England – 1292
“Oh, Moira. I see the savages!” Leonora, daughter of Lord Alec Waltham, stood on the balcony of the keep, her gaze sweeping the green lands of her beloved England. For as far as the eye could see, the land belonged to her wealthy father, most of it given to him by a grateful King Edward in appreciation for a lifetime of service to the Crown. Alec Waltham was one of the king’s most trusted friends, and Edward’s generosity to his friends was legendary, as was his volatile temper. It was well known in wealthy circles that Edward was an autocratic, short-tempered monarch who became violent even against his most trusted friends if they dared to criticize him.
“God save us. Where?” Her aged nurse waddled across the room and lifted a gnarled hand to squint into the bright light.
“On that distant hilltop. See how the sunlight reflects off their swords?”
“Aye.” The old woman crossed herself. “I would ne’er have believed that I would live to see heathens such as these sleeping under the same roof with civilized people, and even sharing food at your father’s table. Ah, the things I’ve heard about them.”
“Heard? Have you never seen a Highlander, then?”
The woman who had been nurse to Leonora’s mother, and her mother before her, shivered. “Nay. But I’ve heard stories about the savages. They are giants, child, who bare their limbs even in the harshest weather, and who wear little more than rags.” Seeing Leonora’s shocked reaction, she went on, “Aye, those who have seen them say they are wild, unkempt creatures, their manner of speech crude, their hairy faces horrible to behold.”
Leonora’s eyes widened. “Oh, Moira. Whatever shall I do? Father has ordered me to join him in welcoming these... creatures.” She lifted a delicate hand to her throat.
“If he’d been wise, he’d have ordered you to remain locked in your chambers until the Highlanders departed. Who knows what villainy might befall us?” The old nurse lowered her voice. “There are those who say they eat English children, and drink their blood.”
“Hush, Moira. I cannot believe such nonsense. Father would never invite such monsters into his home.”
“Never forget, ’twas not your father’s choice. The king ordered this meeting.”
“Aye, and would the king place his most trusted friend in danger?”
The old woman gave no reply, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. There were spies everywhere. Woe to any who fell out of favor with the Crown.
Leonora watched three horsemen urge their mounts toward the moat. At a shout, the drawbridge was lowered, and the heavy portcullis raised. The three clattered across. Immediately, the portcullis was lowered and the drawbridge was raised, leaving them no means of retreating.
“These Highlanders are either very foolish,” Leonora said, turning to take leave of her chambers, “Or very brave. After all, there are only three of them, and over a hundred of the king’s finest soldiers positioned within these walls.”
“’Tis said that it takes but one Highlander to crush an entire English army.”
“You go too far with such treasonous talk.” Leonora opened the door and flounced from the room, eyes flashing. “These are not gods. They are mere mortals.” Over her shoulder she announced haughtily, “And, since we are well fortified, I intend to see them for myself.”
When she was gone, her nurse crossed herself again and dropped to her knees to pray. The lass was young, barely ten and six, and a bit headstrong. Soon enough she would see for herself that the rest of the world was not as civilized as England.
~ ~ ~
“What if they ask us to relinquish our weapons, Dillon?”
“Rob said we must do as we are bid if we are to convince them of our willingness to make peace.” Dillon Campbell dismounted and handed the reins to a young lad, whose mouth dropped open like one staring at an apparition.
Dillon, choosing to ignore the effect he had on the English lad, shook the dust from his traveling cloak and tossed it rakishly over one massive shoulder. Then he shook his head like a great, shaggy beast, before straightening.
His younger brothers, Sutton and Shaw, followed suit. Though they were identical twins, with hair the color of straw and eyes more green than blue, their natures were very different. From infancy, Sutton had imitated his older brother, relishing every opportunity to wield a sword in battle. Gentle Shaw, impressed by the fine minds and generous spirits of the monks who had raised him and his brothers, had already pledged himself to the Church. It was only a matter of time before he would enter the monastery, to begin a life of prayer and contemplation.
“All of our weapons?” Sutton asked.
Dillon’s lips curved slightly as he sought to hide his smile. “It matters not what Rob said, for he is safe in Edinburgh and we are the ones who must sleep with the enemy. I trust not these English dogs. We will give them only those weapons they can see. ‘Twould not hurt to conceal a dirk or two,” he muttered under his breath, “for it could mean the difference between life and death.”
