Rain filtered through the thick canopy of trees in the forest, drenching the man who stood as still as a statue. Jamie’s gaze was fixed on the courtyard of the fortress looming before him. For nearly two hours he had watched as the mounted men arrived, one after another, to disappear inside the sprawling Gordon manor house.
These would be the sons, he decided. He knew there were four of them, though so far he could account for only three. They, along with the old chieftain, Douglas Gordon, would prove formidable opponents. But if he could get the fierce old warrior and his sons to work with him, they would bring a dozen fractious clans along with them. First he would have to get their attention; no easy task, since they respected no one outside their own blood. Then the trick would be to force them to sit still long enough to hear what he had to say. With so many of them, he was apt to find himself at the point of a sword before his first words could be spoken.
Jamie touched a hand to the stiffness of his shoulder, the lingering effects of an old battle wound. All those hours in the saddle, and now the rain that chilled him clear to the bone, were taking their toll. He yearned for a warm fire and a soft bed. With a trace of impatience he shook his head to clear his mind of such annoying thoughts. He could not afford to allow himself any distractions.
These Gordons were fighters like himself. They would not willingly listen to talk of peace among the Highland clans. Nor would they respect a man who came, hat in hand, to ask their help. It would take bold measures to get their attention. And even bolder measures to enlist their aid. He had not yet decided just what those bold measures would be.
Out of the comer of his eye he saw a sudden movement and forced himself to remain motionless. As the rider passed, Jamie noted the stubble of dark beard in a brooding, handsome face. The lad’s hat was worn at a rakish angle. His dark eyes gleamed with the sleek, smug look of a cat that had just stolen his master’s cream. This would be Donald Gordon, the second son, a rebel, and by all accounts a man who loved the wenches.
Jamie gave a satisfied nod. At last all the sons were accounted for. Now he would wait and watch for an opportunity to catch them unawares.
* * *
“So, laddie, you’ve finally come home.” Murray Gordon, touching a hand to his newly cultivated beard, gave his brother a lingering look. “We were just about to break our fast. You’d best have an explanation ready. Father was planning to have Robbie and Neal comb the village until they found you even if it meant searching every maiden’s bed.”
Donald Gordon gave his elder brother a wink. “They’d have had to look no farther than the widow Lennox’s cottage.’’
“The widow Lennox?” Murray’s mouth dropped before he added, “Have you cut such a swath through the eligible wenches that you are now reduced to the charms of that plump baggage?”
Donald threw back his head and roared. “Not the widow, you dolt. Her fetching daughter.”
Murray shot him a withering look. “Why, she’s no more than a child.”
“A child?” Donald tossed his cloak on a peg and shook the rain from his hair. Turning to his brother he said with a grin, “While you were looking the other way, that child grew into a very charming lass.” He dropped his arm around Murray’s shoulder as they strode toward the refectory. “And believe me, she was most eager that I sample all her charms.”
Both men threw back their heads and roared. The laughter died on their lips when they caught sight of the stern countenance of their father. Douglas Gordon, seated at the head of the table, speared them with a look of righteous anger.
“How kind of you to spare your family a few moments of your precious time, Donald. It seems you can no longer sleep in your own bed.”
“There are so many more—interesting beds in the village,” Donald said as he seated himself.
Douglas slammed his fist on the table, sending the dishes clattering. Everyone in the room fell silent.
“Have I raised a son, or a rutting goat?”
“By all accounts, Father, I am merely following in your glorious footsteps.”
Someone snickered.
Douglas Gordon’s eyes narrowed. It was clear the lad had touched a nerve. He spoke in a tone of regret. “Aye. I fear I was guilty of wenching in my youth.”
He fell silent as his only daughter circled the table to fill his goblet. His gaze softened. How like his dear wife Lindsey had become. She had inherited her mother’s thick, auburn hair, framing the face of an angel. Her slight, slender stature seemed even more pronounced because of a limp, which was only noticeable when Lindsey was agitated or weary. It was the result of a childhood injury that had nearly devastated her loving parents.
