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Pushed beyond his limits. . .
Scotsman Alexander Fraser has lost too much in his fight for freedom from the English. So when his younger brother is taken hostage by the cruel Earl of Warfield, Alex retaliates by kidnapping the earl’s delicate daughter . . . only to find she’s nothing he expected.
Taken for ransom. . .
Catherine Worth, daughter of Warfield, knows her value. She’s worth nothing to her father except as, now tarnished, property to be traded through marriage to a titled ally. He won’t trade a valuable prisoner for her return. Her life is in the hands of her cold and ruthless captor as he realizes that there will be no trade. What she doesn’t count on is falling in love with a man like none she’s ever known.
Neither expected passion. Neither expected the choices they’d face. Alex must someday give her up . . . or forfeit his brother's life.
Virginia Brown has written more than fifty historical and contemporary romance novels. Many of her books have been nominated for Romantic Times’ Reviewer’s Choice Award, Career Achievement Award for Love and Laughter, and Career Achievement Award for Adventure. She is also the author of the bestselling Dixie Diva mystery series and the acclaimed mainstream Southern drama/mystery,
Dark River Road, which won the national Epic e-Book Award in 2013 for Best Mainstream.
Coming Soon!
Prologue
Scottish Borderlands
October, 1313
A
COLD, FIERCE wind as foul as a demon’s breath sucked the clouds from the
western sky and spat gray sheets of rain toward the distant bristled spires of Kielder
Forest across the border. Alexander Fraser reined in his lathered mount atop a
rocky summit where the wind was the fiercest and watched in angry disbelief as
the riders vanished over the crest of a bare knoll. Sassenach, though they were
too far away for him to see the pennant that identified them. They would be
well across the border into England before he could reach them. Curse them. He
was too late... too late.
A
crackling boom split the heavens, drowning out the relentless drum of futility
resounding in his ears, and Alex looked up into the blackness overhead. Thunder
rumbled in the skies, an ominous pounding like the English hooves on Scottish
soil. Rain fell harder. Rivulets streamed over his face, plastering his long
black hair to his head like a monk’s cap, clumping his eyelashes together and
blurring his vision as he stared at the distant border. He huffed a long breath
that formed frost clouds in front of his face, but the demon wind whipped them
away.
He
curbed both his restive mount and the temptation to follow the enemy across
that invisible line between Scotland and England. It had been overlong that he
had bided his time as Robert Bruce bade him do, and now he was weary of
engaging the English only in swift skirmishes or lightning raids that availed
them heavy tributes from the villagers but not their freedom. Would a decisive
battle ever come? Too many Scots lay among English dead strewn about the summit
in boneless sprawls, waning steam slowly rising from their lifeless forms. He nudged
his horse forward to survey the dead with dread anticipation, but did not see
his own men among the fallen. Nor did he see Adam de Brus, dead or alive.
Bitterness rose. Curse Robert Bruce’s cousin for confronting the English with
too few men at his side. Aye, even after Alex had warned him. Now Scots lay
dead on their own turf, testament to foolish de Brus pride and hot temper.
A
savage flick of rain-thick wind curled the edge of his plaid and knifed through
the jagged rips in his sherte. Alex barely felt it. The stench of death was too
strong, defying even the wind, seeping into him with powerful premonition. It
was all much too familiar, the moans of the dying, the peculiar sickly sweet
smell that pervaded even his dreams—had he ever had a day without it? It did
not seem so now. All he could remember was struggle and battle and the screams
of those hurled into eternity in the blink of an eye and the flash of a
sword—Alex drew in a deep breath to clear his head and sweep away the images
that haunted him.
The
metallic clink of harness was muffled by the relentless keening of the wind as
Robbie MacLeod rode up beside him. Robbie’s horse snorted, crimson nostrils
flared and blowing frost clouds like dragon- smoke.
"It was the Earl of Warfield. He has Adam de Brus.”
Robbie’s roughannouncement only confirmed what Alex already suspected, and he nodded tersely.
"Aye,
curse him. Doubtless, ’tis vengeance for the Bruce’s raids over the Solway two
years ago, his burning of Haltwhistle and most of Tynedale. Bruce will not be
pleased to hear the English have yet another of his kin captive.”
