Authors: Tarah Scott
Highlanders
Tarah Scott’s Highlanders
Claimed
To Tame a Highland Earl
My Highland Lord
©
Copyright 2015 Broken Arm Publishing
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Cover Art: Crosswood Designs
Graphics: Period Images & Dollar Photo
Copyright
Claimed
Copyright © 2015 by Tarah Scott.
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Erin Dameron-Hill
Acknowledgements
Despite the countless hours a writer spends alone writing a novel, the finished product is, without doubt, a collaboration. Each time I take stock of the wonderful people who contributed to my work, my heart overflows. I am very fortunate.
I must first thank my editor, Kimberly Comeau. Your devotion to make my novels shine never ceases to amaze me. Thank you, Kim. Second, huge thanks to my good friend Sue-Ellen Welfonder. Sue-Ellen, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your input. I feel secure that all things historical are as they should be. (Any foibles are all my doing!) Next, my beta readers, Tina Hairston and my sister Stooge, Debbie McCreary. Ladies, feedback from honest readers is invaluable. You’re both worth your weight in gold. Lastly, thanks, once again, to Erin Dameron-Hill for a wonderful cover. Your art inspired a book beyond what I imagined. (I hear your laughter, Kim.)
Dedication
This one is for Tracey Reid and Valerie Cozart. This book reminds me of our day in Queens.
August 1291 Scottish Highlands
Chapter One
“
Your grandfather awaits you at Longford Castle where you will marry Lord Melrose immediately.”
Had she heard correctly?
Disorientation at being abruptly roused from a sound sleep combined with disbelief caused Rhoslyn’s heart to thud wildly. Pain shot down her left arm as Prioress Hildegard twisted the limb and shoved her hand into the sleeve of a gray, wool dress.
“I am sorry, child,” the prioress said, but she didn’t slow her hurried dressing of Rhoslyn.
Hildegard pulled the dress down over her body, then grabbed the belt she had tossed onto the pallet. She cinched it around Rhoslyn’s waist and snatched up the mantle hastily thrown across a nearby table. Rhoslyn recognized the fur-lined cloak as the one she’d worn the day she arrived at the convent fourteen months ago. The prioress swung the garment around Rhoslyn’s shoulder.
“Hildegard, please,” she began as the nun fastened the clasp at her neck.
Hildegard grasped her arm and started toward the door. “We must go. Your grandfather’s men wait outside.”
Rhoslyn stumbled over the hem of her skirts and barely righted herself as they passed through the doorway and into the convent’s narrow hallway.
“I must speak with Abbess Beatrice,” Rhoslyn demanded.
“She sent me.” Hildegard made a hard right around a bend, her grip firm on Rhoslyn’s arm.
They reached the front entrance, where three nuns stood at the open door.
“Where is the abbess?” Rhoslyn asked.
Hildegard pulled her through the door into the fog that hung in the lit bailey. Shock dug deeper at the sight of men-at-arms, a dozen—no she realized, more, at least two dozen—up ahead. Was her respite at the convent truly over?
The prioress hurried her toward the men who waited near the gate.
As they approached, Sir Ascot, who held the bridle of his horse at the front of the company, dropped to one knee. “My lady.”
“Rise, Knight,” she instructed. “Quickly, tell me what has happened.”
He came to his feet, then reached inside the front of his mail shirt and produced a missive that he extended toward her. Her gaze caught on the broken seal---the Great Seal of England. She jerked her gaze to the knight’s face in shocked question. He said nothing and she took the document.
Rhoslyn unfolded the parchment and her heart beat faster at sight of the boldly scripted salutation addressed to her grandfather from “King Edward I, Lord Superior of the realm of Scotland,” she read out loud.
“God save us,” Hildegard breathed.
Rhoslyn snapped her gaze onto Sir Ascot. “How did King Edward come to be Lord Superior of Scotland?”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he glanced at the nun, “Sister. I assumed ye knew.”
“Knew what?” Rhoslyn demanded.
“The Maid of Norway is dead.”
Rhoslyn felt as if a horse had kicked her. Their future queen dead? “How?”
“She drowned in Orkney on the way to Scotland.”
Hildegard made the sign of the cross.
“She was but seven,” Rhoslyn breathed. Tears pricked her eyes. “When?”
“Eleven months past,” he said.
