Author: Elina Emerald
Publisher: Elina Emerald
ISBN: 0648970507
Category : Fiction
Languages : en
Pages : 245
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Book Description
Awarded a B.R.A.G Medallion for Historical Romance. The Reformed Rogues series follows the lives of three fearsome Scottish Highland warriors who form a bond stronger than any blood tie. It is set in 11th Century medieval Scotland during the reign of ‘The Red King.’ RECOMMEND READING BOOKS IN ORDER. Highland Chieftain, Beiste MacGregor is a ruthlessly ambitious warrior with the viciousness of a beast. He has little interest in women beyond the bedchamber. On the order of the Red King, he reluctantly travels with his men to the Lowlands to formalize a Betrothal to a woman from clan Dunbar. He is unprepared for the troublesome but striking clan healer he meets on the way, who not only infuriates him but stirs something deep within his soul. Amelia Dunbar is a clan healer and the illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Dunbar. When she is not serving as a companion to her half-sister, she is tirelessly attending to the sick in her clan. Amelia has plans to find her mother’s people in the Highlands and is about to embark on her journey when the arrival of fearsome warriors waylays her. One warrior, they call ‘the Beast,’ rouses her ire and sets her heart racing at the same time. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam. If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, royal intrigue, and humor then you'll enjoy this book. *** Chapter 1 Healers Cottage, Dunbar, East Lothian, Scotland 1033 Impending death has a smell. Amelia knew this to be true, as the metallic scent of blood overpowered the aromatic herbs that had since lost their potency. She sat in stillness while the midwife bustled around the mud-brick room, her heavy steps leaving footprints on the dirt floor. A cloying haze of smoke and steam from boiling water settled mid-air as lingering sweat and strange odors combined to herald a body giving up its right to life. Amelia had lived fifteen summers and knew that nothing, not the yarrow nor the crushed bog myrtle, could staunch the bleeding. Her mother, Iona, would be dead within the hour. She gazed upon the bed where her mother clung to the still-born body of her baby son. Another bastard for the Earl of Dunbar. Amelia reached out and touched his tiny lifeless fingers; it was then she wept for losing a brother she would never know, and a parent she could not bear to let go. If she had not sensed the shift before, she felt it now. The veil between the two worlds was lifting. The midwife made the sign of the cross, then left the cottage. “Amie,” her mother rasped. “Dinnae cry mo nighean.” Iona moved an errant curl away from Amelia’s face. A gesture that exhausted her. Amelia shook her head in anguish. “No, Ma, please dinnae leave me. I need you.” “Tis my time to go, Love.” “What will I do without you?” Amelia sobbed. “Use your gift. Your healing skills will see you through.” Iona’s breathing became labored, but she pushed on between breaths. “I’ve left you my notes. Tell no one you can read, you ken?” She coughed. Amelia motioned as if to get water. “No.” Iona clutched Amelia’s arm. “There is a letter in my notes and a box for you in the woods. You will need the contents to find your kin. Show it only to them.” “What do you mean? You are my only kin.” “No lass, Highland blood flows through your veins.” Iona was wheezing now and gasping for air. “Promise me, you’ll find them, tis my gift to you.” “Ma, I dinnae understand.” Her mother winced. “Tell them Iona sent you. Promise me!” “I promise, Ma.” Iona released her grip on Amelia’s arm. Her hand lay limp on the bed. Moments later, the door opened, and Amelia’s father, Maldred, Earl of Dunbar, appeared. His facial expression was haggard and etched in sorrow. Maldred collapsed by the bedside. “Iona, mo ghràidh, I am sorry,” he said. He then held the hand of his beloved leman as she took her last breath. Amelia had never seen him cry before. Their eyes met, hers full of anguish and his filled with grief and regret. “I’m sorry, Lia, I swear to you I will do my best for you. I swear it,” he said. With those parting words, Maldred stood and left the cottage. It would be several days before Amelia retrieved the box buried beneath the hallowed tree. It was made of solid oak. Within it lay a folded airisaidh and a crest badge with an insignia on it. A battle axe encircled by branches with the Latin inscription, “Aut Vincere Aut Mori” - Either Conquer or Die. With her heart lighter than it had been in days, Amelia placed the contents back in the box and tucked it under her arm. Somewhere out there in the Highlands, she had a family and someday she would leave this cursed town and find them. *** Dunbar Castle, East Lothian — 1040 If there was one thing Amelia Dunbar knew, it was this; she was never leaving this godforsaken place. After her mother’s death, she found herself tied to the estate with never-ending duties as a clan healer. In addition, Amelia still did not know who her kin were because all inquiries had come to a dead-end. And to make matters worse, her father was at this very moment trying to marry her off to a stinking farmer. Now, by referring to him as such, she did not mean to mock farmers because working with the land is a noble profession. It was the fact said farmer literally stunk. She could smell him from where she stood, and that was a good ten feet away, with the wind blowing in the opposite direction. His name was Angus. He was just shy of forty-nine, with a receding hairline, and every third tooth was rotten or missing. He also had seven children from two deceased wives who had no doubt expired from the stench of his breath. Amelia knew she was no brilliant catch herself. She was not bonnie or graceful or slim like other women her age, but for the love of all things holy, was it too much to ask that a prospective suitor bathed more than once a year? “So, what think you, Lia?” the Earl asked. “He’s a fine catch with fertile land and lots of cattle.” “I’m sorry Da, but no. I dinnae think Angus and I will get along at all.” Amelia waved at Angus, saying a quick “sorry,” then walked away. Exasperated, the Earl followed behind her. “Come now Lia, this is the fifth man you have turned down in two years? I am trying to do my best for you. I promised your màthair on her deathbed.” That was the part Amelia hated the most. Her father’s best was not good enough. Her mother became a pariah because of his best. His best caused his wife, Ealdgyth, to die of heartbreak because he could not keep their marriage vows. His best meant Amelia had to take on more duties because he was rarely home. At two and twenty years old, Amelia was sick to death of her father’s best. *** Chapter 2 MacGregor Keep, Glenorchy, Perthshire, Scotland 1040 Chieftain Beiste MacGregor stood on the rocky outcrop, watching his men spar on the training grounds below. He was six foot five of pure muscle, with broad shoulders and a menacing scowl. A hardened warrior, his body bore the visible signs of battle, including a grotesque scar etched across the left side of his face from temple to chin. His bronzed skin was a vivid contrast against rolling green hills. At nine and twenty, Beiste had spent the better part of a decade fighting the wars of kings and now, he just wanted peace. On Beiste’s right hand stood the equally enormous form of his Head-Guardsman, Brodie Fletcher, and to his left was his Second-in-Command, Dalziel Robertson. Brodie was the charmer of their group, with his handsome features and friendly disposition, but rile his temper, and he was as ferocious as a bear. Dalziel was the quiet one, a keen observer. He was leaner than the other two, but twice as deadly. The three men had fostered together from boyhood and over the years had forged a kinship bond stronger than any blood tie. Ever vigilant, ever alert, they waited in silence for Beiste to speak. “King Duncan mac Crìonain is dead.” Brodie wiped the smile from his face. “How?” “Slain in battle by his cousin, Macbeth mac Findlaích.” “A family feud?” Dalziel asked. “Aye, Thorfinn Sigurdsson of Orkney, aided him.” “I take it Macbeth is now king of Alba,” Dalziel asked. “Aye, twas he who sent the King’s missive requiring my immediate action.” “What does he want with you?” Brodie asked. “I am to marry some wench from the lowlands.” “What?” Brodie looked outraged. “Surely he cannot ask that of you?” Dalziel agreed. “Tis a low blow. Everyone kens you still mourn your wife.” Beiste did not need reminding. It had been two years, but the memory of Caitrin’s death haunted him still. “He can and he has,” Beiste said with anger. “But why?” “Because she is Duncan’s niece.” “Why would he make you marry the niece of the king he just killed?” Dalziel asked. “I dinnae ken, but if I refuse, we forfeit our lands.” The men were silent, processing their options. “And what of Elora?” Brodie asked. “What of her?” “Does she ken you mean to take a wife?” “What I do is none of her concern.” “Are you sure about that?” Brodie looked doubtful. “Aye!” Beiste snapped. “Women have no say over what I do in or out of bed.” Brodie dropped the subject and glanced at Dalziel, who said nothing. They both knew Elora would not welcome the news. Dalziel asked, “When must this be done?” “Within the fortnight.” “Then we best prepare our men. Tis a sennight’s ride to the lowlands,” Brodie said. “But first we let off some steam,” Beiste replied. *** Training Grounds, MacGregor Keep Beiste swung his broadsword with a feral war cry and ran straight towards his opponent. He had already knocked out several warriors and was in the mood to pummel some more. Brodie entered the ring and parried the blow with his square-head axe. Now they were locked in combat. Beiste lifted his targe with his right arm and hit Brodie on the left side of his face. Brodie stumbled backward, but not before he swung his axe towards Beiste’s head. Beiste blocked the axe with his sword and stepped away. The two men circled one another. They had been sparring on and off for close to an hour, neither one tiring nor admitting defeat. Brodie swiped his axe again, this time at Beiste’s legs. Beiste jumped over it as it sliced through the air. He landed on his feet and, in a surprise move, sprinted headfirst and shoulder-charged Brodie. The force pushed Brodie backward so fast he lost his footing, landing flat on his back and winded. Before Brodie could roll away, the tip of Beiste’s sword was suspended and aimed two inches above his neck. “Do you yield?” Beiste asked. “Damn,” Brodie replied. He hated losing. Beiste threw his sword and targe on the ground and offered a hand to Brodie. “Truce?” Brodie agreed and just as Beiste stepped forward, Brodie swiped his legs out from under him. Both men now lay on their backs, blinking up at the sky. It was then Brodie chuckled and said, “Truce.” They lay on the ground for a moment, trying to catch their breath, when Dalziel appeared in their line of vision and threw a bucket of cold water over them. “Get up, lassies, we have packing to do,” Dalziel said, then sauntered away. “That bastard really needs a good swiving,” Brodie grumbled as he and Beiste stood up, shaking the water from their hair and wiping the dust from their trews. When they turned to face their men, there was a wall of women instead. Beiste just scowled and walked away in search of water. Brodie spread his arms wide to greet them, his face split into a fierce grin. “Ladies, I need to quench my insatiable thirst!” he shouted. Brodie was inundated with a bevy of females offering him water cups. He took one and gulped it down, deliberately flexing his muscles in the process to show his side profile to advantage. “You are so braw and strong, Brodie Fletcher,” sighed one young lass. “That I am minx, braw and strong… all over.” Brodie glanced down at his groin, then back at her and winked. She blushed and giggled. A voluptuous brunette then approached Brodie. She smiled when he turned towards her. Holding her bucket of water, she purred, “I offer you the essence of my pail and anything else you wish to partake of, Brodie Fletcher.” Brodie’s smile grew even wider. He could not quite remember her name, but he knew he would take her up on that offer later that night. Beiste was glad to be away from Brodie’s harem. Having women fawn all over him was not something he encouraged. He preferred his women wanton in bed and non-existent outside of it. He could not understand Brodie’s need to charm and seduce every woman within a ten-mile radius. Women were too much effort. *** Morag the Cailleach It was a few hours later, the Keep staff and tradespeople were preparing provisions for their chieftain’s journey. Dalziel, who was to remain and rule in Beiste’s absence, was going over security changes, and Beiste and his War Band of thirty retainers were readying their horses and making final preparations. Beiste was grooming his destrier Lucifer when all chatter ceased as men stared at a point behind him. Some made the sign of the cross, others averted their eyes as the hobbled figure waited. Beiste looked over his shoulder and stared at the wizened form of Morag Buchanan. Her face marred with wrinkles, her hair grey, and the color of her eyes were white. She wore her signature cloak. It was grey like the mist. The men called her ‘Oracle’. Some called her the Cailleach or the hag, for it was rumored she had the