Chapter 1
Berwick-upon-Tweed, England
1486
“Damn the English!” Lady Rosalyn burst out. Swearing caused her trouble, but she refused to curb her tongue if the situation demanded and now was one of those times.
Wrestling against her bound wrists in the stifling dungeon, Rosalyn blinked through the prickling sweat that stung her eyes and seeped through her thin chemise.
“The English? They be damned already,” croaked her unwelcome companion. His cocky reply echoed through the chamber that reeked of stale stench.
Ignoring the prisoner they called Lachlan, she focused on her escape. Raising her wrists, Rosalyn dug her teeth into the knot again. Moistening the heavy twine made it pliable.
“We’re both damned,” he added with aristocratic finality.
Was it his condemning reply or the rope between her teeth that made her choke as she spit out stray bits of twine? Either way, being tied back to back with this criminal, even with a hitching post between them, was causing her proper manners to unravel.
“I will nae have a part of any Englishman’s sentencing. You be damned on your own,” she huffed, twisting her hands back and forth between the ropes. “The chancellor will hear my plea,” Rosalyn shouted, determined to reclaim what had been stolen from her family, no matter the sacrifice.
“A Scot given a fair trial on English soil?” Lachlan scoffed. “An Irishman’s luck you’ll be needing to avoid a hanging.”
Hanging? Nay, she’d find a way. English judge or not, her da had raised a fighting Macpherson, clan loyal, and Fyvie Castle was like family.
Yesterday, with her royal-stamped parchments in hand, she had expected the court proceedings to be uneventful. Even as she’d sailed into the port of this border town between two kingdoms on high spirits and plucky optimism, she’d never expected to be held prisoner. Her treatment proved abhorrent. No solid meals or soft bed had left her wanting to poison someone. And she knew who and how.
“Damn,” she cursed again, seeing no need to apologize to her coarse companion. The light shining in from the tiny loophole window, like a bright gem set in the middle of an ashen stone wall, signaled the time to defend herself was only moments away.
With her confidence deflating and her fear rising, Rosalyn slumped against the post. A desire for escape, no matter how childish, had given her hope until now.
Accepting the harsh realization, she struggled to find a comfortable position on the floor of the godforsaken dungeon. Yesterday’s memories swirled like a fog except for one: when they lashed the English prisoner to the post between them.
A torch light had woken her when the guard led him into the cell. Dressed in a cloak, a hood covering his head and face, he’d almost stumbled onto her lap in his drunken state. When he caught his balance, he’d said something odd to her. “My brother killed her, not me.” After that, they tied him to the post behind her. She’d caught his name when the guards were leaving, but he’d said nothing more the rest of the night.
As his thrashing started again, Rosalyn’s anger intensified, reminding her this English criminal was strapped to her back.
What was his crime? Stealing? Murder? The unpleasant musing made her queasy. She dare not ask, for he’d probably tell her the sordid details just to torture her.
“What have the English done to earn your tongue-lashing?” the prisoner asked, breaking the silence once more. He’d been out cold most of night and had done little but moan until her damning outburst moments ago.
“How can I stop your English tongue from wagging?”
Lachlan chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “If only I wasn’t bound, my lady,” he began, but his retort was interrupted by a scraping sound just outside the cell. A guard appeared at the barred door. Letting himself in, he plodded toward them dragging a gimp leg.
Rosalyn shuddered when he stood over her, his one eye covered by a black patch, but she didn’t divert her gaze even when he withdrew a dagger. Instead, she fought against her fear and the urge to scream. If she’d just inhaled her last breath, it wouldn’t be as a coward.
With a few quick swipes of his weapon, the guard cut through the ropes that bound them together to the post, then hauled the Englishman to his feet. “Your time, Lord Lachlan,” the guard grunted.
As the released prisoner stood, his hands still bound, he ignored the soldier and gazed down at her instead.