"Alex—they
have Jamie as well.”
A splinter of shock pierced Alex, sharp and suffocating
in its intensity as the Gaelic words were whipped away by a gust of wind.
"I left Jamie behind at Castle Rock.”
"He
did not stay behind.” Robbie jerked his head to indicate a bloody form being
wrapped in a wool plaid and borne to a litter. "One of de Brus’s men just said
that your brother joined them late last eve and was taken captive with de
Brus.”
Alex
did not move, for it would betray the tension that rendered him almost
immobile. "Christ above! I gave Jamie strict orders to stay where I left him.”
"Och,
you know Jamie’s a braw lad with not a dram of caution in him.” Robbie spat
onto chewed turf that was rife with battle litter. Rain molded his thin sherte
to his body and dragged his woolen plaid down with its weight. His light hair
was dark from it, and water streamed over features as sharp as an ax blade as
he regarded Alex with glum resignation. "He was angry because you said he was
too young to fight the English. Now he has fought his first battle.”
"So
it seems.” Alex drew in a breath saturated with the smell of fresh blood, wet
earth, and grim despair. "By God, I will have his hide for this!”
"Aye,”
Robbie said soberly, "but Warfield will have his head.”
Alex
sucked in another sharp breath. "Yea, ’tis true. This feckless decision will
cost Jamie his life.”
"Alex,
you cannot mean we will do nothing about it.” Robbie’s tone was angry, amazed.
"The bloody Sassenach have your brother... do we not go after
him? Christ above, Alex, you know what will happen once Warfield gets Jamie to
England.”
Numbly,
Alex swung his gray gaze to Robbie. A light of desperation glinted in Robbie’s
eyes and made his decision more difficult, yet no less resolute. "Yea, I know
well what is like to happen. I am not willing to let Jamie die, but I am not
willing to defy the Bruce. He bade me stay my hand and arms for the moment, and
until I confer with him, I must abide by my oath.”
Robbie
groaned. "May God help Jamie then. Warfield is a ruthless man, and boon
companion of King Edward. Though Longshanks’s spawn may not be the hard king
his father was, he is still as dangerous as a snapping cur.”
"I
will negotiate with Warfield—”
"The
bloody earl holds the English king’s ear and will not listen to you,” Robbie
growled.
"But
he does want money.” Alex regarded him grimly. "My coffers are near empty, but
I am worth more as hostage than Jamie.”
Flames
of real fear leaped high in Robbie’s dark eyes, and his ruddy complexion turned
scarlet as he searched Alex’s face for a long moment. "Do you think Warfield
will pass up the chance to slay you both? He will not. We have ravaged his
lands and exacted too many tributes from him not to know he will seek vengeance
where he can. Nor will Bruce want to risk your certain death.”
"I
have fought fifteen years for Scotland’s freedom and have supported Robert
Bruce well.” Alex’s jaw went taut, and he shoved roughly at the wet loop of
dark hair the wind dangled in front of his eyes. "The Bruce holds English
prisoners for ransom. If he is loath to risk me, surely among that lot there
are some important to Warfield.” He drew in a deep breath. "Or to the English
king.”
"More
important than holding Bruce’s cousin?” Robbie shook his head dolefully. "’Tis
doubtful, Alex.”
"You
have met Warfield. What think you of him?”
Robbie
spat on the ground again, and his lips curled. "He is a powerful lord, to be
certain, but not a man I would trust with the life of my kin. He backs King
Edward, just as he backed his father, and ’tis said he would deliver his own
mother to the king if ’twas asked of him.”
Alex
was quiet. The wind howled around his head, and his horse pranced restively beneath him. At last he said,
"Think you that if negotiation fails, you could remember the lay of
Warfield keep, Robbie?”
A
grin split Robbie’s craggy face. "Aye, ’tis more what I wanted to hear from
you, by God! I have been to the earl’s keep and can recall well the lay of it.
We should call up our men and ride hotfoot to England now—”
"Nay,
first I will counsel with the Bruce.”
Wrenching
his mount around, Alex spurred the lathered animal down the steep, rock-studded
hill. A forked lightning tongue speared the darkening sky, briefly bringing
noonday brightness to the rocky summit. The air shimmered with the pungent
scent of wet turf and blood. Behind him, he heard Robbie following at a
reckless pace.
