Chapter One
Scotland, August 1308
A hawk screeched overhead as Sir Aiden MacConnell wiped the sweat from his brow. He noted his men’s positions, then scoured the uneven ground, smothered with summer dried grass and rocks, to the edge of the forest.
Blast it! Where was the enemy warrior bearing Lord Comyn’s colors?
How had he missed the knight’s approach a short while before? He’d double-checked the clearing, had heard naught but the rustle of wind tossed leaves—except when he and his men had slipped from the shield of trees, Comyn’s man had ridden into view.
As he’d spotted them, eyes wide with terror, the rider had whirled his mount and fled.
Aiden had noted the blood smearing the man’s chest, and how, as he’d galloped into the woods, his body had slumped over the steed’s neck.
By God they must find the warrior before he could warn Comyn of their presence. With Latharn Castle’s treacherous cliff-side location, the details he and his men could learn of the fortress were crucial in the Bruce’s preparations for the upcoming attack.
If they could find a way inside…Nay doubt he could discover the enemy’s weakness, perhaps strength of numbers, and more that would aid his king. If only he could find the injured knight.
A cool breeze rich with the scent of rain buffeted him. Aiden glanced north. He scowled at the rain-thickened clouds smothering the roll of hills. They had to find the man before a downpour washed away his tracks.
He scoured the rough slide of land tattered with clumps of brush for any sign of the knight, convinced the warrior who’d galloped away didna travel alone. With Scotland at war only a fool rode without an escort.
Near several large boulders, the land cut away, but he stared at the swath of red staining the edge of one of the rocks.
Blood.
Aiden waved his two friends over, pointed to where clumps of rock disappeared from view. “He must be hiding down the brae. Rónán, circle around to the right. Cailin, you come in from the left. Once in place await my command.”
His men nodded, then slipped into the dense foliage.
Dagger in his hand, Aiden crept through the brush. Below, through the break in the rocks, a bay munched on sun bleached grass, his reins dragging on the ground.
A moan sounded further down the embankment.
Aiden motioned for his knights to hold. Weapon readied, he edged around the shield of stone. As the bank began a steep decline, he squatted, his gaze narrowing on the prone form.
Through the summer-burnt shafts swaying in the breeze lay the armored knight. Blood smeared his mail, and one of his legs lay twisted in an awkward shape.
After another thorough search of his surroundings, confident the warrior was alone, Aiden stood and stepped closer. The dying man looked familiar, but Aiden had left the Highlands too many years ago to remember his name.
He scanned the bastard’s mail bearing Comyn’s colors.
Eyes dark with pain focused on him, grew wary. “To whom do you swear your loyalty?” the man rasped.
His gut tightened. “’Tis to Comyn,” Aiden replied. With the man’s obvious loyalty and this deep within enemy territory, he’d be a fool to state otherwise.
“Thank God. W-When I saw you, I thought you were with Robert the Bruce.” The stranger gave a rough cough and then sagged back. “Early this morning, my co-contingent was attacked by his forces.”
“God’s sword, are they near?” he asked, needing the noble to believe him nae a threat.
“I think I lost them, but I canna be sure.” Wracking coughs shook his body, and a drizzle of blood slid from his mouth.
Aiden knelt beside him, took in the deep sword slashes along his neck. ’Twas incredible he still lived.
Face ashen, the stranger grabbed Aiden’s arm. “Y-You must swear to help me.”
Help him? With the man’s loyalty to Comyn, Aiden would rather drive a dirk into his heart and end his miserable life. Aiden took in his finely crafted armor, stilled. Few could afford mail of such quality. Whoever he was, the man wasna a simple knight. Mayhap the warrior held sensitive information valuable to the Bruce? “What can I do?”
Hand trembling, the man withdrew a sealed writ, set the missive into Aiden’s hands. “D-Deliver this to Lady Gwendolyn Murphy of Latharn Castle. Warn her that the enemy is near.” Grief-stricken eyes held his. “We were to marry. Tell her…Tell her that I am sorry to have failed her.”