“Eleven months?” Only a few months after her arrival here.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t fathom all the consequences of Margaret’s death. Why hadn’t her grandfather told her? Because, she realized with a rush of emotion, it was like him to protect her. He had been protecting her since the death of her parents at age five. Then he rescued her again after the death of her husband...and son.
“More than a dozen claimants to the throne have come forward,” Sir Ascot went on. “The Guardians fear civil war between the Bruce and Balliol’s supporters, so asked King Edward to arbitrate.”
Rhoslyn snorted. “He used the unrest to demand sovereign lordship of Scotland.” And the Guardians acquiesced. The pea-brained men had no sense. She forced her eyes back to the missive, ashamed to find that her hands trembled. Her heart stopped cold at sight of the royal command for her to—“Marry Sir Talbot St. Claire.” She pinned Hildegard with a stare. “Ye said I was to marry Lord Melrose.”
The nun looked helplessly at Sir Ascot.
“Aye, my lady,” he said. “Your grandfather has arranged for ye to marry Melrose before St. Claire can obey his king’s command.”
“What? That is madness.” To defy Edward at any time was dangerous, but to do so when he had such power was suicide.
Why St. Claire, a mere knight? A knight born in sin at that, despite the fact Edward legitimized him after their return from Wales. She was the daughter of a baron, widow to a wealthy earl. Her noble lineage stretched back two hundred years. Her mind spun and she wished she could return to her cell and bar the door against the world.
“My lady,” Ascot began, but she waved him off, tilted the parchment toward the light, and read on.
Edward commanded them to recite the vows a month from now. The letter outlined the details of the contract, which endowed her grandfather with property in England. Anger pricked at seeing the properties her husband had bequeathed her listed as part of her dowry to St. Claire—with Castle Glenbarr, the wealthiest of the properties—at the head. The castle abutted Dunfrey Castle, she realized with a flash of clarity. Edward had given Dunfrey Castle to St. Claire after he quelled a revolt in Wales three years ago.
Her property combined with St. Claire’s would make him a force to be reckoned with. But she couldn’t forget—and she was certain Edward hadn’t forgotten—her grandfather’s property would come to her upon his death. Combined, the lands would make the knight one of the most powerful lords in the northern Highlands. Here was why the king had chosen him. Only a man like St. Claire could defend and keep the land should the need arise. And the need would arise. Edward knew it. So did she.
Yet all this wasn’t enough, she read with mounting anger. Edward also demanded a year’s salary from these properties. How much of her dowry would pay the debts for his past military campaigns? She gave a grim smile. He generously allowed her grandfather two years to pay. No doubt Edward had already sent word to his money-lenders that they could expect a large payment in the coming months. How many other Scottish nobles were paying Edward’s debt—a debt he incurred long before he achieved power in Scotland?
The sovereign had planned well. The English estates he bequeathed her grandfather would pass to St. Claire upon her grandfather’s death, and her Scottish property would pass from the house of Seward to St. Claire...and his liege lord, King Edward. Her stomach roiled. The bastard knight would even inherit her grandfather’s title as Baron Kinsley. She pictured the knight rising from their marriage bed ‘ere his seed dried inside her to take possession of Glenbarr. Her heart twisted. She had intended the castle as part of her stepdaughter’s dowry.
Aye, Edward knew his business, she thought bitterly. This was the king to whom the Guardians had handed Scotland.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Sir Ascot’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We must make haste. Your grandfather awaits us at Longford Castle.”
To prepare her future husband for battle, no doubt. St. Claire was well known for ruthlessness in battle. He would not take well the news that his newly awarded prize had slipped through his fingers. The slight to him—and his king—would not go unanswered.
“We flee in the night like cowards,” Rhoslyn muttered.
Wasn’t that exactly what she had done fourteen months ago? Her heart clenched with memory of her son, not two months old, laid to rest in the cold ground. When he had died two weeks after his father, Rhoslyn begged her grandfather for time in a convent. The guilt she had submerged beneath long hours of exhausting work now resurfaced. She had left her stepdaughter Andreana in her grandfather’s care.
Rhoslyn thrust the letter back toward Sir Ascot. “My grandfather cannot have thought this matter through.”
He took the letter with a deferential cant of his head. “Sir Talbot arrived a week ago, and Lord Melrose returned from Edinburgh tonight. Your grandfather could no’ act before now. But he wishes as much leeway as possible before Sir Talbot discovers ye are married.”
Shock reverberated through her. Her grandfather hoped Melrose would get her pregnant before Sir Talbot learned he had been tricked. Sweet God, her grandfather had gone mad. Melrose was an honorable man, but he was sixty-five.