Her mother had died when Lindsey was but a child, and Douglas had done what any father would do; he had simply taken the girl with him and treated her the same way he treated his sons. The lass, surrounded by a warrior father and four brothers, had abandoned all attempts at feminine pursuits.
Despite her physical frailty, the lass possessed an indomitable spirit and a bright, logical mind. She had mastered the use of small weapons as easily as her brothers. The broadsword and longbow, however, required more strength than she possessed.
Douglas knew that if she had been born a male, she would have been his first choice to inherit the leadership of this fierce clan.
Realizing his family had grown uncomfortably silent, Douglas struggled to pull himself back from his somber thoughts. “My wenching ended the moment I met Diedre. I want you to know that from then on, there was never another lass who could turn my head.”
Hearing the pain in his tone, Lindsey Gordon brushed a kiss over her father’s shaggy eyebrow. “Aye. I remember the love shining between the two of you. We all share your pain.” Her warning gaze swept her brothers around the table. “Do we not?”
“ ‘Twas a love like no other,” Murray said in quick agreement.
Lindsey signaled to a servant, who filled the other goblets.
“When I meet the woman of my dreams, my wenching days will be over as well,” Donald said defiantly.
His words were greeted with hoots of laughter from his sister and brothers.
“The woman of your dreams.” Neal, the youngest, turned to the brother closest in age to him, whose sun-kissed hair and fair features caused many a village lass to turn and stare. “Tell me, Robbie. Has Donald been reading your poetry?”
“ ‘Twould seem so. Tell us about this dream vision,” Robbie said, winking at his sister as she took the seat beside him.
“It wouldn’t do to fill your head. You’d best keep your thoughts on those pretty words you write, Rob. And leave the wenches to me.”
Lindsey joined in the laughter. “Describe this woman to me, Donald. Mayhap I will find her for you among the village wenches.”
“I need no help from my sister to find my future wife.” Donald lifted his goblet, ignoring the jeers of laughter from the others.
“Will she have big—eyes, like the widow Lennox?”
Even Donald found himself laughing at that. But one look at his father’s face wiped the smile from his lips. Usually the old man was the first to join in the laughter and teasing. But this day he was in a somber mood.
“What is it, Father? What troubles you this morrow?”
‘We speak of foolishness while there are rumors of turmoil at Holyrood.”
“Turmoil.” At the mention of Holyrood, the queen’s residence in Edinburgh, Murray’s head came up sharply. “What have you heard?”
“Rumors. Gossip. No one seems to know anything. But ’tis whispered that the queen and her husband are far from happy.”
“Is there not soon to be a child?” Lindsey asked.
“Aye.”
“Then what can be wrong? They are so newly wed.”
“There are those who say the queen’s foolish young husband, Lord Darnley, would make our Donald look like a mere jester among the women at court.” He glanced around the table at his children. “If such whispers have reached us here in the Highlands, do you not think Queen Mary herself has heard the rumors? And is surely disheartened by them?”
Neal, the youngest, broke the silence. “Mary is queen. Can she not command Darnley to love only her?”
Everyone burst into peals of laughter. Lindsey touched a hand to his cheek, but he pulled away sharply, embarrassed to be petted like a child. He was, after all, ten and six years, and taller than two of his brothers. Only Donald was taller, taller even than their father.
“Why does that amuse all of you?”
“Because,” Lindsey said patiently, “even the queen cannot command someone to love her. Love cannot be ordered about. Love just happens, without reason.”
“And how would you know about such things?” Murray asked. As the eldest, he felt a keen sense of responsibility toward his sister. She was, after all, still a maiden.
“Mayhap she has been reading your poetry, Robbie,” Neal called out with a laugh.
“What care I about love?” Lindsey snatched up her goblet, suddenly stung by their teasing. “ ’Twould only mean having another man underfoot.”