Aiden’s throat tightened as he glanced at the rolled parchment, the enormity of the man’s disclosure pounding in his chest. Latharn Castle; his and his men’s destination. He refocused on the wounded knight. “I would need your name to tell your betrothed.”
“Bróccín MacRaith, Earl of Balfour,” the man whispered.
Aiden’s throat constricted. “Of Gilcrest Castle?”
“Aye.”
Memories rolled through Aiden of the numerous occasions in his youth of how they’d sparred and hunted, along with the first time they’d tasted mead. Except their friendship was long ago, and everything had changed.
Nay longer was he an innocent lad with dreams of war and victory in his head. Over the years with in his service to the Knights Templar, he’d seen enough bloodshed, and had witnessed too many of his friend’s die.
“I will have your name,” Bróccín demanded.
“Aiden MacConnell, Earl of Lennox.” He swallowed hard. The truth mattered little now.
Recognition flared in the man’s eyes, replaced by sadness. “After the terrible tragedy of your family, I-I never thought to see you again.”
Ice slid through his veins at the mention of his family. He shoved the unwanted thought aside. “Nor I you.” Aiden nodded to the writ. “I give you my word, I will deliver the missive to Lady Gwendolyn.”
“I thank you. ’Twas a blessing that you found me.” Another shudder raked his body. “After all of these years, I canna believe ’tis you. We-We had so many dreams, did we nay?”
Aiden forced a smile. “Aye, foolish ones. Dreams of lads.”
“They were.” Bróccín coughed.
His face twisted in pain, the knight settled back, and Aiden helped him take a sip of water. “I will tend to you as best—”
“Dinna. My fate is sealed.”
However much he wished to assure the man otherwise, neither would Aiden lie. “More water?”
“Nay.” More blood bubbled from the man’s mouth. “In truth,” he forced out, “I have never met my betrothed, but ’tis rumored the lass is a beauty. With the stories I have heard—” He coughed and blood slid down to his chin. “I was anxious to bed her.”
Cold seeped through Aiden at thought of any woman weakening him to where he’d think of little else but her. His life was dedicated to God and war, nae the luxuries of the flesh. He laid his hand on Bróccín’s shoulder. “I will tell her what a fine man you were.”
“I thank you.” The noble shuddered again, and then gasped. His eyes grew fixed.
With the flickering images of his youth fading, Aiden closed his lids. Mouth set, he stood, found his men approaching.
“Is he dead?” Cailin asked.
Aiden nodded. “His name was Bróccín MacRaith, Earl of Balfour. Incredibly, long ago we were friends. Now, unknown to him, ’twould seem we are enemies.”
“A Comyn supporter,” Rónán said with a grimace. “A bloody shame.”
“’Tis the way of war.” Aiden shoved his sadness behind his carefully built wall, having lost too many friends throughout the years to allow the hurt to burrow deeper. “Yet, he has presented us an unexpected opportunity. Twould seem the earl was betrothed to Lady Gwendolyn Murphy and was en route to marry her.”
Cailin arched a curious brow. “What has a wedding to do with our gaining information for the king’s upcoming attack on Latharn Castle?”
“The lady in question,” Aiden replied with a wry smile, “is the stronghold’s mistress.”
Rónán frowned. “’Tis a most unusual coincidence, but that knowledge does nay much to aid us.”
“It wouldna,” Aiden agreed, “except before he died, the noble admitted that he hadna meet the lass before.”
Cailin’s eyes widened. “God’s blade, you are nae thinking of taking his place?”
The thrill of the unknown filled him, and Aiden clung to the danger, a way of life he thrived upon. “I am,” he replied. “I swore to deliver this betrothal writ, a promise I shall keep. Except as the lass has never met Bróccín MacRaith, ’twill be a simple task to play the part of her suitor for a few days. Once we have the information we need, we will slip away and share with King Robert all we have learned.”
“We?” Rónán asked.
“Aye,” Aiden said with flourish, enjoying crafting the story. “The Earl of Balfour and two of his stalwart knights escaped the ruthless attack of King Robert’s men.”