“How does my grandfather expect an old man to sire a child?”
Sir Ascot shook his head. “Ye are to marry Jacobus Auenel. The old earl is dead.”
“Dead?” She was to marry Lord Melrose’s son?
Her pulse sped up. Was it possible to become wife and future mother in a few days’ time? Disgust displaced the hope that surged through her. Jacobus Melrose was but twenty-one. A pup. A pup would have no trouble siring a child. It was Rhoslyn who might not conceive. Rhoslyn twisted the wedding ring she still wore. She wanted neither child
nor
husband.
Damn the sovereign to hell. He interfered where he had no business. And her grandfather was still trying to protect her. In the process, he would get himself and young Melrose killed. This she could not allow.
Rhoslyn faced Hildegard and gave her a fierce hug. “Thank ye.”
The prioress’ gnarled fingers tightened on her shoulders. “May God keep ye safe, lady.”
They drew apart.
“Beatrice...” Rhoslyn began, a lump in her throat.
Hildegard smiled gently. “You will see the abbess again in God’s time.”
Rhoslyn gave the nun’s hand a final squeeze and turned to Sir Ascot. He helped her mount one of the horses and she kept her gaze straight when they passed through the gates. In the dark mist beyond the convent Rhoslyn saw only Edward’s bold script commanding that she marry Sir Talbot St. Claire.
* * *
Talbot opened the door to the bower and took in the slim figure seated on the bench in front of the fire. Beautiful dark hair hung unbound about slim shoulders. Canny blue eyes met his stare. Beside her stood a tall warrior at least ten years Talbot’s senior, but fit as any man Talbot’s age. Firelight glistened off the polished hilt of the well-used broadsword at the man’s hip.
Talbot paused inside the doorway and returned his gaze to the woman. “Lady Finlay, I am honored to meet you. I understand you wanted to see me.”
She rose. “Will ye enter and close the door?”
Talbot flicked a glance at her protector.
She said, “So long as ye do no’ harm me, he will not harm you.”
“So long as he stays at his side of the room, there will be no misunderstandings,” Talbot replied.
“He will do as I bid. Please, Sir Talbot, time is short.” She nodded toward the door. “I canna’ risk prying ears.”
Talbot closed the door, crossed his arms, and waited.
“I have news concerning your betrothed.”
He tensed, but kept his expression cool. “What news could you possibly have concerning my wife?”
Her mouth twitched in indulgent amusement. “Calling Lady Rhoslyn your wife will be meaningless if a priest blesses her union with another man.”
“Are you saying an illegal marriage has been performed?”
The amusement reached her eyes. “Until Lady Rhoslyn is in your home—and your bed—there is some doubt as to your claim.”
“I make no claim, madam. She is my wife by order of King Edward.”
“Then let King Edward come here and enforce the decree. But that would be doing things the hard way. As Abbess of St. Mary’s convent, I can simplify things.”
“Abbess of St. Mary’s?” he repeated.
“Abbes Beatrice,” she said. “Forgive the deception. I could no’ risk anyone here knowing my true identity. It is best that Rhoslyn—and everyone else—never know I was here.” She paused. “I am a good woman to have as friend. Do ye wish me to be your friend?”
Talbot had found the church befriend no one but the church.
He canted his head. “I am always at the disposal of the church.”
“A wise man. I expect something in return for the favor I am about to bestow. This is no small matter, Sir Talbot. I am ensuring that your marriage to Lady Rhoslyn does not go awry.”
“That sounds like nothing short of a miracle.” And he didn’t believe in miracles.
“God works in mysterious ways,” the abbess said. “Are we agreed? A favor for a favor?”
“I give no favors that betray my king.”
She nodded. “Good. I do no’ like traitors and I trust them even less. Lady Rhoslyn has spent the last fourteen months at St. Mary’s mourning the death of her husband and son. Tonight, her grandfather’s men arrived to take her to Longford Castle where she will marry the new Earl of Melrose.”
Talbot feared something like this. Upon his arrival at Castle Glenbarr a week ago, he’d visited her grandfather with the betrothal contract. The old baron read the decree, then promised to bring Lady Rhoslyn from her convent. No blustering, no rejection of the marriage terms, not so much as a cross word. Aside from the fact he refused to name the convent, the whole affair had been too easy.
“Seward cannot be fool enough to think I will not take her by force,” Talbot said.