sight. But Beiste had never paid mind to superstition. “It seems the witch wants a word with you, Chief.” Kieran, one of his warriors, gestured towards Morag. “Aye, t’would seem so.” Beiste sighed. He put down the grooming brush and turned to face her. He really did not have time for any of her predictions, but he would hear her out. “What can I do for you, Morag?” he asked. “You go to collect your wife, I hear.” “Aye, on the morrow, but she is my betrothed, not yet my wife.” “Whether tomorrow or the next, she is your wife already chosen.” “Is there something you need Morag for I am hard-pressed for time?” He looked impatient. “Och, you young-uns, you never ken in all your rushing aboot that time has already set her trap for you.” Morag was speaking in riddles again, and Beiste did not have the patience for it. “Well then, Morag, unless you have something important to discuss —.” “Patience Chieftain, I only want to give you these for your men.” Beiste accepted the pouch and jar Morag offered, but he furrowed his brow. “What are these?” “Tis rose petals and honey.” “Why the bloody hell would my men need roses and honey?” “Your wife will ken when the time comes.” With that, Morag hobbled away, leaning on her staff. Beiste just looked down at the items and muttered under his breath, “Bloody rose petals?” “Och and Beiste…” “What?” he growled. Her eyes took on an eerie glow, then she said, “Choose well. Our future depends on it.” *** Elora It was the morning of their departure, and the men were all gathered in the bailey. Beiste had taken his leave with his mother, Jonet, and sister, Sorcha. He was just getting the horse tethered when, again; he sensed a movement behind him. Did every woman in this blasted Keep feel the need to speak to him before he left? “Elora,” he grunted. Her smile faltered at his curt tone. Beiste hated this part of dealing with women who wanted more from him than he agreed to give. Elora had warmed his bed months ago. She was the only woman he had been with since his wife’s passing. He found her naked in his bed waiting for him one night and took the pleasure she offered, making no promises in return. Ever since then, she had tried to stake some claim on him. “I heard you will be gone for a few days,” Elora said. “Aye,” Beiste replied, and continued tightening the saddle. “Were you going to tell me?” She looked irate. “I dinnae ken why I have to tell you anything, Elora.” “But I need to ken your whereabouts if I am to help run this Keep.” And there it was. Brodie and Dalziel had warned him. Elora had misconstrued their relationship or lack of one. Beiste stopped and turned to face her. Elora flinched and took a step back. He hated it when a woman cowered before him. He had never, not once, raised his hand to a woman. “Elora, whatever we had lasted only those two nights, months ago.” “But you’ve not taken anyone else to your bed, which means you must have developed powerful feelings for me.” She pouted. “Are you daft? That means nothing. We made no promises.” “But I’ve been keeping myself for you.” “Really?” Beiste raised an eyebrow. “Because I heard you took up with Lachlan three weeks ago.” Elora’s eyes grew wide. “How did you ken that?” “Lachlan asked me what my intentions were towards you, and I told him I had none.” “But I’ve changed my mind. I dinnae want Lachlan. I want you, Beiste. It has always been you.” She flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his middle. Saints preserve him. Beiste had had enough. He removed her arms from around his waist and gently but firmly set her away from him. “No!” he replied. Then he focused back on Lucifer, already clearing his mind of the woman behind him. *** Chapter 3 Belhaven Village, Dunbar - Nine days later Come on, Mary! Stop dawdling. We dinnae have time today,” Amelia said in exasperated tones as she hurried across the crowded streets of Belhaven. One hand clutching a basket now overflowing with seasonal produce, her other hand holding her sister’s tunic so as not to lose her in the crowd. It was Market Day in the village, the busiest day of the month, and there were vendors aplenty. Amelia was there to purchase more seeds for her garden and pick up silks for their seanmhair. Unfortunately, Mary, her half-sister, was dragging her feet. “I dinnae ken why you wouldna let me buy that necklace.” Mary pouted. “The vendor said twas a fair price for the quality and it made my blonde curls striking.” Amelia rolled her eyes as they weaved their way through brightly colored baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. “Mary, he would’ve said the same thing to a muddy pig if he thought it had coin to spare.” Gentling her voice, Amelia tried to placate her sister saying, “Once I get the provisions Seanmhair ordered, we can get some berry tarts.” Mary’s eyes brightened immediately. “Really? I’m famished.” The promise of sweet treats ahead motivated Mary to pick up her pace. The sisters passed stalls selling a vast array of items, from soaps and medicinal herbs and spices to fresh flowers and candy apples. Pigs were roasting over open fires, while merchants peddled their wares of silks and materials from exotic places. Amelia was so glad she had dressed in an ankle-length linen tunic. With the warmer weather and crushing crowds, it kept her cool. She had just purchased their freshly baked berry tarts when Mary started waving at someone in the crowd. “Amelia, I see some of my friends. Can I go sit with them?” “Who are they, Mary?” Amelia asked. “Tis the Frasers, Isobel and her brother Patrick. They come every few weeks to trade.” “Very well, but please mind my basket and you can take my tart to share. Tis not polite to eat on your own in front of others.” Mary’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Amie.” She hugged her and disappeared into the crowd. Amelia continued alone to secure the silks for her grandmother when a vendor stepped out in front of her. He gave her a leery look while licking his lips. “Would you like to come into my tent, lass? I have some cool cider for a pretty one like you.” His plaid looked dirty, his hair greasy, and there was an unpleasant odor wafting off him that caused Amelia to almost gag. Honestly? Amelia thought, how hard was it to bathe when the North Coast Sea was less than two hundred feet away? “No thank you, I dinnae need cider,” Amelia politely refused. He stepped closer to her, crowding her in, and she stepped around him. He was about to lunge at her when the thundering sound of horses was heard through the village. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Even the lecherous vendor turned to look behind him. Amelia took a deep breath. She could feel something coming, its raw energy warning her as the earth beneath her feet rumbled. She spun around. The villagers began muttering and grabbing their children. Some huddled behind their stalls, all eyes on the strangers approaching. They were fierce looking; they wore armor and plaid. Amelia heard a woman gasp, “Tis the MacGregors.” They looked as if they had come straight from battle. Then the same woman pointed and cried, “Tis the Beast!” Amelia looked in that direction and saw him. He was magnificent. The sheer size of him made her shudder. He emanated raw energy. His bronzed skin and black piercing eyes missed nothing. He wore an angry scowl, made even more menacing by the vicious scar across his face. Men of equal size surrounded him, all wearing the MacGregor plaid. Flanking to his right was an equally fearsome warrior wearing animal fur with a battle axe strapped to his back. Amelia stood mesmerized at the sight. It would seem the lecherous vendor had taken the opportunity of Amelia’s distraction to lunge for her again. She tried to keep clear of his grip and instead propelled too far forward; the momentum pushing her directly onto the road and into the path of the riders. She froze and knew they would trample her to death, and oh, the regret that she had not even left this miserable sodding town. Amelia heard a shout ring out from the one they called the Beast; he was riding straight for her. This was it. This was the end. She closed her eyes until she felt a firm arm reach down and sweep her up like she weighed nothing. She opened her eyes to find herself sitting atop a horse, her bottom wedged between strong thighs. The smell of leather and man rattled her senses as she drank in the heady sensation before he yelled, “Daft, wench! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” “What?” Amelia whipped her head around to glare at him but stared at a bare chest instead. The Beiste tightened his hold on her, slowed his horse, then set her down in the clearing. She looked up to offer her thanks when he reprimanded her again. “Watch where you walk, silly chit! You could’ve been hurt or maimed. What were you thinking, just standing in the middle of the road like a stunned cow?” Before Amelia could respond, he continued with his tirade. “Next time do your wool-gathering where it cannot get you bloody killed!” Outraged that she would receive such a set down by a stranger in a public place, Amelia had had enough. Not only did the big brute call her stupid, he called her a cow. A cow! After two and twenty years of having the villagers snicker at her and vile, stinking men grope her, there was no way she was letting an ogre call her a cow. With both hands firmly on her hips, Amelia let fly. “How dare you? You, big ox! You,” — Her finger pointed at him. — “should not ride into a village” — Her finger pointed at the village. — “without a care in the world!” — Both arms went up in the air gesturing the world. — “You could have killed me!” — Both hands went back to her hips — “And just because I have a big arse, it does not make me a cow!” Amelia screeched. She was out of breath, her face was red after that display and standing on the roadside venting her spleen, she had to admit she felt somewhat better. In her mind, Amelia believed she had kept a civil yet stern tongue, but when she looked around and found the entire village silent and everyone staring at her with mouths ajar, she realized she had, in fact, been screaming at high volume. Had she taken the time to think about it, she would have kept her mouth shut altogether. The Beast stared at her for what seemed like an eternity; he raised his hand to signal to his men to stop. They were currently smirking, trying to wipe the amusement from their faces. Beiste dismounted his horse and scowled, his face a mask of tightly controlled rage. He walked towards the woman he now considered a howling wench and, given his height and the length of his legs, it took him two seconds to reach her. Oh bollocks. Amelia’s throat suddenly felt parched, she could feel all the villagers behind her step away. She could already hear the bards singing about her death in a marketplace covered in candy apples, berry tarts, and horseshit. For centuries, she would be the cautionary tale for plump Gaelic women everywhere with acerbic tongues. “Bloody hell!” she muttered to herself. She was on her own. As the Beast approached, her knees trembled. She saw his broadsword sheathed in the scabbard at his side. Was that blood still on his sword? Was that the blood of another mouthy lass who dared to question him in the previous village? The road spun. She felt lightheaded, but she would not yield. Amelia raised her chin slightly. Her mind sifting through escape plans, all of them failing because she could not run without sustaining a serious chafing injury. She was doomed. Amelia looked up. The Beast was standing directly in front of her, staring down. Lud, he was huge. She braced. “The next time a man saves your life, a word of thanks would do, not your damn screaming like a banshee for the world to hear!” He roared the last part of the line. “You,” — His finger pointed at her. — “are damned lucky my men and I,” — His finger pointed at himself and his men. — “dinnae believe in harming women, if you,” — He pointed at her again. — “had challenged anyone else,” — Both his arms gestured around the village. — “who kens what your insolence could have cost you?” — He pointed at her then brought his face closer. — “Have a care for your safety lass, dinnae court danger with your reckless behavior,” he seethed. Amelia thought, for someone who accused others of screaming, he sure did a lot of bellowing himself. The Beast looked at a point behind her and shouted, “Is this your woman? If she is, you need to keep a firm hold of her tongue.” A deep voice with a smooth brogue answered, “No, she is not, but I would still prefer no harm came to her.” Amelia whipped her head back to find Mary’s friend Patrick Fraser a scant distance behind her, standing legs apart, one hand resting on the scabbard of his sword, as if ready to protect her. Bless-ed man. She spotted Mary and Isobel a safe distance away, looking worried. Amelia suddenly felt contrite and embarrassed. Could this day get any worse? “I am sorry. I thank you for saving me,” she responded, feeling genuine remorse and relief that the Beast had not taken her head off with his broadsword. The Beast continued to stare at her for a few moments, then just grunted, shook his head, and walked away. *** Could this day get any worse? Beiste could not believe the wee termagant he had just encountered. He was tired and hungry, and that besom screamed at him like a wild, stuck boar when he had just saved her life. The daft woman needed to reign in that temper of hers before she met with violence. It worried him that the bonnie lass was courting danger. The woman had a death wish. Beiste heard a chuckle from his left and gritted his teeth. Brodie the ass found the whole incident amusing and had not stopped chortling about it since they left the village. Beiste instantly regretted his decision to bring Brodie along. The man was an idiot. As they rode towards Dunbar Castle, Beiste kept thinking on the termagant once more. He noted she looked familiar, a memory from his past, those eyes of hers one brown and one green. He had seen them before. Beiste thought also of her kissable lips and luscious breasts and rounded hips. He had become aroused watching her feisty display. For a screaming banshee, she had a body built to take an enormous man without fear of breaking her. Beiste shook his head to stop the errant thoughts plaguing his mind. It had been too long since he’d had a woman. He was now lusting after some screeching, she-cat. But he would say this; she smelled of lilacs and clean fresh woodlands. If only she was not such a screamer. An even darker thought crossed his mind. What would she be like under him, screaming his name in pleasure? Damn it! He needed to stop this train of thought. Damn wench. *** Keywords: Free book, healer heroine, Scottish clans, Romantic Suspense, Medieval Empires, action and adventure, Warrior women, King Macbeth, Love at first sight, feisty heroines, over the top males, Reluctant hero, Highland warriors, 99c book, free book. Fans of the following authors are known to enjoy this Scottish Historical Romance series: Julie Garwood Michele Sinclair Diana Gabaldon Hannah Howell Donna Fletcher Maya Banks Kathryn Le Veque Mary Wine Terri Brisbin Joanna Fulford