A frown deepened in Rónán’s brow. “A brilliant plan, except your memories of the earl were those of a lad. You didna know the man, or if his betrothed was accepting of the betrothal, nae to mention if anyone at the castle might have known him.”
Aiden shrugged. “I have heard that the earl is a warrior to fear, and that knowledge will suffice for the meager time we will remain at the stronghold. Other concerns are nothing against the information we can glean of the castle’s defenses. Details that against an otherwise impenetrable fortress, will assure our king a swift victory.”
“And what of the lass?” Cailin asked. “With her anticipating marriage, she will expect a courtship.”
“A task that will be naught but a minor distraction,” Aiden said. “Before Bróccín died, he confessed that the lass is fair to look upon.”
Rónán chuckled. “Wooing her might be a pleasant diversion.”
Far from amused at the jest, Aiden lowered his hands to his side. “My intent is to gain information for our king, naught more,” Aiden snapped. “Though the Knights Templar are secretly dissolved, my allegiance remains with the Brotherhood.”
The humor in his men’s eyes fled. “Never will I forgive King Philip’s treachery,” Cailin said.
Rónán gave a curt nod. “Nor I.”
The French king’s duplicity burned in Aiden’s gut. The bastard had betrayed the Templars. The knights had guarded him over the years, loyalty he’d rewarded with deceit. Almost a year had passed since Aiden and the other Templars had sailed from La Rochelle, yet each time he thought of the French sovereign’s treachery, fury blackened his soul.
He glanced at the muscled knights at his side, men who he’d fought alongside in many a battle, Templars who he would give his life to protect. “We will map the layout of the castle grounds, take stock of stores, the number of guards, and other details imperative to plan a successful attack.”
“Mayhap,” Cailin said, “we can discover a secret entry.”
The twisting in Aiden’s gut eased. “Aye. I find it hard to believe that a hidden tunnel doesna exist, and I am convinced my betrothed would know of it.”
“What will happen to the lass once our king seizes her stronghold?” Rónán asked.
Aiden shrugged. “If she is as beautiful as Bróccín claimed, ’twill be a simple task for King Robert to find a nobleman willing to wed her.
“Mayhap the lass will have an admirable spirit that will catch the king’s notice,” Cailin said with a smile, “and like Stephan and Thomas, our sovereign will guide you down a wedding path.”
“With the demands on the king’s time,” Aiden said, his voice cool, “I doubt he will meet Lady Gwendolyn much longer than to learn her name and decide upon an appropriate match.” Refusing to entertain the topic further, he stowed the writ, then glanced to his dead friend. “We bury Bróccín, then ride to Latharn Castle.”
* * *
Wind thick with the scent of the sea whipped against Lady Gwendolyn Murphy. She aimed her dagger, threw.
Thunk.
A deep chuckle sounded to her right. “I dinna think your betrothed would be praising your skill, my lady.”
“As if I care what he thinks.” She glanced at the well-armed knight leaning against a nearby rock. At the humor in her friend’s eyes, she took in the rough charcoal outline of a man on the nearby sun-bleached limb, her blade lodged in the center of the crudely shaded heart.
“I know you are upset with Lord Comyn’s dictate to marry,” Sir Pieres continued, “but with the Earl of Balfour occupied with the upkeep of his numerous holdings, as well as his strategic meetings along with combat for your liege lord, ’tis said he is often away.”
Scowling Gwendolyn walked over and jerked her blade free. “If I didna need Comyn’s guard, I would keep the gates barred and deny the earl entry.”
“If you wish, that could be arranged.”
The lazy teasing in her friend’s voice prodded a smile. “You would do that for me, would you nae?”
Pieres’s expression grew serious. “My lady, I would give my life to protect you.”
Humbled, she shook her head. “Nor would I ask such.”
Eyes dark with concern, he walked over. “’Tis said your betrothed is a hard man, one feared by many, but those beneath his command give him their respect.”
She smothered the roll of nerves. “And you tell me this because?”