“Aye.” Relieved Sutton touched a hand to the knife hidden at his waist. He’d had no intention of giving it up to these English tyrants.
“Remember what I told you,” Dillon commanded softly. “Trust no one. Leave nothing to chance. Look always to your safety.”
A heavy door leading to the courtyard was thrown open and several soldiers stepped out and formed a guard of honor on either side of the doorway. Like the lad who stood holding the reins of the strangers’ horses, they gaped at the sight of these three Highlanders, who stood head and shoulders above even the tallest in their midst.
Behind the soldiers came a man in the robes of a bishop, followed by several formally dressed men. As each of them stepped outside, they shot speculative glances at the three strangers, then formed a half circle and turned expectantly toward the doorway, where their host paused, a young woman standing close behind.
The man in elegant fur-trimmed doublet and satin breeches could only be the lord of the keep. His silver hair, neatly trimmed moustache and pointed beard framed a handsome face whose most notable feature was a pair of lively, intelligent eyes.
“I am Lord Alec Waltham. I bid you welcome to England and to my home.”
Dillon stepped forward, carefully shielding his brothers. “Thank you, Lord Waltham.” Presenting his sword, he said, “I am Dillon Campbell, and these are my brothers, Sutton and Shaw.”
Following the lead of their older brother, the two offered their swords to their host. Lord Waltham accepted, and handed the weapons to the captain of the guard.
Drawing his daughter beside him, Lord Waltham said, “May I present my beloved daughter, Leonora.”
“My lady.” Dillon, keenly aware of the contrast between his own rough clothing and that of his host, stepped forward and lifted her hand, brushing his lips lightly over her knuckles.
Up close, the female smelled of crushed roses. Her skin was as pale as alabaster, and her hair as black as a raven’s wing. She glanced up, then away, but in that brief instant Dillon found himself looking into eyes the color of the heather that bloomed on the Highland meadows. They were the most unusual eyes he’d ever seen. Almost at once he released her hand and took a step back.
Leonora nodded her head stiffly, too overcome to speak. The Scotsman’s voice was as cultured as any Englishman’s, except for a slight burr. The hand that had touched hers was rough and callused, with a grip so strong it could have broken every bone in her tiny palm. When his lips touched her flesh, she felt a tremor along her spine unlike anything she had ever experienced before.
Moira had been right. These men were indeed giants. Rough, crude, unkempt giants who smelled of horses. Their Viking ancestry was clearly visible in their massive size and the red glints in untrimmed hair that fell in disarray to their shoulders. Their clothes were little more than rags.
The one called Dillon was probably considered handsome by the coarse women of his own land. Perhaps he would be, Leonora thought, if it weren’t for the thin scar that ran from temple to jaw, clearly visible beneath a growth of red-gold beard. He wore no shirt beneath his cloak, and her gaze fastened on his naked, muscled shoulder. No English gentleman would dare to offend a lady’s sensibilities in such a manner. Yet, for some unexplained reason, she could not seem to tear her gaze from the offensive sight.
Lord Waltham directed their attention to the others who stood beside him. “May I present the Bishop of York.”
“Your grace,” Dillon said, lifting the bishop’s hand to his lips.
“You are Christian?” The bishop couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Aye. After the... untimely death of our parents, my brothers and I were raised by monks in the monastery of St. Collura.”
The bishop beamed with pleasure. He’d expected these barbarians to be heathens. The fact that they’d been raised by monks made the prospect of peace talks with these Scots all the sweeter.
Lord Waltham motioned another man forward. He wore a beautifully tailored velvet doublet in shades of blue and scarlet with blue silk breeches. “This is an emissary from the king himself. May I present George Godwin, the Duke of Essex.”
The man kept his expression bland, but Dillon could read hostility in his eyes. This was better, he thought. He would prefer to know what was in a man’s heart before he agreed to sit at table with him. In the manner of a warrior, Dillon lifted his right hand from the empty scabbard and held it aloft. Essex did the same.
“This is Lord James Blakely and his son, Alger,” Lord Waltham said.
Father and son were handsome, with neatly trimmed hair and beards, and the fierce bearing of soldiers. The older man nodded stiffly. His son kept his hand on his sword and took a step closer to the lady Leonora, while he took the measure of the man he faced. It was obvious that he considered the lady his personal responsibility, and feared that these strangers might be a threat to her safety.