Author: Elina Emerald
Publisher: Elina Emerald
ISBN: 0648970531
Category : Fiction
Languages : en
Pages : 236
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Book Description
Dalziel 'the Wolf' Robertson is an enigma with many secrets. Part English and part Scots, he is silent, calculating, and deadly. The traits one needs to be the Red King's assassin (BOOK 2). Estranged from his mother's side, he loathes all things English, and with the exception of his inner circle of brothers and the occasional mistress, he is content to live a reclusive life. That is until he finds himself pledged to an English wallflower with a notorious reputation for being extremely dull. For some reason, she intrigues him and threatens his resolve. Clarissa Harcourt is considered a quiet, proper, boring wallflower among the gentry. Finding herself in impoverished circumstances, she agrees to wed an unknown Scottish Highlander for a year and a day. It will be a marriage of convenience, enabling her to maintain her ruse because Clarissa has secrets of her own. Secrets that will place her life and heart at risk. If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, royal intrigue, wallflowers and broody possessive males, then you'll enjoy this book. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam. *** Prologue 1043 River Tay, Scotland Dalziel Sidheag Robertson, otherwise known as 'The Wolf,' had witnessed much death in his thirty-two years on earth. Most of it was administered by his own hand. As the Red King's assassin, he wielded his daggers with precision, a silent, deadly force. None of his targets saw or heard him coming until it was too late. His identity had remained a closely guarded secret as his legend grew in notoriety. Being marked by the Wolf was akin to being marked by the devil himself. Such was the fear he evoked. But someone other than his brothers and closest contacts now knew his secret. Dalziel stared down at the bloated corpse lying beside the River Tay. He held a cloth over his nose to prevent the stench from seeping into his pores. This was the third Angles contact who had been murdered before Dalziel could speak to him. The murderer left another perfumed note written in French. It was pinned to the man's clothing. The message was the same as the previous ones: "Je me sens seul. Louve"- I'm lonely. She-wolf Dalziel clenched his jaw in anger. He vowed whoever 'She-wolf' was, he would do everything in his power to eliminate the threat. *** Chapter 1 – The Search for a Wife Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh, Northumbria This whole wife-hunting business was giving Dalziel a headache. But he had no choice. He was in Northumbria now, a place he detested, on a mission for King Macbeth, and he needed to shackle himself to an English wife with exacting specifications so as not to arouse suspicion. Like everything else in his life, it all came down to precision. Or you were dead. Dalziel turned to his chamberlain and clerk, Rupert, and asked, "How goes the search?" Rupert replied, "I have found some women who could meet your requirements." Mrs. Armstrong, Dalziel's Scottish housekeeper, walked in with a tea tray and began setting refreshments out for the men. "What requirements would those be, me lord?" she asked. Dalziel replied, "I want a quiet woman above reproach, excellent reputation. Plain and unobtrusive. 'Twould be preferable if she had a brain in her head, and I want her to behave and dress respectably." "You forgot to mention 'walks on water and performs miracles' as well." Mrs. Armstrong smirked as she continued serving tea. Dalziel gave her a stern look, which she ignored as she placed a scone on his plate. Rupert said, "I've narrowed the list of contenders to five such women." "With criteria like that, I'm surprised ye found any," Mrs. Armstrong muttered under her breath. Dalziel scowled at his impertinent housekeeper and bit into his scone, then tried not to groan because it was delicious. She had topped it with his favorite potted cream and jam preserve. He realized that was the only reason he put up with her, and the blasted woman knew it because she gave him a smug smile. "First name on the list?" Dalziel asked Rupert after he inhaled his scone and gestured for Mrs. Armstrong to serve him another. "Delia Crawford, nineteen—" "Too young. Next," Dalziel interrupted. Rupert moved down the list. "Abigail Foster, two and twenty..." "Go on." "Daughter of a Baron, currently widowed." "Widowed? So young?" Dalziel inquired. "Her beau fought in the Welsh Battle at Rhyd Y Groes and never returned." Dalziel filed that information away and asked, "Character traits?" "Quiet, pleasant, although there is a hint of scandal." "What kind of scandal?" Dalziel raised his brow. "'Tis rumored she had an affair with—" "Next," Dalziel said. Rupert continued. "Mary Trench, three and twenty, daughter of a peer, biddable, quiet, no scandal." "Finances?" "Independently wealthy, attractive, many suitors vying for her han—" "Next. I dinnae want to be calling out love-sick beaus." Dalziel dismissed yet another contender. "Harmony Durham, four and twenty, daughter of a merchant, excellent reputation, quiet—" "And thick as two planks of wood." Mrs. Armstrong snorted, then realized she had spoken aloud. She quickly made her way out the door. Dalziel rubbed his forehead. "Continue," he said. "There is no more, my lord. This is the fifth list where you have rejected every prospective bride, but I can keep searching." Dalziel sighed. "Aye, please do. There has to be someone in this blasted shire who satisfies my conditions." Sometime later, after Rupert left, Dalziel was sitting in his study when Mrs. Armstrong hovered in the doorway. "Might I suggest something, me lord?" "Would it make any difference if I said no?" Dalziel asked. "None whatsoever," she replied as she strode across the room and took a seat. "Do make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Armstrong," he said sarcastically. "Thank ye, I shall. Now then." She sat forward as if imparting some secret wisdom. "I think ye have been going aboot this wife hunting the wrong way. Ye need to go out into society and meet women to judge for yourself." "Mrs. Armstrong, I dinnae have time to prance about searching for a wife. 'Tis why I pay Rupert to do it for me. Macbeth wants me back in Scotland. My chieftain needs me back in Scotland, and I canna let them down." "Who chooses your horses, me lord?" Mrs. Armstrong changed tack. "I do." "Why is that? Why not pay someone else to find them for ye?" "Because horses are a tremendous investment. I ken what I want, and I am an expert on horseflesh." "Surely a wife is an even greater investment, and unless ye want to put her in the stables with the horse, she will live in this house alongside ye. Would ye not want to make sure ye choose the right one?" "She may live here, but I dinnae intend to spend any time with her. I have enough trouble in Alba to contend with." "So, ye would trust a stranger ye ken nothing aboot, to live here, among all your secretive things?" She waved her hand about his study. "While you hie off to the Highlands?" Dalziel thought about it. It would be remiss of him not to at least scrutinize his future wife before deciding. Maybe it was something he needed to do himself. "Aye, point taken, Mrs. Armstrong. I'll speak to Rupert to arrange a dinner where I can meet these ladies." Mrs. Armstrong grinned. "'Tis settled then." "What is?" "There's an assembly held by the ealdormen in town tonight. I prepared your bath and clothes in your chamber. The stable boy has already brought your horse around, and Mr. Rupert will meet ye there." She took her leave. Dalziel watched her disappear down the hallway before he chuckled and shook his head. Mrs. Armstrong should be an assassin. *** Driftwood Cottage, Bamburgh, Northumbria Clarissa Harcourt dug her hands in the dirt and pulled out a parsnip. "Yes!" she shouted in defiance. "We shall eat a veritable feast tonight, Ruth." She grinned at her cook. "Where are yer shoon?" Ruth asked. "You know I dislike wearing shoes. I prefer to feel the grass under my toes and the wind in my hair," Clarissa replied, doing a quick pirouette in the dirt. "And the ague in your bones if ye're not careful," Martin, Ruth's husband, said while digging up a mix of turnips and parsnips. "'Tis not a done thing to be roaming about the countryside like a wee sprite." Ruth admonished. "Now Ruth, you flatter me, but I am not a sprite. My hips are too wide." Clarissa responded with a wink. The couple laughed. They were in their fifties and had been with Clarissa's family for years. They were the last remaining servants who stayed on after Clarissa and her brother Cedric had inherited a mountain of debt from their late father. "Ruth, mayhap you can make us a tasty parsnip pie?" "I can do that, mistress," Ruth replied cheerfully, "and we can add some cabbage to it." Clarissa glanced at the lifeless cabbage Ruth was holding up and tried not to grimace. She turned to Martin and asked, "How did you get on at the docks?" "There is still no word on the shipments or Cedric. Something does not feel right," Martin replied. "I agree. We have never gone this long without a word before. If something is not done soon, we will have to move our precious cargo and find some much-needed funds." Martin said, "I have asked at the mill, and they've agreed to take me back on half-pay if I apologize. It willna be much, but it will tie us over until we hear from Cedric." "Absolutely not, Martin. That mill owner is a cheating sack of coo dung! You should not apologize for calling him out on it." Clarissa stood and wiped her hands on her apron. "I still have pieces of jewelry I can sell to get us out of this bind." Clarissa touched the gold chain around her neck. It was all she had left of her mother, but she could not be sentimental when they were about to starve to death. "Mistress, ye cannot sell yer ma's precious necklace, 'tis all ye have to remember her by," Ruth exclaimed. "Memories will not feed us, Ruth. We need to eat, and we need to survive. Others depend on us now. Let us pray that the good lord above delivers up a miracle." No sooner had she spoken than she saw the unwelcome sight of someone approaching. Clarissa abandoned all thoughts of food, looked towards the house, and cringed. Ruth and Martin moved closer to stand behind her, no doubt for support. "Ah, Mr. Snape, what a surprise to see you," Clarissa said in greeting. Edmund Snape was a wealthy merchant and the tithing-man for their collective. It was his role to ensure each family contributed their share to the common group. He was a lanky coxcomb with a skeletal frame and greasy blond hair. Clarissa knew he was there to collect their debt. There was no way she could pay it. Not after the lean winter and the added expenses. Snape ran his beady eyes the length of Clarissa. She schooled her features even as he lingered too long upon her chest. "I am here to collect your contribution." He spoke with a hissing voice. To Clarissa, he sounded like a snake. Snape the snake, she repeated in her head before saying, "Mr. Snape, as I have discussed with you before, I must await my brother Cedric. 