The Knight's Temptress (Lairds of the Loch)

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

A Preview of
The Warrior’s Bride

Newsletters

Copyright Page

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected] Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

To Sally Spangler
with gratitude for her many, many intelligent
observations, her love of history, and especially for
Fordun, the two Roberts, et al.!

Author’s Note
 

F
or readers’ convenience, the author offers the following guide:

Clachan
= village

Fain
= eager, eagerly

Forbye
= besides, in addition, furthermore, however

Garron
= small Highland horse, very strong, agile enough for the landscape

Lachina
= Lock EEN a

Lassock
= young girl

Lippin
(as in Lippin Geordie) = trust, trusted

Muir
= moor (a boggy wasteland, peaty, dominated by grasses and sedges)

Plaid
(great kilt) = Pronounced “Played,” an all-purpose garment from length of wool kilted up with a belt. Excess length flung over the wearer’s shoulder.

Tarbet
= isthmus, an arm of land connecting two bodies of water

Thrang
= busy

Tùr Meiloach
= Toor MIL ock

Prologue
 

Stirling, Scotland, late May 1425

R
iding into the cobblestone court of Cambuskenneth Abbey and reining in between the long abbey kirk and its tall stone tower, the weary knight flung himself from his lathered horse, brushed off his dusty leather jack and breeks, and smoothed his dark brown hair away from his face. It was dusk. He was hungry.

A lay brother in a black cassock hurried to meet him. The knight handed him the horse’s reins, saying, “His grace is here, aye? With Sir William Fletcher?”

“They are both here, sir. But his grace is receiving nae one.”

“He will receive me. Prithee, tell Sir William it is urgent that I speak with his grace as soon as possible. I will wait.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Ian Colquhoun…
Sir
Ian Colquhoun,” he added, remembering.

The lay brother summoned a second layman to look after Ian’s horse and then entered the abbey through the tower door.

Sir William Fletcher, a man some six or seven years older than the twenty-four-year-old Sir Ian, came out to get him shortly afterward. Sir William said, “His grace will see you at once, sir. Come with me.”

“My news is not for sharing,” Ian said. “Is anyone else with his grace?”

“Nay, he meets his nobles across the river at the castle but sleeps here. Since his English captivity, he prefers to avoid fortresses, so he has been here for several days. Hanging four of his close kinsmen much affected him, however greatly they deserved it. So he will be alone,” Fletcher added, “although I will stay with you.”

“Aye, sure,” Ian said, knowing that Jamie Stewart, King of Scots, rarely went anywhere without his childhood friend, Will Fletcher. Jamie and Will had become friends shortly before Jamie’s capture by the English and his subsequent nineteen-year captivity. Will had been one of the first to welcome Jamie home a year ago and had received his knighthood shortly thereafter.

Ian had won his own silver spurs more recently.

“This way,” Will said, opening the abbey tower door onto a stairway landing. Leading the way up a few stairs to the first landing, he opened another door and preceded Ian into a small, austere room, saying, “Sir Ian is here, your grace.”

The King beckoned Ian forward. Although Ian had seen him less than a fortnight before, his grace looked older than his thirty-one years and very tired.

Jamie said, “Be sure that latch catches, Sir Ian. It often fails. One good thing that my duplicitous uncle did before he died was to begin restoring the abbey kirk here and some of this tower. More requires to be done. But tell me
your news. By the look of you, and your urgency, I ken fine it cannot be good.”

“James Mòr and the rebels have seized Dumbarton,” Ian said flatly.

“The castle?”

“Aye, your grace, but also the royal burgh and harbor.”

“My uncle John Stewart of Burleigh is the Governor there.”

Ian’s throat tightened. “The rebels murdered Lord Burleigh, your grace. They also murdered his captain of the guard, my cousin, Gregor Colquhoun.”

“Fiend seize them!” his grace exclaimed. “We must have that castle back.”

“Dumbarton Castle is impregnable,” Will Fletcher said.

“Nevertheless…” Jamie looked at Ian, his eyes narrowing speculatively. “Your Colquhoun seat of Dunglass is gey close to Dumbarton, as I recall.”

“Less than three miles up the river Clyde,” Ian agreed. “The castle sits midway between Dumbarton and Glasgow.”

“Then you are ably placed to recover the castle for me, are you not?”

“We are likewise well-placed to suffer mischief perpetrated by the rebels at Dumbarton,” Ian replied with a wry smile.

He saw Will Fletcher’s bushy eyebrows shoot upward, but Jamie said, “I recall that you also enjoy a reputation for mischief, Sir Ian. So I would like you to put that devious mind of yours to work and devise a way to recover my castle. You are, after all, a knight of my realm, sir. Now, what do you say?”

Without hesitation, Ian said, “If I can do it, your grace, I will.”

“I shall prepare a royal warrant for you straightaway,” Jamie said. “I’ll also give you names of powerful nobles who will help if you need them. They will want to besiege the place, but I’d liefer you find means to avoid that and keep the town and harbor safe. Feed him now, Will. He must be hungry.”

As Ian followed Will Fletcher to the abbey refectory, he felt rather numb.

Was he daft to have agreed? His family would surely say he was, aye.

Glen Fruin, near Loch Lomond, end of July

“We’ve stared down at that tower now for a good half-hour,” the big, dark-haired Highlander said with a grim frown. “Ye’re sure they’re here?”

“Aye, master,” his much smaller companion replied, eyeing him warily.

“And ye’re sure ye saw Lady Aubrey MacFarlan
and
her daughters?”

“I canna be as sure o’ that,” the lad said. “I followed the Laird o’ Galbraith and five females what crossed the loch wi’ him from Inch Galbraith tae the wee clachan ashore. Then they all rode here wi’ him. Likely, one or two o’ them women be maidservants. But I dinna ken nowt o’ them. I only just ken the laird.”

The two stood on a wooded hilltop looking down at a large, square, gray-stone tower just above the wide, swift-flowing burn known as Fruin Water.