Highland Lady (Scottish Fire Series, Book 1)

dreams....

Prologue

South of Aberdeen, Highlands of Scotland July, 1314

He calls for ye.

Elen Burnard glanced up, meeting the dark-eyed gaze of her father's steward. Finley was only ten years older than she. They had grown up together, loved her father together. He understood how difficult it was for her to enter her father's bedchamber.

Elen's gaze shifted to the half-open door. Is he...

Finley reached out and gripped her shoulder, his awkward touch reassuring. Aye. 'Tis the end, I fear.

She took a deep breath. Death was a part of life. She knew death, for it had come to her door often and at an early age. Her mother had died birthing her only sibling, Rosalyn, when Elen was five. Her nursemaid had died of the pox only three years later. Uncles, cousins, family friends, all dead at the hand of English soldiers. But the pain of those deaths, even her mother's, was not akin to this.

Ye'd best go, Finley said gently, his Highland burr much heavier than her own.

She nodded, but still hesitated. She wasn't ready to say farewell.

If ye need me, I wait at the door.

With that reassurance, Elen entered her father's bedchamber in the tower house, the chamber where she and her sister had been born, the chamber where her mother had died in pools of blood. But it was also the happy place where she'd bounced on her father's bed in the good years before the war for independence. Then Dunblane had fallen to the English, and her family had been forced to take refuge across the Grampian Mountains with her mother's relatives.

Elen entered the room and smiled. Father.

The room was bright, sunlit by the massive tinted windows that faced the south, windows whose wide stone seats she had often perched on as a child. No dark shuttered room, candlelight, or burning herbs for her father's death. No barbaric physician who would poke and prod, bleed and leech the last stone of strength from him. She would not have it. Sir Murdoch Burnard, Laird of Dunblane, would die bathed in the warmth of the summer Highland sun with the scent of wildflowers in the air and his daughters at his side.

Murdoch opened his eyes and lifted his hand weakly from his side. Elen, lass.

She pulled up the stool beside his great four-poster bed and took his cool hand between hers. It was a big hand, rough, but gentle. And so young. He was not yet fifty; his hands were too young, his body too young to die.

Elen lifted her father's hand to her cheek. He seemed small now, insignificant, framed by the heavy brocaded bedcurtains and quilted linens. He smelled of shaving soap and the polish of the broadsword he had lifted to the English, thus winning back his blessed Dunblane—and all of Scotland, in her eyes.

Now, a little more than a month after the triumphant battle at Bannockburn, he was dying of a thigh wound that had seemed a trifle at the time. But the wound had not healed. It had festered, as wounds sometimes did, without reason. And now her father was slipping away.

Her father licked his dry lips, his eyes half closed. They were mirror images of her own eyes—as green as the morning sea, he had always told her. So much I need to tell ye, child of my heart, he whispered, not in his own voice, but that of a man dying before his time.

Elen wanted to assure him they could discuss such matters later, but both knew how near his time truly was. There would be no later.

She drew closer so he would not have to strain to speak. Aye, I listen.

First, your sister. The arrangements have been made. She is to marry her cousin come Michaelmas. She will be provided for. Happy, I pray.

Elen nodded. Sweet Rosalyn was all she was not—tiny, pretty, well versed in needlework and weaving. She would make a good wife and mate to young Robert.

Aye, I will see her wed. The Highlands have nae seen a wedding such as the one I will give your youngest daughter.

Her father turned his head and lifted his eyelids, which seemed heavier than the lead in the casement windows. Now... Dunblane.

Dunblane, Elen murmured.

Ye must hold her, he croaked. Hold her against the English bastards, for the fall of Stirling Castle at Bannockburn will not be the end.

I can do that. She squeezed his hand. You know I can.

Elen's upbringing had been more that of a son than a daughter. And though Murdoch had taken sore abuse from his in-laws for his decision, Elen had learned to ride, to draw a sword, and to command her father's men while her sister had been tutored in stitching and household husbandry. Because Dunblane had no male heir of his loins, Elen had ridden the moors and mountains of the Highlands at her father's side. Now the line would pass to her... if only she could hold the lands.

Nae an English mon will tread upon this soil again, Father, she swore calmly, firmly. Nae as long as I draw breath and sword.

He exhaled, as if the words gave him comfort. And the North Woods, he whispered.

She leaned closer, his words difficult to hear. The North Woods?

A map in my box, he murmured, his eyes now closed, his tone urgent. I must have my box.

Elen climbed off the stool and crossed the flagstone floor of the chamber to retrieve the leather box that held her father's most precious possessions. This tooled-leather box was Dunblane.