'Tis he who oversees our family contribution." Snape was skeptical. "What about the frankpledge? If 'tis not paid, the whole collective will suffer. I will have to involve the shire-reeve in the matter." Clarissa hid her emotion. The last thing she needed was a Reeve and law enforcer poking about their business. "Please, Mr. Snape, 'tis unnecessary to involve anyone, I just need more time. My brother—" "We all ken your brother has abandoned you," Snape hissed. "'Tis not true. Cedric will be home soon, and he will set things to rights." Clarissa was trying to keep her anger in check. She hated Snape. Clarissa could easily crush his windpipe if she wanted to, but that would only attract unwanted attention and discretion was key. Snape leaned in and whispered in her ear, his fetid breath brushing against her neckline. "Ye know my terms. Ye need only warm my bed and I'll cover the debt." Martin was raising his fist to punch Snape, but Clarissa stayed his hand and stepped back. "Thank ye for your kind offer, Mr. Snape, but I must decline." "Ye'll come around soon. I always get what I want, Clarissa..." "She's Miss Harcourt to you, you skamelar!" Ruth angrily bit out. He laughed out loud. "You think yourselves better than us, but look at ye now, just poor sods playing in the dirt." With those words, he stomped on the turnips with his shoe, crushing them into the ground. Clarissa stared in horror at the remnants of what would have been their supper. Snape's eyes raked her once over and he said, "Ye have a sennight, or ah'll be collecting your debt another way. Enjoy your supper, Miss Harcourt," he sneered, then left. When he was no longer in sight, Ruth asked, "What are we going to do, mistress?" "We need to find Cedric. I'll speak to Harmony tonight, mayhap she has heard from him. I know he loves her and if there is anyone he would contact, it would be her," Clarissa replied. "But she'll be at the town assembly, 'tis too risky to talk of matters there." "Do not fret Ruth, I'll bathe and wear my best dress so I can blend in." Clarissa turned to Martin and asked, "Can you accompany me into town?" "Aye, mistress, of course," he replied. *** Town Hall, Bamburgh From the moment Dalziel entered the assembly, several women and their mothers accosted him. It would appear everyone was expecting him and eager to make his acquaintance. "What the devil did you tell these people, Rupert?" He tried to feign a smile while talking through gritted teeth. "I just let it be known you are a wealthy thane from the Highlands, and you desperately need a suitable wife." "You did what?" Dalziel frowned. "How the hell can I meet anyone if I keep getting attacked by women with embroidered handkerchiefs?" He plucked out several surreptitiously tucked into his coat and dropped them on the floor. Rupert just shrugged. It was an hour later when Dalziel could finally extricate himself from a group of marriage-minded mothers and their desperate offspring. He quickly made his way out to the hallway to get some fresh air. That was when he saw her. She had vibrant auburn hair tied back in a severe bun, although the curls seemed to struggle for freedom. Her eyes were green and glittered like emeralds. She stood against a wall beside a woman with raven-black hair, and they appeared to be talking in urgent whispers. He thought her unremarkable. Her clothing was modest and her face unpainted. Average height, nicely curved and rather plain, but those eyes captured his attention. They sparkled with intelligence and amusement despite the serious frown on her face. He began circling. Dalziel asked Rupert, "Who is that woman?" "Clarissa Harcourt." "Husband?" "None." "Why was she not on the list?" Dalziel asked. "I thought her a bit too long in the tooth." "How old?" "Eight and twenty," Rupert replied. Dalziel was glad she was closer to his age. "What of her family?" he asked. "Father was a Marquess, her mother was a foreigner, merchant class." Rupert turned up his nose at the word 'foreigner'. "She has one brother, although no one has seen him for some time." Dalziel kept watching Clarissa and her friend. Both women were becoming agitated about something. "What is she like?" "Wallflower, boring, horrendous to be around." "How do you ken that?" "'Tis just what most gentlemen say about her, especially ones who have tried to woo her in the past. Lord Chamberlain and Lord Lancet over there." Rupert nodded towards the two men on the other side of the Hall. "They say she is dull as ditchwater." "I see. And the woman beside her?" Dalziel asked. "That is Harmony Durham. She was on the list you rejected." "Ah, the one Mrs. Armstrong believes to be a dunce. How do they ken each other?" "Alas, my lord, I know nothing more about Miss Harcourt other than what I have told you." "Then I shall have to find out for myself. Introduce me." Dalziel nudged Rupert with his elbow. "My lord?" Rupert stammered, slightly taken aback. "I'd like to ken her better, see if she is suitable. Introduce me." "But... but surely there are—?" "There are what, Rupert?" "Prettier... younger options." Dalziel felt affronted by Rupert's words and glared. "Rupert, I suggest you stop degrading my potential future wife before you find yourself unconscious on the floor." "So sorry, forgive the impertinence. I will organize an introduction at once." Dalziel watched Rupert make his way across the crowded room, but before Rupert reached the woman in question, she had inched her way to a side entrance and disappeared. *** Clarissa So that was the wild Highlander. Clarissa felt unnerved by the meticulous attention he was paying her, but she ignored it. When she had come to the assembly, her only thought was to get word to Harmony then leave. But everywhere she turned, all anyone could talk about was a mysterious Scottish thane in want of a wife. Then, when he entered the room, Clarissa held her breath in astonishment. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and he vibrated with raw, virile energy until it was overwhelming. He towered above the other men and wore expensive garments. The way he filled his clothes, especially his trews with strong lean thighs, made other men seem like spineless nothings. He had long blond hair parted and braided on both sides with leather ties through the braids and leather bands on his wrists. His hands were large and rugged, not soft and effeminate like other men, and his skin had been kissed by the sun. He made her heart race. When he scanned the room, she leaned back into the shadows along the wall and observed him from the safety of her vantage point. He reminded her of a predator. He did not walk; he stalked, and his keen assessing eyes missed nothing. Clarissa felt a slight pang of jealousy when he was approached by so many beautiful women. She glanced down at her shabby dress and shook her head. Clarissa was no young miss in bloom, and her outfit, once the height of fashion, was now outdated by several seasons. She was far too plain and poor to interest such a man. Melancholia settled over her once more. She needed to stop these fanciful thoughts. There were much more important matters to attend to. People's lives were at stake, and she had to get this done and leave. Clarissa focused on her brother's sweetheart, Harmony. She always had to break matters down for Harmony because, as passionate as Harmony was for the Cause, she was not very bright. "Harmony, have you heard any word from Cedric? Anything at all? Even about the shipments?" "No, nothing, not even a letter. I am most upset that he has shown no regard for my fragile feelings." Harmony pouted. "Then we must change our plans. I will be at the docks tomorrow night, and if anyone asks about Cedric, please tell them you have seen him at your townhouse, and he is well." "But I have not seen him, Clarissa. I thought that was what we just established." Harmony stared at her like she was daft. Clarissa was growing frustrated. She often wondered what Cedric saw in Harmony because, after two minutes in her company, Clarissa wanted to bludgeon her to death. "I know that, and you know that, but the shire-reeve does not know that. He has been keeping watch over our movements," Clarissa explained. "Oh, so you need me to lie for you and pretend that I have seen Cedric?" "Yes, just this once, and I'll never ask it again. I would not even ask it now if I did not have the tithing-man breathing down my neck. Until I find Cedric, people need to believe he has not abandoned the Cause." "And this will help the Cause?" "Yes, it will, Harmony. Please, just do this one thing." Harmony twirled her hair with her finger, then nodded. "All right, Clarissa. I shall be proud to lie on your behalf." She giggled. Clarissa sighed. These were desperate times. "Thank you, Harmony, but please try not to tell people you're lying." "Oh, of course not, 'tis our secret." Harmony tapped her nose and winked twice. When Clarissa glanced around the hall, she noticed the Highlander had moved and was now speaking to someone else. They were both glancing in her direction. She stared at a distant point in the ceiling so as not to make eye contact. "Can I dance now?" Harmony asked. "Aye, of course. Thank you again," Clarissa replied. Harmony smiled. "'Tis my pleasure." They parted ways. Clarissa slipped through the side entrance. It was time to leave. But first, she was going to peruse the supper table. No point in having all that food go to waste. *** The Supper Table Dalziel stalked his prey from the shadows. It had taken him a while to guess Clarissa's destination, but now she was alone at the supper table, while everyone was busy dancing in the hall. He watched her covet the fare, lick her lips before she pulled out a piece of cloth, and wrapped an assortment of food in it. She then placed her haul into her reticule. It was all done in a very ladylike fashion. Anyone staring from afar would not even notice. Once her bag was full, she grabbed a tart, took a bite out of it, closed her eyes, and moaned. Dalziel went rock hard instantly. He had never been so turned on watching a woman eat before. She ate the rest of the tart, wiped her lips discreetly, then moved away from the table. Before he could gather his scattered thoughts, she turned and slipped out another door leading towards the stables. *** Clarissa walked at a brisk pace down the dimly lit path. Her reticule was full, and the tart had taken the edge off her hunger. Her mind was already ticking on the many things she needed to accomplish. She spied Martin milling about inside the stables with the other men. She just needed to get to him, and they could leave. She stopped in her tracks and stiffened. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as the looming sight of Edmund Snape stepped out in front of her to block her pathway. "Well now, what do we have here? You're looking vera fine tonight, Miss Harcourt," he rasped. "Thank you, Mr. Snape. I was just on my way home, but you best hurry or you'll miss the festivities inside." Clarissa sidestepped to the right to get around him, but he moved as well and blocked her path. She sidestepped to the left, and he moved in unison. "Please move out of my way, sir," she demanded. "Now why would I do that when a pretty woman stands before me, begging to be taken in hand?" Clarissa snorted while staring at Snape's effeminate, skeletal fingers. She realized her mistake when his hand shot out and gripped her wrist, pulling her towards him. His fingers dug into her skin and it hurt. Clarissa cursed the confines of her garment. If it were not the only decent gown she had left, she would think nothing of tearing it so she could kick him in the groin. She tried to wriggle free, but he was too strong. The other alternative open to her was to drop her reticule and throat punch him, but she preferred to eat tonight and refused to risk her supper for any man. "Unhand me," she said in anger. But it was no use. Snape was pulling her towards him. His other hand latched onto the back of her neck. Clarissa grimaced, knowing he was going to kiss her. "Let go of me!" She was struggling to break free and resisted the pull. He dipped his head and was moving his narrow lips towards hers. Clarissa scrunched her eyes shut. Her only alternative was to headbutt him and possibly break his nose. She was preparing to do just that when she heard a menacing voice in a Scottish brogue demand, "Let her go or you will die where you stand." Snape immediately released her. Clarissa stumbled backward and came up against a solid chest. She opened her eyes and found herself ensconced within the Highlander's arm. His front to her back, one arm banded around her waist, holding her tight against his body while his other arm was outstretched. He wielded a long dagger. The sharp tip of the blade rested on Snape's neck. If Snape moved even an inch, the blade could kill him. "Touch her again and I will kill you," Dalziel said. Snape paled and began sweating profusely and trembling. "Me lord, 'tis a misunderstanding is all," Snape replied. Dalziel kept his eyes on Snape and asked, "What would you like me to do with this one?" Clarissa was still reeling from the heady sensation of being held so intimately by the Highlander before it registered that he was asking her a question. She tilted her head and stared up at his firm jawline. "Would stabbing him in the groin be asking too much?" she asked. Dalziel immediately glanced down and had to catch his breath as his eyes clashed with emerald-colored ones. He realized he was wrong in his earlier estimations. She was not plain at all; she was exquisite, and her eyes danced with amusement. His face split into a wide grin, and he burst out laughing. The movement caused the tip of his blade to nick Snape's neck and draw blood. "Me lord!" Snape screeched. "You're cutting me." Dalziel turned back to Snape and replied, "Och, so I am." He sheathed his dagger. "Leave now before I cut you some more." Snape turned and ran. Dalziel continued to hold Clarissa as they both watched Snape stumble towards his horse, trip and fall over, then get up and keep running. Clarissa breathed in Dalziel's masculine scent. She wanted to burrow deeper into his arms, but it was a public place, and she soon came to her senses. "Thank you. I am most grateful for your help." Dalziel leaned in closer. He wanted to keep her and bury his face in her neck. But he reluctantly released her when he felt her pull away. Clarissa turned to face him. She appeared nervous and vulnerable. Dalziel felt the need to protect her. He wanted to feed her and make sure she never had to fill her pouch with food. That she never wanted for anything. He mentally shook himself. What the hell was happening to him? He could not afford to get close to anyone. He was dangerous. Dalziel stepped away and put distance between them. His smile disappeared, replaced by a stony stare. He noticed her amusement faded as if a veil descended. Her face became serious as she stepped further away, taking his cue. Dalziel wanted to pull her back into his arms, but again he berated himself for such soft emotions. He was an assassin. His enemies were deadly. No, he needed to stop this now. Rationalize and separate, he kept repeating to himself. "Who was that man?" he asked. "He is the tithing-man, Edmund Snape, and a neighbor. 