Despite
his words, Alex had more doubts than he would allow Robbie to see. Would Bruce
allow him to negotiate for Jamie’s release? Of late, the Scottish king had
avoided direct battle with the English, preferring to raid towns and lay waste
to the English countryside, exacting heavy tributes for his protection. Those
who did not resist were spared, but those who turned to fight met swift ends.
Noble English hostages were a valuable commodity, ransomed for hefty sums.
But
if Warfield demanded ransom instead of an exchange of hostages, Scottish
coffers could not bear the fine. The coin paid by the northern counties of
England to purchase truce was spent too swiftly in the provisioning of an army.
With
a sick heart, Alex feared Robert Bruce’s reply. Jamie’s future seemed grimly
short.
Chapter 1
Northern
England
LADY
CATHERINE WORTH braced herself against the wind. Her fingers curled into the
rough stone of the high curtain wall that encircled Warfield keep as she gazed
over crenellated parapets into the distance. A heavy mist dampened the air and
curled her unruly mane of coppery hair around her face in dark-fire ringlets
that tickled her cheek. An impatient flick of one hand brushed them aside;
violet-blue eyes narrowed against the moisture that obscured her vision.
"Whereare they?” The
wind whipped her fretful words away on wet currents. Clouds stacked in a
towering black and gray mass raced by overhead. The keening sob of the wind
grew louder; it sounded to her like the mournful despair of lost souls. The
maudlin thought sent a shiver down her spine. Catherine tugged the fur-lined
edges of her cloak more closely about her. Aye, ’twas true she was far too
fanciful, as her mother oft lamented. And just as often, her father cursed her
for it.
The
earl made it abundantly clear that he had no patience for the whims of a
female, even his wife. And especially his daughter. Her lips tightened. Robert
Worth, Earl of Warfield, was not an affectionate man. Nor was he a man who
considered it important for a female to know more than how to sew altar cloths
or brew medicinal herbs. Nay, ’twas not for her father’s return she had come to
the turrets to watch this dreary day, but for her brother.
A
faint smile replaced the grim slash of her mouth. Nicholas was far too
frequently all that stood between her and their father’s wrath, for she was not
at all the dutiful daughter the earl demanded. Her mother had once complained
that she had inherited far too much of her father’s obstinacy, but it was not
said in front of him. The countess would not dare imply criticism of him so
openly. Only Nicholas dared that.
Restless,
but preferring the worsening weather to the mundane chatter of the women
beside the fire, Catherine knotted her small hands into fists beneath the warm
fur lining of her cloak as she strained to see through the gray gloom
stretching beyond Warfield. Hills rolled down from the knoll upon which
Warfield Castle squatted like a great hulking beast keeping watch. Which it
was. The earl was known to many as the Border Lion, for he kept a close eye on
the marauding bands of rebellious Scots that frequently crossed the border
between England and Scotland. That boundary lay only a few miles from Warfield.
A
small frown knit her brow as Catherine studied the lip of horizon beyond the
spiky tree spires of Kielder Forest. Warfield was so detached from the rest of
the world it seemed, her life here an anonymous blur of days sliding one into
the other. Yet she knew something more existed beyond these walls, heard
whispered tales of strife and bloodshed, of the Earl of Warfield’s fierce
reputation... of brutal Scots raids on surrounding villages
the earl would not protect. Was it true he did not defend his own people, or
only idle malice? No one would tell her. They kept her as sheltered as a child.
Not
even Nicholas would tell her more than vague tales of border raids by the
Scots, though at times she saw thick plumes of smoke in the distance and knew
another village had been destroyed. Even Lanercost Priory had been sacked by
the ruthless Scots, and ’twas said that the savage rebels had made the nuns
dance naked. But it was futile to ask questions, for she would be sharply
rebuked for it. ’Twas as if they all feared her delicate female constitution
would warp and fray from the horror of truth, or perhaps even—
"Milady?”