Something about these two troubled Dillon. Some long-buried dread began to surface, but he pushed it aside, reminding himself sternly that any English soldier would arouse such feelings.
Lord Waltham indicated a stooped, balding man who leaned on a walking stick. “This is the king’s own counsel, Lord John Forest.”
Dillon studied the man, who studied him just as carefully. There was neither friendship nor hostility in his eyes; merely veiled curiosity.
“Welcome,” John Forest said as he offered his hand. “I thank you.”
Lord Waltham had carefully gauged the reaction of these strangers to all who had been introduced. It was essential, with men who harbored ancient enmity, that their first meeting be one of ease and trust. It was obvious that there was little of either on both sides.
“You must be weary after your long journey,” he said. “You will wish to refresh yourselves before you are shown to your chambers. Come.”
When Lord Waltham turned to lead the way, with his daughter on his arm, Dillon signaled to his two brothers, who followed closely. They stepped inside the great stone walls, and made their way along a hallway made bright by hundreds of lighted tapers set in sconces. While they walked, they shot furtive glances at the soldiers who followed at a discreet distance. When their party halted, a servant pulled open a door and stood aside, allowing them to enter. The soldiers remained outside.
Inside, several chairs draped with animal hides were positioned around a blazing fire. Lord Waltham and his daughter held a whispered conference before she turned to speak to a servant. That done, her father held a chair for her beside the fire. Immediately, Alger Blakely placed himself beside her in a proprietary manner.
“Sit and warm yourselves,” Lord Waltham called to his guests.
As the three Highlanders took their seats, a servant offered them tankards of ale, which remained untouched until Lord Waltham took the first sip. When Dillon determined that the ale had not been poisoned, he signaled his younger brothers, who eagerly began to drink. The tankards were quickly emptied. Another servant passed around trays of bread soaked in wine, which soon restored their spirits.
Lord Waltham sipped his ale and watched them with interest. His daughter, too uncomfortable in the presence of these strangers to eat or drink, merely watched in silence.
“Was it a difficult journey?” the Duke of Essex asked.
“Nay.” Dillon stretched out his long legs toward the fire, enjoying the heat that settled in his belly after the first fiery swallow of ale. If the English hoped to render them helplessly drunk, they would have to do better than this swill. In the monastery where he’d been raised, the monks made the finest ale and spirits in all of Scotland. It was a common drink with every meal. “After a life in the Highlands, a journey of several days over your gentle countryside is child’s play.”
“You are not weary?” Lord Waltham lifted a brow in astonishment, knowing his soldiers would find such a journey daunting.
“Nay. Perhaps, if we had to journey all the way to your king’s home in London, we would feel the need to refresh ourselves. But this required no more effort than we would make on any day in the Highlands.”
“I have heard of your Highlands.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, Leonora felt the heat of Dillon’s gaze and cursed herself for her foolishness. She had not wanted to call attention to herself. And now the man was studying her with great intensity. She was aware only of his eyes, dark and compelling, fixed on her.
“And what have you heard, my lady?”
She glanced at her father, who smiled his encouragement. After the death of his wife, his only child had been his constant companion at court. With her fine mind, she had proved to be a valuable asset when dealing with affairs of state. Even the king had commented on her ability to mingle with her father’s worldly friends. He was confident she would have no problem with these simple Highlanders.
“I have heard they are—” she licked her lips “—quite untamed.”
“Aye.” Dillon sipped his ale and considered his words before speaking. “That they are. Untamed. A bonny land.”
Hearing the passion in his tone, she felt a shiver along her spine. Bonny. It was as if he were speaking about a woman. A beautiful, desirable woman.
“Robert the Bruce must set great store by you to have appointed you his spokesman.” The bishop studied Dillon who lounged carelessly in his chair. Though surrounded by English swords, the man seemed completely at ease. Could the rumors be true? Did these Highlanders truly know no fear?
“Rob knows that my word is my bond.”
“The question is,” the Duke of Essex said with a sneer, “will your fellow Scotsmen consider your word binding?”
Dillon’s expression never changed. His words were spoken so softly everyone in the room had to strain to hear. But all were aware of the thread of steel in his tone. And a thickening of the burr with each passionate word. “I would not be here if it were not so.”
“Aye.” Lord Waltham stepped forward, eager to smooth things over. It would not do to end this meeting of the two warring countries before it even began. What was needed to soothe this tension was a woman’s healing touch. “If you have had sufficient ale, my daughter, Leonora, will show you to your chambers.”