'Twas a misunderstanding is all." Dalziel was skeptical. He would gather details later. Silence filled the space between them as they gazed at one another. Rupert shattered the quiet. "Miss Harcourt, I see you have met Lord Stanhope. I have been searching for you both everywhere." "'Tis Dalziel Robertson, Stanhope is a mere title," Dalziel said. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I am Miss Clarissa Harcourt." She reached out her hand in greeting. Dalziel instantly took it and nodded. "'Twould seem your introductions are no longer necessary, Rupert," Dalziel grumbled. Rupert blushed at his tardiness and the reprimand. A young woman requesting a dance had waylaid him and he forgot his task altogether. "Do you require an escort home, lass?" Dalziel asked Clarissa. "No, 'tis all right. My steward is waiting just in the stables. I should go. He will worry." Dalziel nodded and watched her leave. A strange feeling came over him. He did not like it. He could not fathom why she had such an effect on him. Then he decided he would not marry her. She made him feel too much, and what he needed was a marriage where he felt nothing. Dalziel had vowed that he would not repeat the mistakes of his father. Nothing good ever came from loving an English woman. He should know. His mother was one, and it almost destroyed their lives. Clarissa Harcourt was dangerous. Dalziel sent one of his men to ensure Clarissa made it home safely. It was the least he could do. Then he returned to the hall and tried to clear his mind of the tempting vixen. That night Clarissa, Martin, and Ruth filled their bellies with fancy fare Clarissa had smuggled in her bag. When she slept, she dreamed of a naked Scotsman ravishing her on the dance floor. Meanwhile, a few miles away, Dalziel tossed and turned in his bed, dreaming of a luscious auburn-haired nymph with green eyes having her way with him as he slept. *** Chapter 2 – Precious Cargo Dalziel’s Study, Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh "You do not wish to marry Miss Harcourt?" Rupert asked. "Aye, she is not suitable," Dalziel replied. "But you seemed taken with her last night." "That was last night. Today is today." "Do you wish for me to make a new list?" "No, I have found someone else." "Who?" Rupert asked, surprised. "Harmony Durham. She seems a simple sort who will fit the role nicely." Dalziel felt the weight of Rupert's judgment. But he did not need to explain himself to anyone. Mrs. Armstrong barged her way into Dalziel's study. "So, how did it go at the assembly, me lord?" "I met a woman who I will call upon tomorrow with an offer." "Are you sure you won't reconsider Miss Harcourt?" Rupert asked. "You met Clarissa?" Mrs. Armstrong perked up and clutched her pearl necklace. Rupert gave Mrs. Armstrong a knowing glance and said, "Not only did he meet her, but they were having a very private talk outside in the dark, just the two of them." "Och, really? That is wonderful. What did she say? What was she wearing?" Dalziel snapped, "Mrs. Armstrong, I have a pair of balls in case you failed to notice and will not be drawn into some ladies' gossip hour." Mrs. Armstrong seemed to deflate. "No need to be crude, me lord. I just like the lass. 'Tis a pity about her reduced circumstances." Dalziel wanted to ask her what she meant, but Mr. Bell, his steward, interrupted them to announce a visitor. "My lord, Mr. Arrowsmith is here to see you. He came via the alley way." "Thank you. Send him in." A few moments later, the imposing figure of Highlander Ewan Arrowsmith filled Dalziel's doorway. Ewan was the same height as Dalziel, with a solid build. He wore his plaid with pride and was armed with a vast array of weaponry. Arrowsmith was a spy for Macbeth and one of Dalziel's trusted contacts in Northumbria. He was also an exceptional bowyer and often disguised his activities, working in various guilds across the country. For him to seek Dalziel in daylight meant whatever message he had was important. Rupert and Mrs. Armstrong excused themselves from the room as Arrowsmith entered and sat down. Dalziel poured them both a dram of whiskey and shut the door. "What news have you?" "There has been another murder and another note," Arrowsmith said with a Scottish lilt to his baritone voice. "Damn it to hell," Dalziel cursed and began pacing the room. "When?" "Last night. One of my men met a servant of Earl Siward. We found him at the docks this morning with his throat slit and the French message pinned to his shirt." "What led him to seek this servant?" Dalziel asked. "Rumor is Siward is siding with Malcolm of Cranmore and making moves to force a war with Macbeth. An ambush of sorts." "Any news of this servant now?" "Vanished." "Male or female?" "Female." "Something is off about all of this. Someone kens our every move before we even make it," Dalziel said. "Which leads me to believe..." "The enemy is one of our own." Arrowsmith finished his sentence for him. "Aye," Dalziel replied. "We should make inquiries at the docks tonight. Someone must have seen or heard something." Arrowsmith nodded in agreement. Dalziel changed the subject and asked, "What do you ken of a tithing-man, Edmund Snape?" "Cunning, unscrupulous coward," Arrowsmith replied, then downed the shot of whiskey. "Why do you ask?" "I caught him trying to attack a young lady last night." "The bastard! Which lady?" "Clarissa Harcourt. Do you ken her?" "I've seen her about town. She is a quiet one. Keeps to herself but I've always thought her vera bonnie with nice curves." Dalziel growled. "You've been staring at her curves, have you? You think she's bonnie, do you?" He glared at Arrowsmith. "Depends." "On what?" "On whether you're going to hit me if I say aye." Arrowsmith gestured towards Dalziel's clenched fists, which were primed for a fight. Dalziel immediately relaxed. He was not sure what had come over him, but hearing Arrowsmith, the braw bastard, talk about Clarissa's curves made him see red. "Mayhap we should discuss the docks and stay clear of discussing your woman for now." "She's not my woman," Dalziel snapped. Arrowsmith raised his hands palm up in a show of surrender. "All right, calm doon. I was only jesting." He studied Dalziel with curiosity. He had never seen the man show any kind of emotion before, especially over a lass. *** Dockside, Bamburgh, Northumbria It was 2 am, and Clarissa and her men were in place. With no sign of her brother Cedric, she moved their precious cargo under the cover of darkness. They crouched beside large barrels outside the dockside brothel and waited for the coast to clear. She wore her usual attire of trews, tunic, and boots. Her normally unruly hair bound tight and pinned to a cap. All of them had their faces smudged with dirt and soot to blend in. Jean-Luc, her cousin, disappeared inside the brothel, then came out a few minutes later with three women and two small children. Clarissa calmed their fears as Pierre, Jean-Luc's brother, rushed them to the waiting boat. "Where are the others?" she asked Jean-Luc. "They will not leave for fear o' Goldie," he replied. Goldie was a vicious Irishman. He owned the docks, and he was not a man to cross. "What do you mean, they will not leave?" Clarissa asked with urgency. "'Tis all or nothing." "Mistress, something is not right, 'tis too quiet, we need to go now," Martin said. He had his eyes fixed on the brothel. Clarissa was just about to agree when Toby, their lookout, came running around the side of the building yelling, "Go! Go!" A distance away, she spotted five large men giving chase. Pierre jumped into the boat and grabbed the set of oars fastened to the oarlocks. Toby ran past them. He loosened the ropes, then jumped in and took up the second pair of oars. "Get in," he yelled. "Bugger," Martin cursed. "Mistress, they're too close. Go with others. Me and Jean-Luc will hold them off to give you a head start." "Go, Ris," Jean-Luc demanded. "No, I am not leaving you two." There was no way she was returning to the cove to explain to Ruth that she had abandoned her husband at the pier. "Mademoiselle, we need to go now!" Pierre shouted, already maneuvering his oars in the water. Clarissa could see the women and children trembling in fear, and she made a split-second decision. Precious cargo. She bent down, pushed the boat away from the dock, and shouted at Pierre to stick to the plan. She heard him cursing at her in French, but he complied. She then faced the attackers, took a fighting stance, and brought her fists up. "I'll take the short one on the left." "Guess I'll take the rest then," Jean-Luc grumbled. "What am I, chopped liver?" Martin sounded insulted. Clarissa braced as the five men circled them. Martin did not wait; he launched straight in, swinging and took down two. They were currently grappling on the ground. The other three attacked at once. Jean-Luc got one in a chokehold while fending off another. The last man headed straight for Clarissa. He swung, and Clarissa ducked and jabbed him in the groin. She watched him wince in pain before she felt the pain explode across her cheekbone as his fist connected with her face. Clarissa cursed, knowing it would leave a bruise. She dodged the next swing he aimed at her, then she ran straight at him and pushed him hard towards the edge of the dock. He teetered before falling backward into the murky waters. She scanned the sea; the boat was a good distance away and disappearing into the dark mist. At least that was one less thing to worry about, she thought. Clarissa ran to help Martin and Jean-Luc, who were contending with the other four. But each time she tried to get a few punches in, Martin and Jean-Luc blocked her path. Bloody hell. She hated it when they tried to protect her. She did what she could between gaps and managed a few kicks and punches. She also monitored the man in the water who was trying to climb into a boat and failing miserably. His only choice would be to swim to shore and that would keep him out of their way. *** Brawling It was a quiet night at the docks as Dalziel and Arrowsmith slunk in the shadows, doing the rounds, asking questions, and handing over coins for information. They were just stepping out of an inn when they heard shouting coming from the pier. "What is it?" Dalziel asked Arrowsmith. "Appears to be a scuffle, four against three, and the odds dinnae favor the three. One of them is a mere lad." "Aye, 'tis a most unfair fight. The other two are trying to protect him." Arrowsmith and Dalziel did not wait. They ran towards the fighting. "What the devil is going on here?" Dalziel yelled. "Mind yer own fancy pants, 'tis nothing to do with ye," said a big burly man. "I say different." Dalziel punched him in the jaw. And all hell broke loose. Clarissa could not believe her eyes when she glimpsed two Highlanders emerge from the darkness. They resembled avenging angels. She recognized them straight away. Dalziel and Arrowsmith, the bowyer from town. She stood mesmerized by their fighting style. The tide soon turned, and her attackers barely escaped with their lives. She was so caught up in awe at Dalziel's combat abilities, she almost forgot herself. "Bloody hell, Ris, hide!" Jean-Luc scolded her inattention. Clarissa instantly ducked behind Martin when the attackers fled, and Dalziel headed towards her. Dalziel asked, "Are you all right lad? You took a bit of a beating?" Clarissa kept her head down and said in a gruff voice, "Aye, thank ye, me lord. I am hale." Arrowsmith asked, "You sure? If you need tending lad, we can see to it." He moved towards her when Martin blocked his path. "'Tis grateful we are that ye helped us, me lords. My nephew is vera shy. Takes after me dearly departed sister, God rest her soul. Gets nervous around strangers." "Aye, very nervous," Clarissa grunted in a deep voice. "Why were you set upon?" Dalziel asked. "We'd come for a night at the brothel and for no reason these ruffians attacked us," Martin replied. "Well, you best leave now. 