Catherine
half turned and saw her handmaiden peering out from the arched shelter of the
tower doorway. How vexing! Had Bess been sent to fetch her? As if she were
naught but a small girl? Poor Bess shivered, blinking away the wind and rain,
and looked so miserable that Catherine’s irritation eased. She lifted her voice
so she could be heard over the keening wind, speaking in the maid’s familiar
vernacular, a blending of Welsh and English.
"If
thou hast come to fetch me inside, Bess, I am not ready. I watch for my brother.
Perhaps ’tis the day they return.”
"Mayhaps
not... milady, thy lady mother sent me to fetch thee inside
before thee catch thy death from the raw wind. Wilst thou not accompany me?”
"Nay,
Bess, I will not. Tell my mother thou could not find me.” Catherine glanced
again across the parapet toward the distant murky line of sky and land, seamed
together by gray mist and rain. It beckoned her, elusive and vague, a mere
promise of freedom. "Yea,” she muttered crossly, "I much prefer solitude to the
constant harping prattle of my mother and those other tiresome ladies.”
The
squelching sound of wet shoes in rain puddles marked Bess’s progress as she
inched her way to the parapet wall, carefully keeping her distance from the
wide ledge. Her dark eyes were wide with anxiety. "’Tis dangerous to stand here
so close to the brink in such a wind, milady! What if the Tylwyth Teg should
snatch thee away? I beg of thee, come with me....”
"’Tis
safe enough, for your Welsh spirits do not come here. Tell me, Bess—” Catherine
turned suddenly, her abrupt movement startling a squeak of alarm from the maid.
"Is it true what some say?”
Bess
was shivering, her thin wool dress clinging damply to her spare frame. "S-say,
milady? Of what?”
"About
my father—that the Earl of Warfield is ruthless with his enemies. That he is
greatly feared by even his own villeins... yea, it must be
for thou art shaking like the last autumn leaf in the wind and looking as pale
as a boiled owl. Never mind. I know ’tis forbidden to discuss such matters with
me. Go inside, silly goose. I shall be down presently, and ’twill satisfy my
mother if I feign deep repentance.”
"Truly,
milady, I d-dare not go back without thee. Lady Warfield will be most
distressed.”
"Pah!
She cares about naught but her lace tatting or tapestries. She will not miss
me. I daresay she will not notice my absence until my father’s return, and
then only when he takes notice.” Catherine drew in a ragged breath. She had not
meant to sound so bitter and saw from Bess’s earnest face that it had not gone
unnoticed. She managed a bright smile. "Ah, Bess, thou shalt suffer no ill. I
shall come in soon. I just thought that perhaps today they wouldst return. It
has been a fortnight, when Nicholas said they wouldst be gone only two days. I
worry, ’tis all.”
"Lord
Devlin is very important to thee, is he not, milady? More important even than
thy betrothed?”
Catherine
stiffened. "I do not know Ronald of Bothwick, nor do I care to wed him. ’Tis my
father’s choice, not mine. I think I wouldst rather retire to a nunnery than
wed a stranger. There, at least, I could be at peace, and none wouldst think it
improper if I chose to read or write, or study philosophy—”
She
halted and drew in a deep breath. It would never do to have that repeated about the
keep! If the earl were to hear of it, he would no doubt have her wed to Ronald
within a sennight.
Dredging
up her most aristocratic tone, she said, "Inform my lady mother that I will
join her anon, Bess, then thou dost hurry to the kitchens and tell Cook that I
will need a cup of hot spiced wine to chase away my chill.”
"Aye,
milady. At once, milady.”
Bess
bobbed a curtsy, half lifting her drenched skirts in one hand as she turned
away, obviously delighted at the thought of going to the warm cavern of the
kitchen. It was one of the girl’s favorite spots, and Catherine knew she would
linger there as long as possible. Neatly done, she congratulated herself with a faint smile as
Bess disappeared amid the turret shadows, leaving Catherine in peace.
Another
gust of wind snapped the hem of her cloak, a loud popping sound like the crack
of a whip. The heavy wool and fur slipped from one shoulder, and she had to
grab for it swiftly before the capricious wind sent it sailing over the edge of
the parapet into the turbid waters of the moat below.