“You need truth, nay wisps of fancy. That the Earl of Balfour earns respect from his men indicates however strict his rule, he is fair and his dictates given with reason. His success in battle along with the praise earned from Lord Comyn reflects his cunning as a warrior.”
She gave a curt nod.
“My lady, Lord Balfour is a man of war and willna tolerate defiance on any level.” Expression grim, he paused. “With your headstrong ways, I ask that you tread with care. You could do far worse.”
“A warning?” Furious he’d feel the situation warranted such, or that the time had come in her life where she’d need such advice, she stalked to where she’d drawn a line in the sand; turned; threw. A chunk of the charcoal stained heart tore free as the dagger sank deep. “I am nae a fool.”
“Nay. You are a woman whom any man would be blessed to have as their wife, but sadly, many nobles dinna want anything from a woman beyond an heir.”
She again jerked her weapon free. “I willna be cast aside in my own castle, treated as if I were naught but a scullery maid fit only for the bedding. I need no husband.”
Sir Pieres remained silent, the worry in his gaze easy to read.
Frustrated, she sheathed her dagger, turned toward the waves sliding up the shore to toss about stones and shells within the tangled rush. Water sloshed against her boots as if laying siege, like the intruder whom she would pledge her life.
Bedamn this entire situation! “If only I could think of a way to convince him to nae wed.”
Firm steps crunched on the sand. Pieres paused at her side. “There isna.”
The exasperation in his voice matched her own. “I know.” She wanted to scream at the injustice of losing her home to a stranger. In the weeks since the writ had arrived announcing her betrothal, she had tried to think of a way, often with Pieres’s aid, of negating the union, and at every turn, had failed.
With her heart in her throat, Gwendolyn picked up a fragment of shell abandoned by the sea. She weighed the fragile piece in her hand as the damnable frustrations all but smothered her. “Over the years my father would bring me here and tell me of his dreams, or talk about mine. He never laughed at what I shared, but encouraged me to achieve any goal that I could envision.”
“He was an extraordinary man.”
“Aye, he was.” Emotion welled in her throat, and she fought the swell of grief. “W-When my mother died during my youth,” she breathed, “’twas here that my father consoled me, and years later, where he asked me to marry Lord Purcell to strengthen our bonds with our neighboring clan.”
Pieres’s mouth tightened. “Your father was wrong to have forced you into a marriage, more so to a man who was a fool to nae notice what an incredible woman you are.”
The soft fury in his voice left her humbled. Her fingers curled against the memories of how she pushed away his tender advances since their childhood. However much she’d wished otherwise, never had she felt more than friendship, nor would she dishonor him by offering him false hope. She prayed one day he would find a woman who could give him the love he deserved.
“And ’twas on this stretch of sand,” Pieres continued, drawing her from her musings, “that you learned of your husband’s death but a month after you had wed.”
She grimaced. “I was foolish enough to believe that I would never again have to marry a man for duty. With my father’s blessing, I believed that I could live the life I wished.” Anger twisted inside, and Gwendolyn gave a cold laugh. “Yet with my father’s death, I have once again become naught but chattel.”
“I am sorry.”
Mouth tight, Gwendolyn cast the fragment into the incoming wave. The battered shell that’d once held life tumbled beneath the current and was swept out to sea. Like the shell, she was merely a pawn to those who held power.
“I will do my duty and wed Lord Balfour,” she said, “for my people’s protection along with that of my home, but I willna tolerate being treated as a half-wit.” She started toward the castle. “’Tis time I checked on Kellan.”
Pieres said as he fell in alongside. “With her girth, I would have thought she would have foaled by now?”
“As I. This morning I found her pacing in her stall. I expect the colt will come this day.”
Warmth touched her as she started toward the cave accessible only during low tide, remembering when the coal-black mare was born, and of how her father had gifted her with the steed. Now Kellan would have a babe of her own.
“I want to be with her when her foal is born,” she said. “I wish my father was alive. I—”
She stumbled, and Pieres caught her, turned her toward him. “I am here.”
“I know,” she said with a rough whisper, thankful for his friendship. “I still struggle with his death even though half a year has passed.”