'Tis not safe here at night. No doubt they'll be back with more men if we dally." Dalziel bid them goodnight and they left. Martin, Clarissa, and Jean-Luc did not hesitate. They fled in the opposite direction, intending to put as much distance between them, Goldie, and the Scotsmen. They had a rendezvous at the cove. *** The Journey Home "'Twas it just me, or did that lad look familiar?" Dalziel asked Arrowsmith as they rode home. "Aye, there is something about him. I am sure I've seen him before. What did you think of his fighting style?" Arrowsmith asked. "Full of spirit. He even landed a few good hits," Dalziel replied. "I wonder what they were really doing down at the docks," Arrowsmith said. "Aye. 'Twas like they were protecting the lad from us. No doubt it could be a member of the peerage out for a swiving and things went awry." "I just wonder who they annoyed to earn the wrath of Goldie's men," Arrowsmith pondered out loud. "We've probably made an enemy of Goldie now as well," Dalziel replied. "That Irishman has always been my enemy. The fight tonight made no difference," Arrowsmith said. Dalziel wondered what Arrowsmith meant. He knew there was a bigger story there but would not pry. Arrowsmith guarded his privacy fiercely. As they journeyed home, Dalziel found his mind drifting to Clarissa Harcourt. He had been doing that a lot lately. He wondered what she was doing tonight and what she would think of him brawling on the dockside like a common thug. She would most likely shun him if she knew. Still, he felt exhilarated after a good fight. Usually, he sought the company of a woman after a brawl for a hard coupling. It was probably why Lenora, his ex-mistress, had lasted so long. In his line of work, he often needed release. Lenora was one of the few women who enjoyed a bit of rough play. Dalziel found it interesting he had not seen or thought of Lenora in months, despite her attempts to rekindle a relationship. He wondered if Clarissa could provide him the physical succor he craved after a good fight. Just the thought of her tied to his bed, naked, blindfolded, and under his complete control heated his blood. Damn it. He swore at himself. Why the hell could he not get that bloody woman out of his head? Dalziel was even more determined to get married to Miss Durham soon and return to Scotland before his growing obsession with Miss Harcourt caused him to misstep. *** The Cove It was 4am when Clarissa reached the cove. They had covered their tracks well, and now they had to sit tight for a few days and wait on Cedric. Clarissa was pleased to see the women and children settled, although Pierre, the fiery head of her cousins, was furious and rained a string of expletives in French and English at her for putting her life in danger. "If something happens to you, we lose all. You are the one who keeps things together, Ris! You, and no one else." Pierre's voice cracked with emotion. "I am sorry, Cousin, truly I am. I will take better care next time." She hugged him, which seemed to appease him. "What I want to know is how we were discovered?" Toby asked. "Aye, 'twas like they were waiting for us," Martin replied. "Goldie's men were not supposed to be there at all. Someone knew our plans," Jean-Luc added. Clarissa's brow furrowed. The men had a point. Someone had snitched, and it nearly cost them dearly. Until she discovered who it was, they were all in danger. *** Durham Town House, Bamburgh The next morning, Dalziel walked up the stairs to the large townhouse of one Harmony Durham. It was in a busy part of town, with people bustling past. He knew it was time to visit his prospective bride and hopefully formalize a pledge so he could return to his duties in Scotland. He was admitted by a stoic butler and shown into a drawing room and waited. It was not long before Harmony appeared carrying a small kitten, and he immediately regretted his decision. "Your Lordship, Lily and I welcome you." "Lily?" "My kitten. Please say hello or she will feel very neglected." Harmony pouted and raised the kitten's paw to shake Dalziel's hand. Dalziel reluctantly shook it, and the kitten bit him. He gritted his teeth and snatched his hand away. "Aw, I think Lily likes you." Harmony giggled, oblivious to the hostile hissing stand-off that was taking place between Dalziel and Lily. "Please take a seat." Dalziel sat and wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this situation. He had never, not once, made a misstep in any decision pertaining to the king's missions. Until now. Everything about his hasty decision made him second guess his ability to think straight. "Have you come about Cedric?" Harmony asked. "Who's Cedric?" "Oh, nothing. I thought this was the part where I am supposed to explain..." "Explain what?" "No, wait... now I am confused. Oh, I am making a muddle of things," Harmony said with a vacant expression. "But tell me, what brings you here?" Dalziel's instincts were screaming at him to change course. He could not go through with it and he knew it had to do with a green-eyed minx and the hissing feline now sinking its claws into his ankle. "I had actually come to discuss the prospect of a marriage arrangement between us." "You want to marry me?" Harmony asked, surprised. "No, I mean yes, but before, not now," Dalziel stammered. Another thing he had never done before. Dalziel had never in his life been double-minded and unsure of himself. He had never experienced indecision. It was crippling. He stood abruptly, pried Lily and her teeth from his leg, and placed her on the chair. "My apologies for the intrusion. I must leave." He strode out of the room. Harmony followed close on his heels. "Wait, did we just get betrothed, my lord?" "No, we did not," he clipped and marched out the front door, and kept walking. He had just crossed the road when he saw Clarissa walking in the park a short distance away. Speak of the devil. Before he thought better of it, his legs were moving in her direction. When he was closer, he called out, "Miss Harcourt?" She spun around; her hand raised in a fist. She instantly dropped it when she saw it was just him. Dalziel apologized. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you." "'Tis all right." Clarissa smiled. "I thought you were... someone else." Dalziel peered down at her. Then his entire body locked. He clenched his jaw and his face filled with rage. Clarissa took a step back. "What is the matter?" Dalziel's hand shot out, and he cupped her chin, tilted her face to the side, and in an angry voice said, "Who. Did. This?" Clarissa blushed. She had forgotten about her bruised cheek courtesy of the dockside brawl. "Was it Snape? I'll kill him," Dalziel growled. "No, 'twas no one. 'Twas an accident," Clarissa replied. Dalziel tilted her face to the other side. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" He released her chin, then physically turned her around to inspect for himself. Clarissa was feeling self-conscious, given the number of people milling about. She tried to slap his hands away as he turned her again, searching for visible signs of bruising. She said, "No, my lord, but I would appreciate it if you stopped. People are staring." "Dalziel," he said. "I beg your pardon?" she looked confused. "You will call me Dalziel." "I will do no such thing, Lord Stanhope. Now will you please stop touching me? 'Tis attracting attention!" Dalziel released her, but he did not step away. Instead, he gently brushed his knuckle across her cheek then whispered, "Who did this to you, mo chridhe?" Clarissa refrained from shivering at his gentle caress. Did he just call her 'my heart?' His expression was pained on her behalf, and her heart melted a little. Clarissa reached up and clasped his hand. "Really, 'tis nothing but an accident. I thank you for your concern, but there is no need." Her voice was a soft whisper and her message heartfelt. They stood in silence for some time. Then Dalziel took a step back, folded his arms across his chest, his feet spaced apart taking a wide stance. "You will give me a name." Bollocks! He would not drop it. Clarissa scrambled to make up a story, then stopped herself. Why should she make up a story? She owed him no explanation. She fumed that he was making demands of her when she was minding her own matters walking in a park. "No," she replied. "What do you mean, no?" He raised an eyebrow. "No, is an easy enough word to comprehend. I have told you it was an accident and that should suffice." "Well, 'tis insufficient," Dalziel said. Clarissa gritted her teeth. "With respect, you are not my brother or my husband, and I do not answer to you. Good day." She moved to walk past him. Dalziel glared at the defiant wench. She was a spitfire when angry, and she was too thin. She had dark smudges under her eyes and seemed exhausted. He remembered Mrs. Armstrong mentioning something about 'reduced circumstances,' and he did not like the thought of her suffering. He also knew the woman needed protection, and right there in the park, Dalziel decided he was going to be the man to take on that role. Mine! said that possessive voice in his head. "'Tis Dalziel to you, and while I may not be your brother, I have every intention of becoming your husband, so you best get used to it," he growled. Clarissa paused and stared at him, mouth ajar. "Now, if you will excuse me, Clarissa, I have matters to attend to and my clerk will be in touch." Dalziel turned, walked away with determined steps, then yelled over his shoulder, "And I will get that name, Ris." With those parting words, he left her standing speechless in the park not only because of his husband comment, but also because he had just called her by her nickname. Ris. *** Dalziel’s Study, Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh "So, you're not marrying Harmony Durham now?" Rupert asked Dalziel. "Not a chance." "What do you want me to do with Harmony's contract?" "Tear it up. Make a new one." "Whose name should I place on this new one?" Rupert asked. "Clarissa Harcourt's," Dalziel replied. *** That afternoon, Dalziel called his most trusted staff members together to let them know his plans. "Mrs. Armstrong and Mr. Bell, I have found a wife. I would like the chambers and solar prepared for her. When she arrives, you will both guide her in domestic matters. Rupert, you will monitor the working accounts and ensure she has adequate money for all domestic needs. I will sign off on any expenses." Dalziel paced the floor, then continued. "While she remains under this roof, we will accord her the proper respect as my wife. However, I expect if there is anything unscrupulous about her behavior, you will report these to me." They all nodded in agreement. Mrs. Armstrong was practically brimming with excitement at the prospect of a wedding. "Oh, 'tis exciting, me lord. So, what did the lucky lady say when ye proposed?" "'Twas not exactly a proposal," Dalziel replied. Mr. Bell glanced at Mrs. Armstrong, who jabbed him in the side. "Then what was it exactly?" She frowned in confusion. "I told her I was going to become her husband and that she would hear from my clerk." Dalziel was met with stunned silence from the three of them. Rupert cleared his throat then asked, "So, am I to propose on your behalf?" Dalziel replied, "Aye, you will present her with my terms. I am sure she will accept." "Pardon me for saying so, but I really thought a man of your caliber had better wooing skills than that," Mr. Bell scoffed. "I agree, me lord. That would have to be the most unromantic proposal I have ever heard." Mrs. Armstrong shook her head. Dalziel replied, "I dinnae care about romance and wooing. She will agree because I will make her an offer too good to refuse." *** Chapter 3—Pledged Driftwood Cottage, Bamburgh – ‘Eat’ Clarissa slept in until 10.am, which was late for her. She dragged her weary body out of bed, washed and dressed, then went downstairs. She had just entered the small kitchen when she heard voices coming from the front door. Before long, Martin and Ruth appeared, excitable. "Mistress, look." They each held an enormous basket of food. "Where did you get those?" "'Twas delivered just now. There's a note." Clarissa read the card, which just said, "Eat." It was signed by Dalziel. She chuckled and shook her head. Even when giving gifts, the man was demanding. They unloaded the items onto the kitchen table. One basket contained salted beef, smoked ham with a jar of applesauce, pickled onions, fresh loaves of bread, and cheese, a large bag of flour, sugar, salt, freshly baked scones, and sweetened preserves. The second basket contained eggs, butter, milk, wine, cider, some root vegetables, apples, and leafy greens. There was enough there to keep them fed for a while, and Clarissa had never felt so grateful. The three of them practically salivated over the fare. Ruth said, "We should make ourselves a large pot of tea and devour the scones with cream and preserves." "And we can have ham and cheese sandwiches," Martin piped in. "And wash it down with fresh milk!" Clarissa laughed. Then they sobered and became quiet. "How many people do ye think this could feed?" Martin asked. Ruth sighed. "We could make a lot of sandwiches from this fare and a hearty broth to go with it." "The children would love the preserves," Clarissa added. "Bugger," Martin said. "'Twas a wonderful dream while it lasted." Clarissa just sighed. "I suggest we make one sandwich each to fill our bellies. The rest I'll take to the cove." They nodded in agreement. Ten minutes later, the three of them gathered for a meal of one ham and cheese sandwich each with a cup of sweet tea, and Clarissa gave thanks to the Lord above for their bounty. "I will need to thank Lord Stanhope in person for these gifts. But I wonder what he means by sending them?" Clarissa asked. "Mayhap he's trying to fatten you up for Christmas," Ruth replied with a smirk. "Question is, what does he expect in return?" Martin said. That afternoon they had their answer when Rupert, Dalziel's clerk, arrived with an offer Clarissa could not in good conscience refuse. *** Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh Clarissa sat in an armchair watching the candle clock. She willed herself to remain completely still and not fidget. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and ignored the overwhelming presence of the large Highlander studying her from across the desk. She could not believe she was doing this, but she had no choice. With still no word from Cedric and their frankpledge due, this was the best alternative to keep them all out of the poorhouse. When the marriage offer arrived via Rupert, she was surprised Dalziel had been serious in the park and chose her to be his bride. The secret terms were agreeable to Clarissa. She was of age and did not need Cedric's consent, so she accepted. It would be a marriage of convenience for a year and a day in name only. When it was over, she would be remunerated, and they would quietly separate whilst seeking an annulment. Once married, she would become Lady Stanhope, and Dalziel would provide her with an allowance adequate to meet her needs. Dalziel had inherited his English grandfather's title. Clarissa knew nothing of her husband's Scottish side or why a man of property and handsome features would need to purchase an impoverished bride. These were matters she decided best left to his discretion. As long as she had funds to continue her work, the rest was trivial. They would present a united front to the township but in private lead very separate lives. A part of her felt maudlin at the thought Dalziel only offered for her out of convenience and not because of any desire or attraction he may have towards her. But she remained pragmatic. At eight and twenty, Clarissa knew her chances for a love match and a lasting marriage had dwindled. No man would gaze upon her with desire, and she felt that deep down in her marrow. No longer in her first bloom, Clarissa had neither beauty nor wealth to recommend her, and a woman in her circumstances could not afford the luxury of vanity or romantic feelings. Dalziel emphasized the need for separate private lives, further demonstrating there was no room for physical or emotional intimacy between them, and it was to be strictly a marriage in name only. She assumed that also meant he would stay out of her private life as well. This was the boon Clarissa required for the Cause. It was an answer to her prayers, and only a foolish woman would turn down a lucrative offer of freedom from societal strictures via a pretend marriage. Clarissa licked her lips, and her stomach grumbled as she eyed the abundant sandwich platter and scones Mrs. Armstrong had set out for them. Clarissa had not eaten since the ham and cheese sandwich the day before. She wanted to stuff every morsel in her mouth and savor the taste, but she would not ruin her comportment. Now was not the time to lose her composure. Too much rested on her ability to play her part and get this over with. If Dalziel wanted prim, proper, and dull as a stonefish, she would give it to him in spades. Her fiancé sat across from her in complete silence as they waited for Rupert to complete the contract. Then he leaned across the table, stacked a small plate with sandwiches and scones, and pushed it towards her. In a deep voice, he commanded, "Eat." It startled her at first. Clarissa blushed and then accepted the offering, being careful to take dainty bites while secretly groaning inside as the delicious food exploded on her taste buds. Dalziel poured her some tea and placed the cup and saucer beside her plate. "Drink," he said. He waited until she complied with his demand before he helped himself to a scone. He sat back and put the entirety of it in his mouth and started chewing. Clarissa tried hard not to stare at his firm jawline. Was it possible to become aroused watching a man chew food? Her throat suddenly became parched. She watched him pour himself a cup of tea, which he skulled in one go. His large hands engulfed the tiny cup. When they had both consumed refreshments, they sat back in complete silence again. Dalziel was quiet, but he never took his eyes off her. Clarissa said, "I wish to thank you for the food baskets you sent yesterday. They were much appreciated." She did not mention that it was the women and children who appreciated it. "'Tis my pleasure. I should have called in person with the fare, but I had matters in the South to attend to," Dalziel replied. Silence descended between them once more. Clarissa glanced at the candle clock again, realizing she was late for her next appointment and Pierre and Jean-Luc would rail about her tardiness. Bloody French were so impatient. "Is there somewhere you need to be?" Dalziel asked in that deep, timbred voice. Clarissa felt a shiver run through her body each time he spoke. But she mentally shook it off. "Ah... no." She lied. "You seem to glance at the candle clock often. I guarantee the shadow has not moved since you last checked it." "Oh, yes, 'tis a terrible habit. I like to know what the time is for..."—Dalziel stared at her, awaiting an explanation—"the dragon hour," Clarissa said. She inwardly cringed at her inability to make up an adequate lie. "Dragon hour?" Dalziel asked. Shut your mouth, shut your mouth. Clarissa kept saying to herself, but nope, it was too late. Once she committed to a ridiculous story, she always had to follow through. "Yes, the hour the dragons come out," she said, then wanted to bang her head against the wall. Why could she never make up a decent lie? Dalziel chortled. "And what do these dragons do when they come out?" "They capture certain types of people." "What type of people do dragons capture?" Dalziel sat back in his chair as if settling in for a long night of entertainment. Clarissa's mind went blank. Then she blurted out, "Virgins." She then wished for a hole to open up in the ground so she could dive in head-first and disappear. Dalziel chuckled and reached for another scone. In between chewing, he asked, "So, these virgins that are chased by dragons. Where would they be headed this time of day?" Bloody hell, the man was relentless. With her back straight, Clarissa replied in a deadpan voice, "To the forest, and if you must know, 'tis bad luck to speak about their movements." Dalziel grinned and stifled a laugh. His future wife was proving to be quite amusing. Clarissa stilled and gazed at him. Glory be, he was handsome when he smiled, she thought. Changing the subject, she asked, "You are certain you will rarely be home when we wed?" "Aye, there are important matters that take me away often, but the holding is in excellent hands. Should you need anything, just ask the staff." "Is there anything you wish me to do while you are away?" she asked. "No, you have leisure and free rein. However..." Dalziel paused. "Yes?" "You shall not take a lover in my absence." He stared directly at her and spoke with a firm warning. Clarissa inhaled sharply. It was the last thing on her mind. "Of course." "I'll not be a cuckold even if it is a marriage in name only." "I would not dream of it," Clarissa replied. "And you shall not be in the company of men unless I am with you." Clarissa's spine stiffened. That was an entirely different matter which would affect her night-time activities. Seeking clarification, she asked, "When you say the company of men, what exactly do you mean?" Dalziel gripped his teacup. "I mean a man, any man, a group of men. You will not consort with any unless I am with you." "That is ridiculous!" she scoffed. "How so?" He glared at her. "Sometimes I will need to be in the company of men to get about. Like the servants or Martin." Dalziel sat up straight. "That's acceptable. I am talking about men of the gentry, the peerage. Some are unscrupulous and would think nothing of taking advantage of a bonnie woman whose husband is away." It surprised Clarissa that he considered her pretty. "What if I am seen with men in your absence, but they were not lovers? That would not be a breach of propriety, would it?" She gave him an innocent expression. Dalziel glared at her and made a growling sound deep in his throat. "How many men are you planning on seeing?" "None," she squeaked, realizing he was becoming agitated. "Good answer." They sat in silence again before she inquired, "And you are certain your work will take you away for long periods?" "Aye." Clarissa smiled in relief and only caught herself when Dalziel frowned at her. Dalziel clenched his jaw when Clarissa seemed relieved to be out of his company. That annoyed him. Usually, women pined for his attention, but not his wife-to-be. She wanted him gone, and there was something in the way she wished it that had him feeling out of sorts. Rupert finally entered with the contracts. He outlined all the documents she was to sign, stipulating the agreements and notifying her they had cleared all the debts to the tithing-man and the collective. Clarissa stammered a shaky "thank you" to Dalziel, and he just nodded. She wanted to say more, seeing as he had just lifted an immense burden off her shoulders, but Dalziel stared out the window. Twenty minutes later, the contracts were signed, and without pomp or ceremony, Dalziel Robertson pledged himself to Clarissa Harcourt. There would be a small wedding ceremony in the village church at the end of the week, then she would formally move in. In the meantime, she was free to do as she pleased. Clarissa stood and shook Dalziel's hand and thanked him for his time. He refused to let it go as his eyes wandered over her face, resting on her plump lips. The moment was interrupted when a messenger arrived with a missive. Dalziel released her hand, read the missive, and cursed. "I apologize. I would have loved to give you a tour, but I am needed in Scotland immediately. I shall return in time for the wedding." Without warning, he reached out, gently pulled her head towards his, and kissed her cheek. Dalziel lingered close, their lips mere inches apart. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. Then he dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. It was a brief kiss but filled with longing. Clarissa blushed and gave him a shaky smile. "I will hand you over to Mrs. Armstrong, who can show you around, so you become accustomed to the place. If there is anything you need, just ask, and I will provide it." "Thank you," she whispered. Dalziel's eyes softened. "'Tis my pleasure, sweeting," he replied. Then he seemed to catch himself and stepped away abruptly. "Good day, Clarissa." He nodded, then left the room. Mrs. Armstrong gave Clarissa a tour of the house and the connecting wood and stone structures which made up the manor. The buildings were constructed within a large compound and fenced in. Covered walkways connected one room to another. Mrs. Armstrong started with the bedchambers. "Well now, the master has set aside this room for you," she said. Clarissa glanced around in awe. It felt larger than her entire cottage. "Surely this must be a mistake?" Mrs. Armstrong stiffened at the insult. "Why, 'tis not to your liking?" "No, oh my, not at all. 'Tis too good, and I just assumed I would be placed elsewhere, that's all." Mrs. Armstrong relaxed. "Not so. These are rooms for the mistress, and your solar is down the hall. The master's bedchamber is right through the dressing room, and he has a connecting door." "Oh," Clarissa said, not wanting to think about the proximity to Dalziel's bed. She wondered if he slept naked, then turned bright red and shook her head. She had to stop these salacious thoughts. "Dinner is at six sharp. We keep early hours, but you can change that in due course to whatever suits you." Mrs. Armstrong gave her a warm smile. "Och, and the master is usually out most nights he is... away a lot," Mrs. Armstrong said almost apologetically. Clarissa did not want to think about where the master spent his nights or with whom. It was none of her concern, although that also meant she was free to continue her nightly activities as well. "Will you be needing a lady's maid, or any staff in particular?" "No, 'tis all right. I can manage with Ruth's help." "I have arranged private quarters for Martin and Ruth, as well." "That is most kind of you, Mrs. Armstrong." "They can come and go as they please. I understand they prefer to live in your cottage by the sea?" "Yes, it remains in my family. I will maintain its upkeep." When the tour was complete, Clarissa felt a little overwhelmed with the amount of work that went into maintaining such a large property, but she was happy she had a few days before she became Lady Stanhope. She headed to the hallway to take her leave. As Mr. Bell, the silver-haired steward, was handing Clarissa her coat, Mrs. Armstrong asked her to wait a moment. "I have something for you. I willna be overlong." Clarissa waited in the foyer with Mr. Bell, who stood beside the door in complete silence. She stared at the floor and tried hard not to tap her foot as the minutes ticked by. It felt like hours. She heard someone clearing their throat and looked up to see Mr. Bell motioning with his head towards something in her coat pocket. When she glanced down, she glimpsed a note tucked in there. "Here it 'tis! The master wanted