Rain
began to fall harder, pelting her upturned face with stinging droplets. Tiny
cold rivers streamed over her brow onto her cheeks, chilling her. Wet lashes
closed over her eyes, blotting out the gray sky and bare tree limbs. There had
to be another future for her. She did not want to wed a man she did not know
just to align two powerful houses, and could not bear the thought of spending
the rest of her life as her mother spent her days, quaking at an unkind word
from her husband, always so anxious to please, so afraid of his displeasure—
Drawing
in a deep, shaky breath, Catherine opened her eyes again and stared across the
rolling land stretching away from the keep. Thunder? No, the escalating sound
of hooves against solid turf, a low, steady pounding that could be heard above
the sobbing moan of the wind. She blinked away rain and in a moment could make
out the shadowy forms of mounted troops approaching along the muddy track that
snaked over the hills and through the towering trees. The line of horsemen
briefly disappeared from view into a shallow ravine that harbored a winding
stream, then appeared again, much closer now. Warfield’s banner flew before
them, a red lion against a white field, and to her relief, she saw Nicholas,
his uncovered head dark and glistening with rain beneath the unfurled standard
of the earl.
Relief
flared, dispelling her gloom and anxiety. Even at such a distance, she knew
her brother. His cocky demeanor set him apart from the other muddy riders, a
laughing rogue who had his way with far too many village maidens, charming them
into haystacks and corn cribs or wherever he fancied. Nicholas—older by six
years—her brother, her confidant, her only refuge, and now he was back at
last.
Turning,
Catherine flew across the slippery gray stones of the battlement and ducked
into the musty shadows inside the turret. Blinking at the abrupt absence of
proper light, she made her way down steep, winding stairs only dimly lit by
sputtering torches stuck into iron holders on the newel walls. The smell of
burning pitch was acrid in the close air. Darkness yawned beyond the hazy,
wavering pools of light as she descended the narrow steps into the great hall,
then hurried through the vestibule and out a heavy door onto the open staircase
guarded from the bailey by a massive stone forework. Smoke stung her eyes, and
the ordure in the moat seemed heavier than usual. No one tried to stop her as
she scurried across the bailey toward the gatehouse.
Was
she too late? No, there was the groaning rattle of the portcullis being lifted,
the shriek of the winch chains and the inner drawbridge being lowered to admit
the earl and his sons, home from Scotland.
Heart
pounding, delight drowning her turmoil, Catherine dodged a woodsman with a
heavy load of faggots atop his bent back and reached the gatehouse just as the
first riders thundered over the wooden bridge. Nicholas saw her, as she’d known
he would. It was a ritual. She always waited for him here, anticipating his
return as she had done since she was small, and he watched for her. Now he bent
slightly from his huge, snorting destrier to scoop her up beside him, ignoring
their father’s disgruntled oath.
"It
is raining, kitten, do you not know that?” Nicholas teased, laughing as he
pulled her against his side.
Catherine
held tightly to him, her fingers sliding over the rough metal links of his mail
to grip the thick wool surcoat. He smelled of rain and mud and other vague
odors that she preferred to ignore. She leaned slightly away, her voice
accusing to hide the choking relief that he had safely returned. "You are near
a fortnight longer than you said you would be, you know.”
"Aye,
so we are.” His arm tightened around her. "But the rebels were more troublesome
than usual. Thick as fleas on a camp cur, and near as vicious.”
Catherine’s
hand closed on a handful of wool and wet hair, and she pressed her mouth
against her brother’s ear. "I must talk to you. Will you meet me later?”
"Yea,
kitten, so I will.” His voice was gruff and low, his squeeze quick before he
reined in his great destrier and lowered her to the muddy ground by the
forework. With a wink, he bade her go inside to ascertain their evening meal
was hot. "I will eat no cold meat tonight, by God!”
Catherine
made a face at him, keeping a wary eye on the agitated warhorse as it pranced
in a tight, nervous circle. Those lethal hooves could bash a skull in quickly
if one got too close. She backed away, skirts lifted in her hands to clear the
muck of the bailey, and swept a brief glance toward her father. The earl
ignored her. His attention was trained elsewhere, and she caught a glimpse of
scarlet and blue against the anonymous drab of mud and mist.
Pausing,
Catherine peered through the tangle of horses and men toward the flash of
color. An angry curse rose into the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of
a blow. At once, horses neighed and reared, and men began to shout. In the
confusion, no one noticed as Catherine crept closer, her curiosity stronger
than even dread of her father.