“That would not be the worst thing to happen to you,” Donald said with a sly laugh. “It is time you gave some thought to taking a husband and filling this old house with children.”
“I thought I would save that privilege for you, Donald. Since there are so many willing maidens hoping to catch your eye.”
“If the truth be told, there are far too many to make a choice. You, on the other hand, have had so little experience with the lads, any sturdy bumpkin should do nicely. Perhaps you would like us to pick him out for you.”
“I shall do my own choosing, thank you.” Lindsey pushed away from the table. “If you will excuse me, Father, I will see to the servants preparing our meal.”
“Aye, lass.” Douglas watched as she flounced from the room, then commanded softly, “Mind your tongues around Lindsey. She should not be forced to listen to your crude remarks.”
“She is usually the one who makes them,” Neal protested. He remembered the first time he had heard his sister swear. She would have put a soldier to shame.
Douglas chose to overlook his son’s comment. Despite his daughter’s quick temper, she was the light of his life. Though she went about her chores without complaint, Douglas sensed her loneliness at times. Despite the fact that theirs was a lively, raucous family, he knew that his daughter had been denied the company of other women. Her isolation had given her a simple innocence that, to him, was refreshing. But to those beyond these secluded hills she would no doubt appear too artless.
He emptied his goblet and glanced at the sons seated to his right and left. Their talk soon turned, as always, to the state of their country and their beloved young queen.
* * *
Lindsey gathered the last of the eggs into her apron and headed for the house. Usually such mundane chores were given over to a servant, but she had a need to escape the confines of the four walls, despite the weather. A bitter rain was nothing compared with the storm that raged within between her brothers and her father.
Theirs was a prickly, combative family, and though she loved them dearly, there were times when she would have gratefully strangled her overbearing menfolk. At such times she fled to the solitude of the forest. Today, because of the weather, she would content herself with a brief foray into the rain-soaked acreage that ringed their fortress.
All the talk between her father and brothers, if shouts and resounding oaths could be called talk, centered around the rumors of turmoil at Holyrood, the queen’s official residence in Edinburgh. Turmoil, she thought. The queen should live with Douglas Gordon and his four sons. If they weren’t brooding over Donald and his wenches, they were arguing over Murray’s long-standing feud with the Robertsons, or Robbie’s rambling, poetic missives to an unnamed maiden, or the never-ending tensions that simmered between Scotland and England.
One day soon, Lindsey knew, the warlike Highlanders could be called upon to defend their country against the aggressions of England. The thought of it did not frighten her.
All her life she had watched her father and brothers go off to do battle. She had seen her poor mother’s heart broken by the thought of losing her adored husband and sons to the sword. Lindsey’s lips tightened. Instead it was her dear mother who had died young. Far too young. And left a family washed in grief.
Lindsey could still recall those early years, when she and Neal were left behind while her father and older brothers went off to do battle. She had cried out at the injustice of it. There was still a lingering trace of guilt that, because of her mother’s untimely death, she had been granted her wish. From that day on her father had seen to it that all his children, including his daughter, accompanied him everywhere. Those forays into battle had convinced Lindsey that she would never be content to stay at home while her men went off on their adventures.
Perhaps Lindsey was distracted by her thoughts. Or perhaps she had taken on too many chores this day. For whatever reason, she let down her guard for a moment. In the softly falling rain she heard the crackle of a branch just moments before an arm came round her waist and a big hand closed over her mouth. The hem of her apron slipped from nerveless fingers. Eggs tumbled to the ground, their contents mingling with the rain to run in sticky yellow rivers at her feet. Her scream was abruptly choked off.
Her heart hammered in her temples as a rough voice warned, “Not a word, lass, or I shall have to break your pretty neck.” She felt the heat of her attacker’s breath as he said, “Do as I say and you will not be harmed. Do you understand?”
She swallowed the terror that clogged her throat and nodded.
“I wish only to speak to your master. I mean him no harm. You will lead me through his keep by way of the scullery.”