you to take these." Mrs. Armstrong appeared and handed over a large basket laden with food and a platter of sandwiches. Clarissa stared at the fare and wanted to cry when she saw the abundance of food prepared. "'Tis too much, Mrs. Armstrong. I could not possibly—" "Och, 'tis nothing, mistress. There is plenty to go around." Clarissa thanked her, and without thinking, she gave her an enormous hug. "There now, mistress, you need not feel obliged to me." Mrs. Armstrong blushed with embarrassment but also appeared pleased. "Go on now. I see Martin is waiting outside." Clarissa smiled and, as she walked past Mr. Bell, she tapped her coat pocket and nodded to him. Then she went out to meet Martin, excited to show him her bounty. At least they would eat tonight. *** The Note When Clarissa returned home, she fished out Mr. Bell's note. It was an address for an 'Elspeth Davenport' and the words, 'Tell her Silver sent you.' Clarissa did not know who the woman was, although the last name rang a bell. That night, Pierre and Jean-Luc accompanied her to the address, which was a tiny hovel on the outskirts of the shire. Much to the mortification of Pierre and Jean-Luc, Clarissa walked straight up to the door and knocked before they could stop her. The door opened, and an elderly man appeared. He was guarded and viewed her with suspicion. "What do ye want?" "I am here to see Elspeth." "Who sent you?" "Silver." He nodded, then let her into a sitting room. "Wait here." Some time later, he appeared again, and this time he was with a woman; he was helping her walk as she limped into the room. She was covered in bruises; one eye was swollen shut, her arm bandaged. Clarissa took a sharp intake of breath at the extent of her bruising. The woman's eyes had the same haunting gaze her mother had after every beating. "Who did this to you?" Clarissa asked as she moved forward to help Elspeth into a chair. "'Tis not who, but why," Elspeth replied and winced when she shifted slightly. "What can I do?" Clarissa asked. "You keep women safe." It was a statement, not a question. Clarissa nodded. "Yes, I do, Elspeth." "Please call me Elsa. I need you to keep me safe, but it could place you in great danger." Clarissa wondered what on earth Mr. Bell had gotten her into. *** Dalmally, Scotland Dalziel crouched in the tall grass and retrieved another letter pinned to the murdered soul lying in the ditch. This contact was important. It was rumored he knew when and where Earl Siward of Northumbria would mount his attack on Macbeth. Dalziel gritted his teeth as he read the latest perfumed message. This one was different. It said, "Les murs ont des oreilles." - The walls have ears. "Damn," Arrowsmith cursed. "'Tis someone who kens our every move." "Aye, they could be anywhere. Castles, inns, even our own homes." "Do you ken the name of this man?" Arrowsmith asked. "The shire-reeve said he is not from these parts, but he is hoping someone will recognize him," Dalziel replied. "Poor sod, he didna see it coming." "Aye, he must have kin waiting for him somewhere," Dalziel said. "If the murderer is in our midst, then mayhap we should spread lies about our next move. Only the culprit would act on the lie." "Arrowsmith, you are a genius. Let's go spread some lies." Dalziel gave him a wry grin. *** ‘The Wedding’, Bamburgh A week later, Dalziel stood in the village church, awaiting his bride. He had ridden hard to make it home on time. Macbeth had been pressuring him to make his marriage visible to all, so he had hastened to return. Truth be told, he wanted to see his bride. Although it was a marriage of convenience, he wanted to give her a wedding day and a proper wedding feast. For the sake of appearances, Arrowsmith stood at his side with the rings. Both men wore their Scottish plaids and leine. Dalziel donned the MacGregor crest badge and a belt with the Robertson shield. He did not notify his brothers in arms, Beiste MacGregor and Brodie Fletcher, or their 'interfering wives' as he called them. He did not want to involve his family at all in a wedding which was in name only. For as long as necessary, he would keep both parts of his life separate. A hush descended over the small crowd, and he knew his bride was approaching. What he was not prepared for was the possessive feelings he had when he saw her walking towards him. She wore an ankle-length, intricately embroidered green tunic with long sleeves and a low-cut neckline. The design accentuated her curves. A solitary gold chain was fastened around her neck. Her glorious red hair was left free and hung just below her waist, and a flowery wreath adorned the top of her head. Dalziel held his breath. He wished so much that this was a genuine marriage, but he knew it could never be. Besides, she was English, and that could not stand. He reminded himself this was a mission for the king. This could never be a proper marriage if there were only lies between them. Clarissa greeted him with a smile, and he returned it, then reached out to clasp her hand in his. They both turned to face the priest and, in the presence of witnesses, they went through the motions of making vows neither one intended to keep. *** Clarissa could not believe this was her wedding day. A part of her was sad it was not a proper marriage, but she reminded herself it was necessary. She wished she were walking towards a man who could truly love her. But how could he when he knew nothing of her actual life? She would ensure it remained that way. Clarissa was grateful for the dress Mrs. Armstrong provided. It had been handwoven by the finest seamstress in town, and Dalziel had also commissioned an entirely new wardrobe for his new wife. For the first time in her life, she felt like an ethereal beauty. When she viewed her husband-to-be, she held her breath. He was breathtakingly handsome in his Scottish attire. He stood tall and proud, and when he smiled at her, she felt her heart skip a beat. When Dalziel took her hand, it was as if an unknown energy passed between them. He gripped hers firmly and spoke his vows, loud and clear for all to hear. Clarissa pretended he meant every word, even though she knew it benefited the wedding guests. A part of her was sad Cedric still had not returned. She would have loved for him to give her away, even if it was a marriage of convenience. As it was, only Ruth was in attendance, as Martin and her cousins were called away to the cove. The ceremony was over in a relatively short time, and then it was the moment to kiss the bride. Clarissa stared at Dalziel when he dipped his face towards her. "What are you doing?" she murmured. "'Tis time for me to kiss you." "In front of all these people?" "Aye." "I am too nervous." Her eyes pleaded for his guidance. The innocence with which she trusted him pierced Dalziel's soul. He wanted to do more than just kiss her, but he would grant her this boon. "Dinnae worry, mo ghaol, I'll lead." He leaned in slightly and instructed, "Part your lips, love, and breathe." She did. He brushed his lips against hers. She responded, and before Dalziel knew what he was doing, he had his arms around her as his tongue gently caressed her top lip. Clarissa wound her arms around his shoulders and met his tongue with the tip of hers. Dalziel groaned as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. Both were lost in the moment until the sound of Arrowsmith's throat-clearing penetrated the haze. Dalziel opened his eyes and tried to calm his heavy breathing. His heart was beating out of his chest. Clarissa's lips glistened as she ran her tongue across her bottom lip, her expression dazed. The world melted away, and it was just the two of them. Dalziel was still reluctant to let her go, until Arrowsmith muttered, "Save something for the wedding night." Clarissa blushed, and Dalziel glowered at Arrowsmith. The priest declared them man and wife. Dalziel remained by Clarissa's side for the wedding feast. To all present, he played the part of a doting husband, and she responded with genuine affection. Dalziel used every opportunity to caress her skin. His arm would rest behind her back, or he would hold her hand if they walked to talk to guests. His fingers would brush against her nape. For a false marriage, he was very attentive towards her needs, and she was glad of it. Dalziel was proud to have Clarissa on his arm. He knew he made the right choice because she never put a foot wrong. She was a consummate hostess for all the guests and attendees. He wondered at the lack of her family and friends. Apart from Harmony, he did not know whether she had any friends. He found that strange considering she had lived in the town her whole life. Before the guests had taken their leave, Dalziel and Clarissa retired to their chambers together. Although there would be no wedding night, they still had to keep up the pretense of being newly wedded love birds eager to consummate their marriage. So, they gave it a few hours to spend together before they moved into separate chambers. Clarissa sat in a window nook in Dalziel's bedchamber, reading a book. "What are you reading?" he asked. "Historia Ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum." "An Ecclesiastical History of the Angles people." His understanding of the language surprised Clarissa. "You know Latin?" "Doesn't everyone?" "Have you read it?" "Of course, Venerable Bede is my favorite author, second only to Pliny the Elder." He smirked. "I fear you are making fun of me." Clarissa gave him a skeptical look. "Aye, wife, I am. 'Tis a boring tome. I dinnae ken what you find interesting in it." She just shrugged her shoulders and continued reading. Dalziel gazed at his wife in the fire's light, and he wished he could kiss her as he had in the church. It had taken him hours to recover from that one kiss, and once he supped at her lips, he wanted to taste more. Dalziel wanted to do many things with her and to her, but he needed to control his baser instincts. He had been too long without a woman. Mayhap he would take Lenora up on her offer when he returned to the Highlands. He instantly frowned at the thought. When the last of the guests had left and the house settled, Dalziel bid Clarissa good night and retreated to his bedchamber. Clarissa wished Dalziel would kiss her again, but she had to remind herself this was not a genuine marriage, and they could never be lovers. *** Secrets We Keep The following morning, they both maintained their ruse, ordering food to Dalziel's bedchamber before they broke their fast together. It was during this time they shared some tidbits about their lives. Dalziel told her a little about the MacGregor clan and his late father, Jacob Robertson. She noticed he had never mentioned his mother. Clarissa talked a little of her mother but left out any mention of her father or Cedric. She realized how much she missed her brother. This was the longest she had gone without seeing him, and now she was worried. Both shared parts of their story but not the whole; they kept many secrets between them. Later that night, Dalziel joined her for dinner, dressed formally in traditional Scottish attire. She wore a new blue tunic with silk brocade. Clarissa thought Dalziel even more attractive but had to force herself not to peer down at his bare knees. Dalziel sat across from his wife, and his fingers itched to touch her. She was ravishing tonight, and the conversation flowed. He found her company anything but tedious. She could cover a vast array of topics knowledgeably. He asked her questions, seeking her opinion on many matters. "Have you settled into your chambers? Is everything to your liking?" he asked. "Yes. 'Tis more than adequate. The solar is remarkable. I thank you," she replied. "There is no need to thank me. You are mistress here, 'tis your place as well. I would see that you are comfortable." He paused for a moment, then took a deep breath. "I must return to the Highlands tomorrow. I will be away for some time. I have set aside money for monthly expenses. There is a good allowance for household needs and your funds for clothes and whatever..." He cleared his throat when he thought about her undergarments. "Whatever else you might need." "Can I spend the money on whatever I want?" Clarissa asked. "Aye, whatever you want. There are one hundred seats each month." Clarissa was shocked when she heard the amount. "What? 'Tis not enough? How much would you prefer?" Dalziel hoped she would not drain his coffers with demands. He knew English women could be over-spenders. "No, you misunderstand. That is far more generous than anything I've received before. 'Tis more than enough. I did not expect it." "You are my wife. I will provide for you." "How long will you be gone?" she asked. "A few weeks at the most," he replied. Clarissa felt disappointed. She enjoyed their straightforward conversation. She would miss him, but he no doubt had many friends and female acquaintances to see. *** Keywords: Book 3, OTT male, French, Anglian, Scottish clans, Assassins, Romantic Suspense, Medieval Empires, action and adventure, Warrior women, King Macbeth, arranged marriage, marriage of convenience, feisty heroines, over the top males, Highland warriors, overprotective males, Highland romance. Fans of the following authors are known to enjoy this Scottish Historical Romance series: Julie Garwood Michele Sinclair Diana Gabaldon Hannah Howell Donna Fletcher Maya Banks Kathryn Le Veque Mary Wine Terri Brisbin
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