fine clothing. She’d suffered men like him her entire life, arrogant males who believed it their right to have fine things and full bellies while their servants shivered for want of a cloak. A maid watched from the door frame, easing back until the darkness swallowed her. She clearly didn’t want any of the king’s attention, which told Clarrisa exactly what sort of man he was, one to be avoided, because he’d take what pleased him and never have a care for the suffering his desires inflicted on others. And her family had sent her to him.

  “Do nae go silent now, lass. Ye have stoked me curiosity.”

  “Oh… well… I should have kept my lips sealed. The church has warned me time and time again not to listen to what brazen women say men enjoy. Pious behavior is the path to salvation,” she offered in an innocent tone.

  “It’s also damned boring. It’s colder in Scotland, lass. A man needs fire in his bed sport.”