Rosalyn smothered her surprise. Lachlan was not the scruffy ruffian she’d expected, but a distinguished nobleman dressed in a chestnut silk cloak that complemented his meticulous goatee. His snobbish confidence complemented his sleek, black hair and wicked widow’s peak.
“I had a dream about a beautiful lass with long, auburn locks and eyes like warm honey. You do not disappoint.”
Ignoring the guard’s disapproving glare, the prisoner knelt beside her.
“What are you doing?” she gasped as he leaned toward her.
“Answering your first question,” Lachlan said crisply, then he reached his bound hands over her head and secured them behind her neck. The prisoner tossed her a sly grin before his lips made their assault and he crushed her to his chest. Using equal parts speed and agility, his tongue tunneled its way in to claim her mouth as if he’d been appointed its new ruler. Even if she wanted to fight him off, she couldn’t.
“Your time,” the slow-witted guard shouted again, hauling Lachlan off her.
Once he got his footing, Lachlan held her gaze and crinkled one eye into a mischievous wink. “Enjoyed your English tongue-lashing, did you now?”
Rosalyn pursed her lips. They tingled, slightly swollen from the stranger’s rough kisses. Not sure whether to lash out with a diatribe of why that was wrong, or to thank him, she gawked up at him instead, her mind as numb as her mouth.
Just when she thought she’d be left behind, the guard’s blade ripped through the ropes around her chest that bound her to the post. “Your time, woman,” he grunted and dragged to her feet.
As she stretched her arms forward for the other ropes to be cut, the guard’s dulled gaze lingered on her bosom.
Beast.
Rosalyn clenched her bound hands to her chest.
The guard grunted again, then pointed to the hallway outside the cell.
She gave the officer a warning stare as she passed him and fell in step with Lachlan. The soldier’s bad leg made a scraping sound behind her as he prodded the two of them down the dim hallway with his dagger drawn, eventually driving them out of the prisoner’s tower and into the blindingly bright courtyard.
Squinting into the sunlight, Rosalyn was grateful to be free of the dungeon. Sucking in gulps of fresh air, she followed the limping guardsman as he now led them on the short jaunt across the lower bailey and into the great hall of Berwick Castle.
Filled with dread and fighting a rising panic, Rosalyn walked behind the gimping guard, slowly making her way toward the Chancery Court bench in the grand and well appointment hall filled with quarrelsome, noisy English.
The damning evidence had caught up with her again.
With her father gone, and the clan riotous, the Lord Chancellor would need to understand her motives were for self-preservation.
As she passed the front row of commoners, who’d come to watch for nothing but sport, an unsavory peasant to her right grabbed her arm, dragging her off her path. “Follow my advice and I’ll save you,” he promised in a harsh whisper.
Startled, Rosalyn spun around, her hand reaching for the dagger at her boot. But the trusted knife wasn’t there waiting for her. Stripped of her dirk and her dignity at the arrest, Rosalyn realized she’d have to use words as a weapon instead.
“After my money or my bed? I need the likes of you like a noose about my neck.” She spat on the offender and yanked her arm free. Following back in step behind Lachlan and the guard, she came to stop in front of the bench.
“Hear ye, hear ye, the court now calls Rosalyn Macpherson and Lord Lachlan de Leverton,” the bailiff announced. “Stand before the court.”
Rosalyn felt her knees go weak and she grasped Lachlan’s arm. He was an unlikely savior, but perhaps her only chance of avoiding a devastating verdict. She flashed him a weak grin when he put his arm around her waist and hoisted her fully upright. Brushing stray strands of hair away from her eyes, she reached up on tipped toes to whisper in his ear, “Docha gum bi thu mo dhochas-mhain.” You may be my only hope.
Now that they were front and center, the chancellor began. “Yesterday in this court during separate hearings, Lord Lachlan de Leverton and Rosalyn Macpherson both laid claim to Fyvie Castle in Aberdeen, with papers signed by James III, the King of Scots.”