“A horrible day,” her friend said, his words quiet, “but he died a warrior’s death fighting for—”
A horse’s neigh sounded in the distance.
The slide of steel upon leather hissed as Sir Pieres withdrew his sword. “Hurry inside the secret tunnel.”
Gwendolyn removed her dagger, far from convinced. “If there was danger, we would have heard warning shouts from the castle guards.” She scanned the lull of land and rock above that led to the castle’s entrance.
Three riders came into sight.
Relief flooded Gwendolyn. A larger force would ride beneath the Earl of Balfour’s standard.
The trio of riders halted before the gate.
Even from this distance, she noted the lead warrior. Broad shoulders. Confident. A shiver of unease rippled through her.
“Do you think ’tis your betrothed?”
She shook her head. “The writ stated the earl would arrive with a sizable contingent of men. I suspect ’tis but knights traveling through.”
A faint echo of a man’s voice reached her.
A guard’s voice rang out. A clank sounded, then the slow rattle of the portcullis.
Gwendolyn relaxed. Whatever the traveler had shared with her guard, they werena a threat.
A frown tightened on her lips as she rushed toward the secret tunnel. With King Robert’s determination to unite Scotland, how many years would pass before their country found peace? She damned the war, the struggle for power that claimed too many innocent lives.
She inhaled to settle her nerves, then focused on the upcoming birth of her prize mare. “I wish the groom was here was here. ’Tis Kellan’s first foal, and ’twould ease me to know she is in Edmund’s competent hands.”
Inside the cave, Pieres lit a candle. Golden light cut through the blackness, the walls slick with moisture drenched moss, and the sandy path scattered with wave-smoothed pebbles.
He raised the taper, started down the tunnel. “MacDuf has observed Edmund many times as he helped to ease a mare’s birthing process.”
“He has. But a few months studying beneath Edmund’s skilled guidance hardly gives MacDuf the expertise he needs.”
A short while later the smell of hay and horse filled the air as Gwendolyn stepped into the stable.
Pieres slid the hidden entry shut behind them, nodded. “I will check on who has arrived.”
“I thank you.” Afternoon sunlight flickered over her friend’s shoulders as he entered the baily.
A snort sounded from the corner stall.
Warmth spilled through her at thoughts of the newborn foal, and she hurried over. “How fares Kellan?”
“She has begun birthing,” MacDuf replied.
At the worry in the stable hand’s voice, her chest tightened. She slipped inside the stall.
Heavy with foal, the mare trudged around the stall, her laden steps cushioned beneath the bed of straw. She nickered, half collapsed to her side, rolled, then shoved back to her feet and once more paced.
“Easy girl,” Gwendolyn soothed as she stroked the coal-black beauty’s velvety muzzle. “How long has she been acting like this?”
MacDuf rubbed the back of his neck. “A short while after you left.”
The mare tossed her head and half reared. As her feet hit the floor, her entire body shook. On a whinny, she again dropped to her knees, fell to one side, and then rolled.
“There should be some sign that the foal is coming by now,” MacDuf said, his voice raw with worry. “I…I fear the foal is turned around inside her.”
Ice slid through Gwendolyn’s veins. She fisted her hands against the horrific stories of a mare’s screams as she suffered during a difficult foaling, of the loss of blood, trauma that could leave the mother and foal dead.
Male voices echoed from the stable entry, but she ignored them and damned her lack of knowledge, a fact she would remedy after this day. “Surely Edmund has attended such difficult births in the past?” she forced out.
A ruddy hue swept the man’s face. “Aye,” the stable hand agreed, “but none after he began instructing me.”
There had to be a way to help her! Anger at her helplessness nearly strangled Gwendolyn as she knelt beside the horse. Hand trembling, she stroked her sweat slicked neck. Please God, dinna let her die.
The mare snorted, kicked.
Gwendolyn ducked the slash of hooves, terrified as the mare again began to squeal in distress. “Fetch the healer. Delivering a foal canna be any more different than a babe.”