You must petition the Bruce our king to have it returned, he continued. Rancoff has nae claim to it.

Elen returned to her father's bedside, the box cradled in her arms. She knew Rancoff and Dunblane had been fighting over the woodlands that bordered both properties for more than a century. Only the coming of the English had ceased the bickering. But now, with the land their own again, it was once again time to settle Scottish disputes.

Petition the Bruce, he repeated. He will grant the lands. A smile flickered across his chapped lips. For your comeliness if not my loyalty at Bannockburn.

Elen lowered her gaze to the wrinkled linen bedclothes as she settled on the stool again. Beautiful was not a word generally used to describe her. Words such as hardheaded, stubborn, and manly were more often spoken, though only in a whisper. No one dared speak them aloud for fear of risking the wrath of Dunblane.

So what am I to do? she asked, her tone teasing despite the lump that had lodged in her throat. Don a gown of golden threads, let down my hair, and color my lips with red paste?

He chuckled. If 'twould aid the cause, I would have donned a gown myself.

Despite the tragedy of the moment, she could not help but laugh. Her father knew her so well. He knew how she felt about the trappings of a woman, how confined she sometimes felt being born one.

God's bones, she would miss him.

Dunblane began to cough, his body shuddering as he tried to catch his breath. Elen lowered the box to the bed and pressed a handkerchief to his lips. Mayhap ye should rest now, she whispered. We can finish this later.

Nay, he choked. Now.

It was an order, and though she was his daughter, he was still her laird.

Elen sat back on the stool, again taking his hand. Here is your box, Father. She brushed his hand against the ancient tooled leather.

Open it.

She hesitated, her gaze fixed upon the box. It was smooth beneath her fingertips and smelled of old leather and tobacco. She had never been permitted to lift the lid before.

Elen, Murdoch beseeched, patting her hand. Please, Daughter, there is nae much time. My strength... His last words drifted in the warm, summer air that smelled of the roses her sister had brought up to adorn the chamber.

Open it, he whispered.

Her hand trembling, Elen turned the key on the iron lock and lifted the lid. She held her breath. Inside lay the yellowed stag's horn of retention, physical proof of the gift of Dunblane given to her great-great-great-grandfather by King David a century and a half earlier.

The horn, she whispered, the words catching in her throat.

Now that they were home and settling into Dunblane, the horn would be returned to its place above the fireplace in the great hall, where it had resided on and off for the last century.

'Tis yours, he said, his voice surprisingly strong.

She lifted her lashes to meet his gaze.

Because I have no son, no male heir, I grant this horn of retention to ye, my beloved, my daughter. I make ye, Lady... He smiled. Nay, Laird of Dunblane.

Tears welled in Elen's eyes. If her father had any concerns as to whether or not she could fill his boots, he gave no indication in word or facial expression. He believed in her.

Be strong, he whispered, his voice again weak. Weaker, if possible. Be strong. His eyes drifted shut. And trust no one. He paused, now struggling to find the strength for each word. Trust no one.

She held his hand tightly, seeming to feel his life's blood waning. I love ye, Father, she whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand.

I love ye, he mouthed, too feeble for voice.

And in that bright, sunny room with the sound of birdsong on the windowsill, Sir Murdoch died, leaving the burden of Dunblane Castle upon his daughter's shoulders.

Chapter 1

Two months later

Elen knew something was wrong even before she rounded the wood and came into full view of Dunblane Castle. There was a sense of tension on the autumn breeze, one she had not tasted since she had watched from the hills as her father and the Scots, led by Robert the Bruce, had taken Stirling Castle in Bannockburn from the English in late June.

Elen touched her spurs to her mount. The rugged Highland pony bolted forward, seeming to sense, as well, that something was amiss.

My lady—

Lady Dunblane—

Mistress—

Her father's clansmen were still uneasy about what they called her to her face. What names they placed upon her behind her back were probably less appropriate and far more colorful.

Elen rushed through tree limbs and tumbling oak leaves into view of the castle on the crest of the hill, a panorama of the North Sea behind it. The frantic movement of men at arms on the wall immediately caught her eye—double the number she had left on guard. She cursed beneath her breath and shouted to Finley.

His response caught on the salty afternoon breeze as he struggled to catch up.

She ran her mount beneath the arched gatehouse into the lower bailey, vaulting from the horse's back before the mare came to a full halt. What? Elen demanded of her nearest vassal, Banoff. She tossed her reins to a grubby-faced boy. What is about? she demanded, her deer-hide boots sinking in the mire. Tell me.