Lindsey’s mind raced. The lout thought she was a servant. If he were to learn the truth, she would be in far greater danger. She must keep up the charade until she thought of a way to warn her family of this invader.
Feigning weakness, she slumped against him. With a muttered oath Jamie lowered her to the wet grass. He had not meant to harm this female, but ofttimes he did not know his own strength. As he knelt beside her his breath caught in his throat. God in heaven. Close up, she was far lovelier than he had expected. Thick tangles of russet hair fell to her waist. Damp little tendrils kissed her cheeks in a most becoming fashion. Her oval face was accentuated by high cheekbones and a tiny, upturned nose, and her lips were full and ripe. As her lids fluttered he found himself staring into eyes that rivaled the queen’s emeralds.
He cursed this damnably hysterical female for her beauty and her weakness. He was unprepared for either. He had expected to bully the servant into leading him to her master. Now his gallantry would not permit it. He would have to carry her. A not altogether unpleasant task.
Sweeping her into his arms, he lifted her as easily as if she were a bairn. With quick strides he began to pick his way through the wet grass toward the scullery.
As the giant carried her, Lindsey plotted her next move. Those few moments had bought her time to study this stranger. From the weapons he carried, he was no ordinary traveler. The hilt of the sword at his waist glinted with gold and precious jewels, proving him to be a man of some wealth and measure. Unless, she thought with a tremor of new fear, he had stolen the sword from an unfortunate nobleman. She pushed aside that thought and concentrated on the matter at hand. The sword’s blade was honed to a razor edge. A fighter’s sword, not a gentleman’s weapon. She had counted three dirks, one at his waistband and one at each boot.
She could not allow this villain to catch her father and brothers unaware. Somehow she must warn them of his presence.
As he cradled her to his chest, Jamie glanced down at the sweep of thick lashes that shielded her eyes from his view. He seized the moment to study her flawless complexion and felt the sudden, unwelcome stirring in his loins. Had he encountered this female at some other place and time, he would have savored her wild, primitive beauty. But at this moment he wanted nothing more than to present his offer to the Gordon clan and be on his way to Edinburgh to be with his queen. Still, he could not ignore the fragrance of evergreen and wildflowers that drifted gently from her hair and clothes, enveloping him in the sweetest perfume. She was a most fetching distraction.
At the door to the scullery Jamie paused. Hearing no sound from within, he kicked open the door and strode inside.
The woman in his arms moaned. Alarmed, he set her down on a rug by the hearth and knelt beside her.
“Are you hurt, lass? Is something wrong?”
“Water,” she rasped, keeping her eyes firmly closed. Please, sir, I have need of water quickly.”
Her voice was soft, almost husky. It was unlike any female voice he had ever heard, whispering over his senses in a way that disturbed him greatly. Still, he reminded himself, he had not come here to be charmed by a voice. There was desperate work to be done.
As he knelt over her she watched from beneath half-closed lids and tried again. “Please. Water.”
“Aye.” Reluctantly Jamie crossed the room and filled a dipper from a bucket. From the corner of his eye he saw the flash of color and turned in time to see the girl racing toward the doorway leading to the refectory.
“By the gods!” In swift strides he caught up with her.
She gave out a loud scream as a big hand closed over her shoulder, stopping her in mid-stride. She heard her garment tear as he twisted her roughly in his arms.
“I meant you no harm, lass.”
“You think me daft?” Her eyes flashed as she struggled to break free. “Once you have killed the others, you will see there are no witnesses to your crime.”
“I mean no harm to those who dwell here. I come in peace to ask a favor of the Gordon.”
“Oh, aye. And that is why you sneak around the scullery like a thief.”
“My mission is one of peace. But I must gain their attention before I can gain their ear.”
His words were soft. Soft and clever. She would not be fooled by the look of sincerity in those eyes. “Liar!”
In their struggles his hand encountered the softness of her breast. Though small and slender, her figure was undeniably womanly. He glanced down and saw the flush upon her cheeks. A moment later he gave out a yelp of pain when her teeth sank into his hand. When he jerked his hand away, his blood stained the front of her gown.