Leonora shot her father a pleading glance, but he turned away, deliberately ignoring her. If the look was lost on Lord Waltham, it did not go unnoticed by Dillon. He would have found it amusing, were it not so insulting. It was obvious the lady would have rather faced a den of wildcats than lead him and his brothers to their chambers.
“I will accompany the lady,” Alger Blakely said eagerly.
“Nay, Alger.” Lord Waltham gave him a warning look. Turning to Dillon, he said, “If there is anything you desire, you need only ask. We will sup at dusk. A servant will be sent to fetch you.”
“My lord. Your grace.” Dillon bowed slightly before turning to follow Leonora from the room, with his brothers trailing.
They climbed a graceful curve of stairs to an upper level. As they walked, they studied the walls lined with tapestries. Everywhere they looked, servants scurried about, polishing sconces or carrying armloads of linen. It was clear evidence of a well-ordered and opulent existence.
Dillon’s attention was fixed on the lady in front of him. Even at Edinburgh, the seat of power in his country, he had not seen a female so richly gowned. The fabric shimmered in the light of the candles. With each sway of her hips, he found himself more and more fascinated by the feminine contours hidden beneath the voluminous skirts. Her hair, secured by gold netting, bobbed primly at her shoulders. His fists clenched at his sides as he found himself wondering what those raven curls would look like when set free to cascade past her waist. Almost at once he chastised himself for such foolish thoughts.
Leonora paused before huge double doors. Throwing them open she stepped inside a sitting room and motioned for the servants to leave. Seeing the strangers, they bowed from the room, leaving behind the proof of their diligence. A fire blazed on the hearth. Several chaises had been positioned around it for comfort. On a table were a flagon of ale and goblets of hammered gold.
“Is this to be our bedchamber?” Sutton asked, opening a second door.
“Aye. It is one of several,” Leonora called to his retreating back. He had already disappeared inside, with his twin brother behind him.
A few moments later Sutton and Shaw returned to the sitting room holding aloft brightly colored garments. “Look, Dillon. These were draped across the beds. Feel how fine and soft is the cloth.”
Dillon glanced at the garments with a frown of distaste. “You have no need of such things, my brothers. Return them to the lady Leonora.”
“But—”
“At once.” His tone was abrupt.
As they reluctantly handed them over, Dillon turned to the young woman. “What was the reason for this?”
“We had heard...” She bit her lip and wondered how to proceed tactfully. She couldn’t possibly tell him that she had pitied him his coarse garments. She had requested permission of her father to furnish him and his brothers with something more befitting their sumptuous surroundings and their lofty position as representatives of their country. Nor could she tell him of the rumors she had heard, of savage Highlanders who would be nearly naked even in the company of women. “We had heard that your journey would be long and difficult. I thought you might desire a change of clothing.”
He never altered his tone, but his words had the sharp sting of a whip. “We are Highland warriors, my lady. Our clothes may appear to you to be coarse and simple, but they were woven with love.” He thought of the hours his sister and the nuns at the abbey had spent at the loom, weaving the cloth of green and blue and black that so pleased him because it reminded him of the green glens of his beloved Highlands, the blue of the heather that blossomed on the meadows and the black of the rich Scottish soil. “Would you deny us our heritage and turn us into peacocks like your countrymen below stairs?”
“Nay. I did not mean...” Feeling her cheeks flush, she lowered her gaze. “Forgive me. I meant no harm. I will send a servant to fetch the garments you are wearing. I assure you they will be clean and dry in time to sup.”
His Scottish burr thickened, the only sign that his anger still simmered. “There is no need. We may be simple, but we are not savages. We have brought other clothes. If you will be good enough to send a servant to the stables, they are with our horses.”
“As you wish.” She backed away, eager to escape this harsh, angry man who made her feel so uncomfortable.
He would not allow her to flee so easily. He walked with her to the door and held it open. As she moved past him, her breast came into contact with his arm, sending a tingling sensation clear to her toes. She felt a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the fireplace. Feeling the way his gaze burned over her, she lowered her head to hide the betraying blush that she knew was on her cheeks.
“A servant will summon you when it is time to sup.”
“You are most kind, my lady.”
Most kind indeed. She gritted her teeth as she hurried away. That infuriating Highlander had just made a mockery of her attempt at hospitality. And for that, she would never forgive him.