Banoff, broad of bottom and slow in the head, but forever loyal, avoided eye contact. He was one of her father's men who seemed always to fear her, though she didn't know why. She never expected anything more of her men than she expected of herself.

Banoff tugged on his spittle-stained beard, his attention drawn to a steaming pile of dung.

Elen grasped his woolen tunic and tugged heartily. Banoff?

My lady... Banoff's brother, a sight brighter, but equally as fearful of her, sidestepped the dung as he approached, his eyes downcast.

God's blessed broken bones! she shouted. What has happened? Why have my men drawn weapons upon the wall?

Was it the English swine? Her heart pounded in her throat. Since the Bruce's defeat of the English at Bannockburn, the English had all but abandoned Scotland, but it was always possible a few stray troops could be unaware their King Edward had gone home defeated. The English still did not recognize the Bruce as king of the Scottish monarchy, but all believed it was only a matter of time now. She wasn't unwilling to fight the English, if necessary, but she feared the toll another battle would take upon Dunblane's men.

My lady, Banoff stumbled.

Elen, Finley interrupted. 'Tis Rosalyn. Her steward's voice trembled. I fear she's been kidnapped.

You fear? Elen turned on Finley, stepping nose to nose with him. She was nearly as tall as he. Ye fear? Ye nae know? she ranted. Either aye, she has been kidnapped, or nae, she has not. She spread her arms wide, shouting to the others hurrying across the bailey. What? No one knows if Rosalyn of Dunblane has been kidnapped?

Finley swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. She has been kidnapped, he said softly.

Elen sucked in her breath and for a moment felt light-headed. The castle, her clansmen, the vassals and their families, the surrounding countryside and its tenants—it was all a great burden upon her inexperienced shoulders. What had her father been thinking when he'd left it all to her, made her laird of his land?

He was thinking her shoulders were broad enough to bear the weight.

Tell me what happened, she hissed, looking Finley straight in the eye. It didn't matter he hadn't been here when the alleged crime had taken place. As her right-hand man and closest adviser, it was his duty to take on her fury and serve as a buffer between her and her vassals and clansmen.

They say she was walking in the meadow, near to the peat bog, picking flowers, Finley explained, plucking at his short-cropped beard. Men rode up, flung her upon the back of a steed, and carried her off.

And no one went after them?

Finley glanced downward, then up at her again. Aye, two men. They've nae yet returned.

How long ago? Who saw it? Elen demanded. Again, she turned to face the men in the muddy bailey, all standing frozen in place. Who saw the assault? Only a premature rooster's crow and the nicker of ponies broke the silence.

Less than an hour ago, Elen, her bailiff spoke up.

Donald was her father's age, a cousin to her mother and a man she trusted. He and Finley were the only men who dared use her Christian name. I sent Basil and Rob to follow, but gave word only to gather information, then return to Dunblane. They havenae yet come back.

She met his dark-eyed gaze, her jaw set. Ye should have sent for me.

There was much confusion, he apologized. And I knew ye were due back.

She strode toward the door that led into the great hall, knowing Donald and Finley followed her.

Was she injured? she questioned, pushing emotion from her voice.

He knew what she meant. Raped, nae. Slapped around a bit... perhaps; she was conscious when they took her.

Elen ground her teeth. English or Scot?

Scot for certain. Donald scowled. They fled north.

A door was held open for her, and she entered a small vaulted entranceway, her boots clanging on the grate that covered the hole to the oubliette where prisoners were held. She went up stone steps and through another door into the smoky great hall.

Built to compliment the tower house less than a hundred years ago by her great-great-grandfather, the hall was a long rectangular room used as a banquet room and the center of communication for the castle. Above the fireplace on the north wall, in its place of honor, hung the horn of retention passed down to her by her father.

The vaulted chamber smelled of roasting venison, bird droppings, and unwashed bodies; Elen had little time for concerns of housekeeping. At least a fire glowed in the great stone fireplace. Its warmth felt good. Already the days were turning cool, the nights colder.

Ye say they went north. She eyed Donald, accepting the horn cup Finley pushed into her hand. Have you thoughts on who might have taken my sister?

Donald's gaze did not sway. I canna say for certain, but they had the look of Clan Forrest.

Forrests? She almost spit the ale from her mouth.

The Forrest clan of Rancoff Castle lived some six miles north of Dunblane, their lands bordering her own. It was acreage between the two properties, called the North Wood by her father, that the families had been fighting over as long as she could remember. After her father's death, she had petitioned the new Scottish king, as her father had requested, for return of the land. She still awaited a response.

