LITMIR.BIZ

      TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

       AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

       STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

       PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

      MILLS & BOON

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      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Galloway, Scotland. 1319

      The dry forest floor muffled any sound made by feet that for the last hour had rested on stirrups to reach Castle Kells by sunrise. Last night, Sir Alex Somers and his men had seen the castle from across the other side of the loch, glowing pink and orange on its high throne and looking down a sheer cliff into the mirrored surface below. Built on a spur, it was effectively sealed off on two sides while, at its back, mountains and forests cloaked it against the north winds. Further along the glen, the land sloped into green pastures where dark ponies grazed and blue smoke rose vertically from a cluster of thatched bothies. Now they viewed it within hailing distance, but well hidden, with a burn beside them that tumbled its way through the boulders into a deep pool some twenty feet below, roaring softly in tune with the pines.

      ‘We can bide here a while,’ said Sir Alex to his companion, ‘if we keep well back into the trees. I don’t suppose it’ll be long before he returns.’ His soft Lowland accent made his words sound more like an observation than a threat.

      The companion, Hugh of Leyland, not quite so tall, not so broad or brawny but as agile as a polecat, brushed a crumb off his doublet of faded brown and unhitched a leather bottle from his belt. He accepted the strategy without question, but there were details that could do to be aired before the action began.

      He took a swig of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘He has a son, do you say?’

      ‘Had,’ said Sir Alex, cryptically. ‘Killed in a raid a few years ago. He has a wee grandson, though.’

      ‘Living here, with Sir Joseph?’

      ‘I believe so.’ The blue eyes searched as he spoke, eager for any sign of movement near the gatehouse or along the track that led to the distant woodland.

      They made an impressive-looking twosome, like a pair of tawny lions who knew each other’s ways, who were not averse to a friendly scrap in an overflow of excess energy but who would have defended the other to the death, as would the men who waited silently behind them. In his prime, at thirty-one, Sir Alex Somers was physically robust, wide-shouldered, deep of chest, and possessed of a face that invaded women’s dreams in situations where neither of them had any business to be. The colour of dark hazelnuts, his thick hair bounced in uncontrollable spikes that touched his forehead and curled over the scarf around his well-muscled neck. But it was his eyes that turned female knees to water, for they were the same intense blue as a cloudless summer sky, and far less innocent.

      ‘That might be useful to us,’ said Hugh, his second-in-command. ‘We take the wee laddie and use him as bait, ransom, whatever. A squawking bairn will always get his grandpa’s breeks in a twist. Does the bairn have a ma?’

      ‘They usually do, Hugh.’

      ‘I’ll find out. Leave it to me.’

      Sir Alex found no amusement in Hugh of Leyland’s predictable efficiency in finding a woman. They were both adept at that. But there were some, like Sir Joseph Moffat of Castle Kells in Galloway, for instance, who would think little of sacrificing their own kin, if need be. They had heard enough about the man to make them think so, a local Justice of the Peace, landowner, horse breeder, raider, rogue and thief, and those were the more honourable aspects of his character. Sir Joseph would not be kept awake at night by his conscience. ‘Best not to depend on it, though,’ he warned. ‘It’ll take a fair bit to put the scarers on a man like Moffat. He’s had more years of practice than most in these parts, Hugh.’

      Hugh leaned against a tree and watched his friend saunter forward like a large cat, as at ease out of doors as in the finest halls of Europe. Hugh had been with him for nine years, as long as any other man in the hundred-strong company. He was two years younger, a paler tawny, curly-haired man, built like a wiry athlete, merry-eyed and unashamedly thankful for the women who threw themselves under his feet just as willingly as they did under Alex’s.

      Sir Alex squatted down upon his haunches and peered over the steep rocky precipice ahead of him, beckoning Hugh to come and see, to keep down and be quiet.

      Hugh crawled forward, intrigued. ‘What?’ he whispered.

      The burn hurtled and splashed between mossy boulders and leapt over a shining brown ledge into a secluded pool, foaming inside a dark circle. A neat pile of clothes lay over on the dry rocks, and a shriek of laughter rose above the clatter of the water, drawing grins from both men.

      ‘A lassie!’ Alex said.

      ‘Two lassies. Look…see! We’re in luck.’

      As he spoke, two pairs of shining pink arms came into view upon one of the flat rocks, then two dark heads with helmets of wet hair followed by glistening shoulders, backs and haunches. Heaving themselves upwards, they shed water like otters, twisting to sit upon the rock and kick at the swirling ripples around their ankles. Their hands twisted at dripping ropes of hair to wring out the water, throwing handfuls of it over their shoulders, revealing every curve of their slippery torsos now highlighted by the new sun. Gold and pink and sleek, they preened like mermaids in their sheltered lair.

      ‘Now that,’ said Alex, ‘is worth riding all this way to see. Are they castle lassies, d’ye think?’

      ‘Sure to be,’ Hugh said. ‘Hell, Alex. Do we have time for it?’

      ‘Silly sod. You know we haven’t. And we have to stay hidden. Will ye take a look at the black-haired one, though? She’s a stunner, Hugh. Wheew!’ He blew between his teeth softly. ‘What a body. And a face to go with it.’

      ‘I’m looking at the shorter one, like a little ripe berry. They’re too good to be village lassies and too happy to be laundry-maids. They’ll be seamstresses, that’s what.’ They fell into a stunned silence, noting from the cover of a convenient hart’s-tongue fern every perfect detail of the glorious scene. And when they felt a movement at their backs, they found that a small crowd of their followers had also wormed their way forward, their eyes staring out of their sockets at the

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