Rosalyn gasped. This was why she was back in court? This Englishman had challenged her claim?
Furious, Rosalyn turned and grabbed Lachlan’s cloak. The prospect of losing Fyvie sickened her. Tossing reason aside, she shouted, “The land of my clan will nae be taken again!” Crumpling his silk fabric into her clenched fists, she tried to shake him. “Only when my body is cold and the last shovel of Scottish earth strikes my coffin, will I release Fyvie.”
“Order. Order. Order.” The pounding noise coming from the chancellor’s gavel finally broke through her rant and she released Lachlan.
Lord de Leverton smoothed the crumpled edges of his garment, then leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Let me speak to the judge for you.”
She nodded weakly in agreement and glanced at the floor while she struggled to regain her composure. Hysterics wouldn’t save her as she’d learned from past digressions. Damn her emotions. They were her enemy, not Lachlan.
“Your Honor,” Lachlan began, but he paused as if searching for the right words.
Waiting for the silence to be filled, Rosalyn glanced up, only to meet the scrutiny of the bespectacled justice, who peered down at her with a smirk, making her wonder if he’d toss her back into the dungeon.
“This woman is guilty of forgery,” Lachlan announced.
“Guilty!” Rosalyn shouted and almost fell to her knees at Lachlan’s lie. If she could throttle him now she would.
“Yes, your Honor.” Lachlan turned toward her and winked. “You heard the plea of guilty from her lips just now,” he said, giving her a reassuring look before he turned his attention back the judge. “However, I must ask that you be lenient with her. An orphan from birth, abandoned by her husband, the woman has taken to stealing from the rich, even though she knew, in God’s eyes, it was wrong.”
“My husband abandoned me?” Rosalyn whispered in disbelief. Her head was spinning. What diatribe of lies was this? What was his plan?
“Your Honor, she’s without a moral compass,” Lachlan continued. “She has no man in her life to tell her right from wrong.”
The judge eyed her up and down. “I see, and what do you propose?”
“I pay her forgery fine and become her guardian.”
Sounds of shocked reactions bounced off the tapestry-covered walls, while whispers tossed between jurors faster than fresh gossip among old maids. The Lord Chancellor gave a reprimanding glance to the jury as he hammered his gavel, his desk serving as barrier from the people, like a castle’s iron portcullis gate guards its king.
When the chancellor’s actions didn’t quiet the crowd, the court bailiff slammed the bottom of his lance hard against the wooden floors.
Finally, the twittering and shocked, loud voices faded to hush whispers as the judge commanded the room once more.
“Granting guardianship to you would be condemning the lass to a fate worse than debtor’s prison,” the justice replied, his voice booming through the hall.
Rosalyn was mortified. Neither verdict, prison nor guardianship, was acceptable. Her mind whirled, desperately seeking another plea. Could she blame someone else for the forgery?
After a long pause, the judge addressed her. “Lady Macpherson.” He leaned forward, sobering. “The evidence here today demands a higher court and a jury of your peers.” At those words, the great hall went silent. “A claim of Scottish land disputed between a clanswoman and an Englishman cannot be decided in an English court. King James would have my head if word reached him that I’d levied a judgement under such circumstances, or determined which papers were forgeries.”
The judge drew in a deep breath and leaned back into a massive chair as if satisfied with his decision and continued with his hands steepled. “You and Lachlan will be awarded guardianship under my sheriff and will join a party leaving soon for Edinburgh. There, you will both learn your fate.” He slammed the gavel head against the desk. “Dismissed.”
Rosalyn’s knees almost buckled again as the great hall erupted in a flurry of reactions over the verdict, but Lachlan grabbed her elbow tightly and guided her over to the bailiff, who led them away from the curious onlookers to the back of the great hall where he finally cut the remaining bonds.
“Good man,” Lachlan said as he rubbed his wrists, “were the ropes really necessary? We’re gentry, not common criminals.”