In truth, Elen knew little of the neighboring family. The elder Forrest had died two years before, like so many loyal Scots, fighting the English for Scotland's freedom. Rancoff Castle and its vast properties had been left to his eldest son, Munro, who had fought at his side and survived the civil wars to return home. There was another son, Cerdic, in his mid-twenties; no one else of the immediate family had survived the war.

At one time, Rancoff Castle, too, had fallen to the English. Unlike Dunblane, it had never been occupied. The Forrest family had reclaimed her a year before the win at Bannockburn, and had fought skirmishes regularly with the English who held Dunblane. Eventually Dunblane had been abandoned. Because of the land dispute, Elen's father had had little good to say of the Forrests, but he had been grateful for the trouble they had caused the English holding Dunblane.

After her family returned to Dunblane, her father had invited the eldest, Munro, to a celebratory meal. At the last moment he had sent his younger brother Cerdic, an insult to her father. Elen had not cared much for Cerdic, though he was a strikingly handsome man filled with mirth and wile. The evening complete and thank-yous said, her father and Cerdic had parted and returned to being adversaries.

Elen's mind raced. Munro Forrest knew her father was dead. He had sent condolences, though not attended the likewake. Was this his way now to deal with the land dispute? To steal the virgin daughter of one of the greatest Scots who had ever lived? Did he think that because a woman now commanded the castle, he could get away with this?

A fresh mount, Elen ordered, her mind racing. She wasn't certain what she was going to do, but she knew damned blessed well she wasn't going to sit here and wait to hear the fate of her sister.

Finley and Donald hurried after her as she left the hall, strode out into the bailey, and crossed the muddy courtyard toward the tower house.

Divide every able-bodied man we have. Half go with me, half remain here—at your command, she told Donald.

Elen, be reasonable. Finley followed her up the stone steps toward her personal chamber, that which had been her father's before her.

Donald remained at the bottom of the stairs, knowing better than to dispute her order.

Finley caught the sleeve of her woolen tunic. As a concession to the men, she wore an undertunic, like a woman's skirts, but it fell just below her knee. For her own comfort, her typical garb of the day was a man's tunic or shirt over an undertunic and boots. With the coming of winter, she would soon add a plaid of green and navy thrown over her shoulders to keep her warm.

Ye don't even know if it is the Forrests, he said.

She jerked her sleeve from him. It's them. They want my land and they'll ransom my sister if I do not agree to give up all claim to it. She shoved open the door to her chamber.

Her favorite hound, Camille, whined from the rumpled bed, yet made no effort to vacate the feather tick, though she knew she didn't belong there.

Let us wait until the men return with more information, Finley pleaded. Let us—

She spun on her heels in the doorway. I change into more suitable clothing. Will ye follow into my chamber and watch me undress to bare skin?

Finley's cheeks reddened and he lowered his gaze. I simply say I think ye should reconsider. Impulsiveness can be dangerous.

There isnae an impulsive bone in my body, Finley, and you know it. Now listen, and listen well. She lifted a finger beneath his nose. I want my men armed and mounted in ten minutes' time. She met his gaze with a fierce determination, then walked into her chamber and slammed the door shut with her booted foot.

We shall have a visit with Rancoff, she murmured to herself. And on the way, she would surely come up with a plan of attack.

* * *

Elen studied the entrance to Rancoff Castle with a well-trained eye. Her father had taught her much about battle, about the surprise attack, about outwitting the opponent.

She doubted her attack would be a surprise, for surely they were waiting for her. But could she outwit them?

The ride to Rancoff had not yielded a plan. No answers had sprung at her from the trees.

The bridge was drawn on the Z-shaped stone castle; men could be seen through the flanking slits in the guardhouse tower. No one else was visible, not stable boys, goose girls, nor a goose—unusual for an autumn afternoon.

Tight as a water-logged barrel, Elen muttered.

Should we return and wait for a ransom note?

Ignoring Finley's inquiry, Elen pushed through the brush that hid her from view of Rancoff Castle and joined her men, who remained mounted on their shaggy ponies. I think they wait for us, she said, her mind churning with possibilities.

Do we attack? one of her young, ill-experienced vassals inquired anxiously.

Her gaze flickered from the young man to Finley.

Or do we wait to be certain they indeed hold her? Finley finished the thought for her.

Oh, they hold her, Elen mused. The question is, how do we get her back without injury to ourselves or to my fair sister?

From the look of the castle and the number of men we have now, Finley said, a strike of luck is what we need.

Elen paced, unsure of what to do. Attacking seemed foolish. Her reserves were still low from the battle three months ago; not enough manpower or munitions. She didn't want to fight unless she had to. Was Finley right? Should she return to Dunblane and wait for the demands?