She
was startled to see that one man was the source of all the chaos, and he was
shackled with heavy chains about his wrists and ankles, standing in the midst
of the heaving mass of shouting men with his garments
awry. Oddly, he did not look at all afraid, but rather contemptuous of
those around him. His hair was dark with mud and rain, but she could see that
it was a lighter color, almost as pale and coppery as her own. He was forced to
his knees, and she saw then that he was shackled to another prisoner, who was
being dragged down into the muck beside him.
With a shock, Catherine realized the second captive was
young, even younger
than herself, and cuffed as brutally as the older man. Both were hauled roughly
to their feet again. The boy glanced up, and she saw the youthful features
twisted with ancient hatred. A thin trail of blood trickled down from his brow
to his chin as he turned to regard the earl with contempt.
"Murderin’
Sassenach swine—”
One
of the guards struck him, a backhanded blow of his mailed fist that caught the
boy across the face and sent him staggering to one knee. More blows followed,
raining down on both prisoners, and Catherine gasped with horror. Or perhaps
she cried out, for her father turned toward her with his brows lowered over his
colorless eyes in a scowl. His voice was low and tight.
"Go
inside, Catherine.”
"But
what have they done? If they are prisoners, should they not be treated more
kindly?” The words were out before she knew it, and she realized at once that
she had done the prisoners no favor by questioning her father in front of his
men. It was all she could do not to turn and flee when she saw fires of rage
leap in her father’s eyes. White lines bracketed his mouth with tension.
"This
is none of your affair, daughter. Get inside with the other women, and do not
dare speak of matters that do not concern a maiden.”
Rebellion
flared in her and might have spewed unwisely forth had Nicholas not intervened,
leaning from his great mount to say in a soft voice, "They are my captives, and
I will see to them, kitten. Do not tweak our father’s nose for what you cannot
change.”
"Very
well, but only because you ask it of me.” With a fleeting glance at her father,
she turned angrily on her heel and ascended the stairs of the forework.
Lady
Warfield met her just inside the entrance to the great hall, and a glance at
her expression made Catherine sigh inwardly. Were there never any secrets at
Warfield?
Exasperation
edged Lady Warfield’s cool rebuke: "Must you behave like the lowest scullery
maid, Catherine? Look at you. Garbed in a filthy gown, hair uncovered, flying
loose and as wet as cat’s fur—hardly the conduct of a lady.”
Catherine
held her tongue and stared down at her ruined slippers. Sodden velvet toes
peeped from beneath the frayed and muddy hem of her gown. The contrast between
her appearance and her mother’s could not be more vivid—Lady Warfield was
elegant in the gilt barbette atop her head and thinly woven gold threads of the
crispinette that held her hair, down to her small embroidered slippers encrusted
with pearls and gilt. Her mother’s grandeur made her achingly aware of her own
disheveled state. She focused on her feet while Lady Warfield delivered a
scathing lecture, allowing the French language preferred by her parents to
drift over her head until one particular remark captured her attention.
Catherine’s
head snapped up with consternation as the countess finished, ". . . and hardly
suitable should your betrothed witness your unbefitting demeanor. God grant, he
is not yet arrived, but with the date so soon now—”
"Soon?
What date do you mean, my lady?”
Lady
Warfield’s elegant features remained stern and unlined. "It is unseemly to be
so rude, Catherine. Must you interrupt me?”
"I
crave your pardon, madam, but I do not know what you mean by the date being so
soon.”
"No
doubt. Nevertheless, you will go immediately to your chamber and allow Bess to
ready appropriate garments for the morrow. Wear the blue velvet gown, as we
expect important guests. You are required to behave with decorum and not as if
you are no more than a rebellious serf. I am certain that you understand me.”
"Of
course, madam, but I—”
"Your
father will wish to see you in the solar right after Prime is rung in the
morning. I insist that you heed the customs you have been taught, and act
accordingly.”
Catherine
stared after her mother as the countess turned to move away in a familiar,
silent glide, as if her feet did not touch the floor. No one would listen to
her. She was trapped, and her freedom was slipping further and further away.