“Damn you, wench. Will you not listen to reason? I swear to you...” The rest of his words died in his throat when he glanced down and saw that the lass was holding his dirk in her hand.
She leaped forward, the knife aimed at his heart. In one quick motion he caught her hand and wrenched the knife free. It clattered to the floor at their feet.
With a vicious oath he dragged her roughly into his arms, twisting her hands behind her in a painful grasp.
“Now you will listen and heed my words,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “Jamie MacDonald is a man of his word. I come here in peace.”
“Jamie MacDonald? The Heartless MacDonald?”
He saw the fear leap into her eyes at the mention of his name. So she had heard of him. All the better. At least now she would offer no more resistance.
“Aye. Heartless am I in battle.” He lowered his head until his lips were inches from hers. His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Do not cross swords with me again, lass, or you will feel the sting of my anger.”
As he lifted his head he heard the sound of swords being unsheathed. Before he could turn he felt the sharp point of a blade against his back, slicing through his flesh. Pain ripped through him.
A voice low with fury said, “Release the woman.”
Had this been war, Jamie would have pulled a dirk from his boot and held the blade to the female’s throat until he either made good his escape or disarmed his enemy. It would be far easier to cross swords with a hundred unreasonable Highlanders than to try to reason with them. But reason he must, if he was to keep his promise to Brice Campbell. Jamie lifted his hands to show that he did not intend to draw his sword. As he turned, the lass fled his arms and hurried to stand with the five men who faced him.
They stood in a semicircle, swords lifted menacingly. All bore a striking resemblance to the old man who stood in their midst.
“I demand the right to fight this lout by myself,” the tallest one said.
“Nay, Donald.” A stocky, bearded lad put out his hand to delay his brother’s progress. “As eldest son I claim the right.”
“You may both fight me if you wish, after I tell you my reason for coming here.” Jamie reached a hand to his waist and instantly another sword tip pierced his hand, unleashing a river of blood. Ignoring the pain, he unstrapped his scabbard and let it drop to the floor, as further proof that he did not wish to do battle.
“I do not trust him,” the youngest said.
“Nor do I.” The old man strode closer, peering at the stranger. “Who are you? State your name and the nature of your business before we relieve you of your life.”
Jamie stood silently, eyeing the old man. This had been a mistake. These warriors were itching for a fight. They would never give him the time to relate all that he had planned to tell them.
“He is Jamie MacDonald,” the lass said softly.
“The Heartless MacDonald?” The old man paused and turned toward his daughter, seeing for the first time that her gown was torn and bloody. His eyes narrowed. “God in heaven. He has harmed you, lass. I will cut out his heart.”
With a cry of fury he whirled and aimed his sword at Jamie’s heart. “May you burn in hell for inflicting pain upon my daughter.”
Daughter? Jamie glanced from the old man to the fiery lass. His eyes widened. Aye. How could he have missed it? The resemblance was there in the wide brow, in the finely chiseled lips. But who would have thought a bloody Highlander could produce such a work of perfection?
There would be no reasoning with the Gordons now. Jamie stood very still, prepared to meet his fate at the hands of this righteous old Highland warrior. He had made errors in judgment before, but never one that had so surely sealed his fate.
As the blade sang through the air, the lass’s voice, low and commanding, broke the silence.
“Hold, Father.” She saw the blood spurt from the stranger’s shoulder as her father’s blade missed its intended mark by mere inches. “The MacDonald gave his word that his was a mission of peace.” In quick strides she was beside her father, gripping his arm to stay another thrust. She turned to face the man whose touch had only moments ago filled her with terror. “I pray you let him speak.”
Through his pain Jamie breathed a sigh of relief.
A dangerous smile touched Lindsey’s lips as she added, “And if we do not like what we hear, the Heartless MacDonald will have at least bought enough time to prepare his wicked soul to meet his Maker.”