“Aye, my lady.” Steps slapped as MacDuf bolted toward the keep.
On a tormented scream, the horse tried to struggle to her feet, collapsed. Froth slid from her ebony coat.
Tears burned Gwendolyn’s eyes at her each snort, her whinny of distress.
The hooves of the horse again slashed, missing her by a hand.
An ache built in her chest as she reached over to try and relax the mare. “The healer will be here—”
Behind her the gate scraped open. “Get away from her,” a deep voice ordered.
Stunned at the harsh command, Gwendolyn glanced up.
A hulking man with raven black hair towered above her. His green eyes riveted on her with unyielding authority. “Move!”
She slammed her brows together. “I willna—”
With a muttered curse, the stranger hauled her up, and shoved her aside. “Cailin, Rónán, help me get the mare on her feet!”
Shaking with outrage, Gwendolyn elbowed her way past the two burly knights and glared up at the beast. “How dare you—”
“We are trying to save her life,” he growled in fierce warning as he shifted to the horse’s chest. The warrior’s muscled arms bulged as he and his men worked in unison to shove the mare to her feet. Inhaling, he glared at Gwendolyn. “If you want to be useful, lass, go stand by her head and talk to her while I deliver the foal.”
Shaking with anger at the braggart, she straightened her shoulders, her fists curling at her sides, then stilled at the deftness of his actions, and his quick decisions. Whoever he was, he knew what he was about.
“I have the foal’s foot,” he called a moment later.
Kellan screamed a strangled nicker then shifted.
The formidable stranger’s mouth tightened. “Keep the mare still!”
Hooves scraped across the bed of straw. On a strangled whinny, Kellan started to step back.
“God’s sword, hold her!” the fierce warrior roared.
Muscles flexed as his men complied.
Distant footsteps slapped upon the dirt.
Gwendolyn glanced out the entry to see the healer and MacDuf running across the baily toward them.
“’Tis done,” the stranger called out. “Let her go.”
She turned as he laid the newborn on the hay.
His men stepped away.
On a soft nicker, the mare nuzzled her foal. Coal black like his mother, and the proud lines of his sire. On spindly legs the colt shoved to his feet.
Tenderness filled her as the mare nickered at her son, nudged him to suckle. Tears burned her eyes at the miracle before her, of how within but moments she’d witnessed life. She swallowed hard. “He shall be called Faolán,” she whispered as MacDuf halted beside her.
“Wolf, aye,” the stable hand said, head nodding in eager agreement, “’tis a fine name.”
The healer stopped at the stall’s entry, her face flushed and her breaths coming fast. As her gaze landed on the foal, aged eyes wrinkled with pleasure. “It looks like you dinna need me to rush over and help after all.”
Her words a stark reminder of the strangers, Gwendolen shook her head. “Nay, but I thank you for hurrying.”
As the elder departed, Gwendolyn studied the imposing man who had dared to take charge. Under ordinary circumstance, he would receive a tongue lashing for his bold manner. Except he’d saved the foal, and possibly the mother’s life.
Her fingers trembled as she handed him a nearby cloth. “It seems,” she said, “that I owe you my thanks.”
A scowl marred the muscled knight’s handsome face as he wiped his hands. “Why was she unattended when she was clearly in distress?”
His two knights moved to the man’s side.
Refusing to be intimidated, she glared at the daunting stranger. Of all the audacity! ’Twas her castle they stood in. She refused to justify anything to this arrogant man. “I owe you nay explanations.”
He tossed then stained cloth aside. “Aye. That you can give to the mistress of the castle.”
Indeed. She angled her chin at the towering dolt. “Then,” she said with cold authority, more than ready to take him down a well-deserved notch, “as mistress of Latharn Castle, I give you permission to speak.”
Stunned disbelief flickered in the knight’s eyes before he shuttered his expression. He gave a formal bow. “’Tis my pleasure to meet you, Lady Gwendolyn.”
That she doubted. “And you are?” she prodded, ready to toss the boil brained lout out on his ear.
His fierce gaze leveled on her. “The Earl of Balfour, your betrothed.”