But then she thought of her sister. She could only imagine the horrors that could befall the young woman. She didn't believe the Forrests would dare rape her or allow her to be despoiled. It would mean all-out war between the two clans.

Such outright animosity would surely displease the Bruce. He had made it clear the Scots needed to set aside the differences among themselves and stay united.

It was the only way they would beat the English in the end.

Elen tensed as hoofbeats caught her attention. It wasn't even the sound so much as the vibration beneath her feet.

Who is it? From where do they approach? she asked her men, who were at a better vantage point.

Finley squinted, peering through the trees into the meadow below. From the west, a small entourage. Appears to be a hunting party.

Elen caught Finley's shoulder and mounted her horse. Where?

Banoff pointed.

Elen spotted a tall, broad-shouldered man leading two others, a stag thrown across the haunches of each of the trailing riders' mounts.

Finley, she demanded softly, who is that?

Finley rose in his stirrups and stared in the same direction as the others. Blessed Virgin, he muttered. 'Tis the Earl of Rancoff, Munro Forrest, come back from hunting.

Elen drew on her stained kidskin gloves, checked the position of her sword strapped to her pony, and lifted her reins. The laird, is it? Then let us go have a talk with him, shall we? She flashed Finley a satisfied grin. Father always said I was born under a lucky star.

* * *

Munro Forrest, Earl of Rancoff Castle, rode leisurely through his meadow. Grasses swayed and partridges took flight as their shelters were disturbed. Behind him, his two companions talked of the size and speed of the roebucks they'd brought down, comparing this chase with past exploits.

Munro laughed with them, in a benevolent mood. It had been an excellent hunting day and a perfect fall afternoon. A cup of heavy mead, a hock of venison, and a full measure of slap and tickle with the widow Alice would make the day complete.

The moment he entered the grassy meadow at the foot of the castle, Munro should have noticed the silence and inactivity. But he was so caught up in the pleasure of the hunt and joviality of the conversation that it took him a moment to realize something was amiss.

Munro jerked on the leather reins and his mount halted so abruptly that its front hooves reared off the ground.

The men behind him, always attuned to their master, ceased their conversation in midsentence.

My lord? they cried in unison.

Munro eased his hand backward toward his scabbard, scanning the wall of the castle.

The drawbridge was closed, yet nary a kinsman could be seen on the stone wall.

What, by Christ's bones, was going on?

Before his hand closed over the hilt of his sword, Munro heard pounding hoofbeats.

The vassals cried out in surprise as they struggled to reach their weapons, all the while fighting to control their startled mounts.

Munro spotted the horsemen charging at full speed toward them, cutting off the way to the castle.

Shouts rang out as the swearing Scots fell upon them. Steel against steel resounded in the crisp autumn air. Beyond, more shouting could be heard from Rancoff's wall as the alarm was cried.

But it was too late. The horsemen had the small hunting party surrounded. One of Munro's vassals fell from his horse, and the frightened beast nearly crushed his rider in its haste to escape.

Munro raised sword to meet the nearest surging opponent. To his shock, he met not the eyes of a fierce Scot warrior, but ones of glimmering green and entirely female.

Munro was uncertain as to what happened next. Did he hesitate a split hair of a second? Did someone strike from behind?

Their swords clashed as the female Valkyrie bore down on him, demanding surrender. Munro lost his balance upon the impact of steel and horseflesh and tumbled from his mount.

Next thing he knew, he was on his back, gazing upward from the tall grass into the angry green eyes of the heir to Dunblane.

Chapter 2

M'lady. Munro flashed his most charming smile. He had heard tales of Dunblane's heir. Nae, not heard tales, but rather been warned. They said she thought herself manly and carried herself so. They said she rode and lifted a broadsword as fiercely as anyone with a cod. They said that with one bellowing order she could reduce a grown man to a quivering mass of jelly. They had not told Munro that she was beautiful.

It was difficult to tell by the drape of Elen of Dunblane's boy's tunic and skinned bare knees just what body form lay beneath the dusty wool, but her face... her face was that of an angel. Fiery red-blond strands of hair escaped from a man's wool bonnet upon her head. She had high cheekbones that had pinkened with the flush of fighting. Her eyes were a deep green with flecks of brown, just now nearly flaming with her anger. And her lips... her lips were as rosy as any he had kissed in any dream.

The lady of Dunblane did not bat an eye. My lord... She drew out the last syllable with thick sarcasm as her men yanked his dirk from his belt, removing his last weapon of defense.

Fair Elen, daughter of Sir Murdoch Burnard, I take it? he asked, still grinning, though his