“If ye’d be treated as criminals, ye’d be in chains and an executioner would be leading you to the gallows, instead of a sheriff assigning you to your guest chambers at Berwick Castle.” The court bailiff laughed at Lachlan’s aghast expression.
“I’m accustomed to having dinner with dignitaries, not being held prisoner in a dungeon,” Lachlan responded with disgust. “I was serving King Henry’s court here at Berwick until just yesterday when this misunderstanding took place.”
Stone-faced, the bailiff stared at him. “Your misunderstanding included a drunken tirade after you found out someone else had laid claim to Fyvie Castle.”
Lachlan responded first by stroking his perfectly plucked goatee. “Well, then, that explains my confinement, to sleep off my over-indulgences and my lack of good manners, but what of the woman? Why was she bound like a prisoner?”
“She’s not English,” the bailiff stated as plainly as if he’d called her a bastard.
Rosalyn bit her tongue. Another glaring example of why she hated everything English.
Lachlan raised a fist, but reconsidered when the bailiff reached for his sword. “I would fight for any lady, English or Highlander,” he declared gallantly, then put a protective arm around her shoulders. “She’s not guilty of a crime yet, so she shouldn’t be treated as such.”
Rosalyn appreciated Lachlan sentiments, but she was still suspicious of his motives and was anxious to be out from under the scrutiny of the crowd of onlookers. He’d lied to the judge about her background and that didn’t set well with her.
“I must get some air,” she declared and spun out from his unsettling embrace.
The bailiff nodded, but that didn’t stop Lachlan from chasing after her. In moments, he nabbed her elbow and ushered her out of the great hall with grace and superiority. He didn’t say a word, but nodded at each passerby with that conceited grin of his.
As he led Rosalyn out of the keep and into the gardens, she worried about her mother and sister, now that her plans had been delayed. A trip to Edinburgh before returning to Aberdeen would take at least a fortnight.
Lachlan settled on a bench behind a row of rose bushes. Taking her hand, he ushered her to the seat beside him. He finally spoke, breaking into her trail of worry. “I’m sorry for all that,” he said, gazing at her over their joined hands.
All that? If ever she was speechless, it was now. Whatever did he mean? The kiss? The lies? The discrimination of the Scots? But her heart thundered against her ribs liked a wild beast thrashing against the bars of its cage.
“You needn’t worry, Rose.” He kissed her hand. “As your guardian, I’ll save you from harm.”
She straightened her spine and yanked her hand from his too-familiar grasp. “My name is Rosalyn,” she hissed, “and I’m nae in need of saving.” No one called her Rose, except her da, and he was gone.
“Is it the fiery red hair that makes you obnoxious?” he asked, giving her a curt nod after she shot him an icy glare, but he continued to serve her that smug smile. “Call me Lockie,” he suggested, keeping her gaze and taking her hand in his palm again. “You are quite worth saving, Rose—” He paused as if taunting her, then finished with “—alyn.”
“I’m quite sure your promises are as sincere as your kisses, and as untrue as your testimony against me in court.” She didn’t realize until she finished speaking how sarcastic she sounded.
“Quite the contrary, my lady,” he said, inching closer. “You have no guardian. I’m at your service.”
His charm was disarming, but she had to fight the urge to be taken prisoner by his charisma. The fact that her escort to Berwick-upon-Tweed had fallen ill shortly after they arrived by ship did not concern him. “I think not,” she said, shaking her head to dissuade him and clear her thoughts. “You’re a liar, Lachlan.”
“You’re safe with me, Rose,” he promised again. Still holding her hand, he closed the gap between them, gazing down at her with pitch-black eyes that hinted at mischief.
She wanted to tell him that he couldn’t call her by that name again, but his mouth smothered her objection, just like he’d done in the prison cell. Lachlan stole her breath away with his gentle assault. And when she wanted to, she couldn’t breathe.
“What’s happening? I—”