Only For You

by Hannah Howell

  “You are looking very solemn, dearling,” Botolf murmured.

  “Am I?”

  “Aye, you are. Do you have something you need to tell me? There is nothing wrong with our sons, is there?”

  Saxan sighed and rolled off him. It was embarrassing to admit it, but she was jealous of her own children and the blatant affection and interest they received from Botolf. When he turned on his side to look at her, she glanced up and knew she would have to say something. He looked worried and confused.

  “There is nothing wrong with Leofric and Bretton. They are strong, healthy, and getting bigger each and every day. But you know that,” she muttered, “since you spend so much time with them.”

  “Why do you sound displeased by that?”

  “Do I? I did not mean to. ’Tis good that you care for them and see them a lot. Too many fathers do not. The boys are fostered out, and the father only notices them when they are old enough to pick up a sword.”

  “Are you already worrying about fostering? If you do not want it done, you may just say so. I was not fostered. My father saw no need to send me away to learn things I could learn at Merewood and Regenford. In truth, my father was not sure he trusted the custom. I am not sure I do either. What do I gain if I give my son to another man to raise? Nothing that I can see.”

  “Very few of my kinsmen are fostered out. They stay a short while with other kinsmen if it is felt to be needed.” Saxan was briefly distracted from her plan for a heart-to-heart talk by this welcome revelation. It had not become a real concern yet, but she had already found herself looking at her infant sons and wondering if she would be forced to bear the pain of having them fostered out, sent away to be raised and trained by other people. “I am more than pleased I will be allowed to follow my family’s way.”

  He smoothed his hand up and down her arm as he studied her. “And I am pleased I can ease that worry for you. Howbeit, ’tis still not what has you looking so solemn.” He frowned. “Aye, and uncertain. Come, am I to keep guessing and talking aimlessly in the hope of striking upon the matter which truly troubles you?”

  “Nay.” She smiled faintly. “Although I must say ’tis very tempting to let you try.”

  “Just tell me what has made you so serious, so contemplative.”

  “Do you recall that night in the crofter’s shed?”

  “I shall never forget it. I do not believe I will ever be so terrified and so enthralled at the same time again.”

  “Well, you said a few things I found very interesting, but I was too weary to pursue the discussion. You told me to rest and that we would talk about it later. It has been three months. I believe I am well rested now.”

  Botolf stared at her and lightly traced the delicate shape of her face with his fingertips. He had wondered when she would remind him of that vague promise to talk. Several times in the past three months he had caught her staring at him, an expectant, almost-hopeful look on her face. It was past time to set his own fears aside. He had had plenty of time to adjust to the realization of his own feelings, to finally accept that, even though they could cause him great pain, they could also give him great joy. He also owed it to Saxan, who could well return his feelings, to take a chance and be honest with her.

  “Do you have any idea of how frightened I was when Cecil captured you?” he asked, threading his fingers through her hair.

  “As much as I was?” she asked softly.

  “Aye, mayhap. I cannot say I have never tasted fear before, but I know I have never suffered such a gut-wrenching terror, one that threatened to steal all my wits and skill as a knight.”

  “I should not have insisted on going outside Regenford. I put us all in danger.”

  “That did occur to me,” he drawled and exchanged a grin with her. “But you cannot hide behind these walls every day, fearing what might lurk out there. That is no life. We did everything correctly. I begin to think that final confrontation with Cecil was fated, that we could have done nothing to change that.”

  “Nay, mayhap not.” She turned and moved into his arms. “I am not sure I like things to be fated.”

  “Oh? I think you and I were fated.” He kissed her on the nose when she looked up at him. “For you to reach my side, dagger in hand, required a somewhat astonishing and complicated sequence of events.”

  “It only required my cousins to be their usual lackwitted selves.”

  Botolf laughed and kissed her forehead. “From the moment I wrestled you to the floor and realized you were a woman, my life began to change.” He sighed and hugged her close. “I had locked myself away, Saxan. My mother tried to talk to me about how wrong and foolish that was after I recovered from my fever, but I did not really listen. I did not want to. In truth, I did my best to insure that she did not continue that particular discussion because what she was saying was all too true. I ran from it, and I am not proud of that.”

  “People often run from the truth, especially when it may force them to change.”

  “Aye, and I ran from you.”

  She leaned back to look at him in confusion. “You ran from me?”

  “I tried to. Each time you touched something I tried to keep buried inside of me, I tried all the harder to close it away. I wanted peace and comfort in our marriage, Saxan. I truly believed I could not have that if I allowed emotion to clutter our relationship. Passion was enough, but I was determined that there would be nothing deeper than that.”

  “Because of Alice.”

  “Aye, and other women I was acquainted with, especially at court.”

  “And you just assumed I would be like them?” Saxan sat up, outrage roughening her voice.

  Botolf eyed her warily. She looked as if she wanted to thrash him or find someone big enough to do it for her. It was not going to be easy to confess his feelings and, perhaps, gain some declaration of the same from her, if she were furious.

  “It was unfair. I know that. I think I have always known it, but it took my mother’s saying so in very plain language for me to really look at what I was doing. I would not judge all men because of the actions of a few, so why was I doing it to women? I also found it hard to judge you that way. Whenever I found myself softening, I never thought beware, she is like Alice. Nay, I always feared that you could hurt me far more than Alice ever could or did.” He looked at her in slight surprise when she returned to his arms.

  Saxan smiled at him, amused by his surprise, and kissed him on the mouth. She doubted he would ever realize how much he had revealed with that last sentence or how much it meant to her. She had also realized that, no matter how infuriating and insulting his opinion was, it was not the time to get angry. That would stop what appeared to be a full confession of his feelings and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “I am glad to see that you came to your senses,” she murmured.

  “Oh, aye, I did, but it was still slow. As a result I have denied you and myself for a year.”

  “You have been a good husband, Botolf. You have given me a lot.”

  “But nothing of myself save for my passion. Well, ’tis past time for cowering behind my pride and fear of pain.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I love you.” He touched a kiss to her mouth then frowned when he realized she had gone rigid and was staring at him. “I realize you may not return my feelings, especially since I have done nothing to win your heart—” He stopped talking immediately when she placed her unsteady fingers over his mouth.

  “I had not expected you to just blurt it out,” she said, her voice soft and trembling with emotion. “I love you, too.” She laughed shakily as he kissed her with a fierce hunger that swiftly ignited her passion. He held her tightly. “I think I have loved you from the start,” she continued, smoothing her hand over his broad chest. “I was just too uncertain about what love was, so I hesitated to call my feelings by that name.”

  “And I fought every indication that I was falling in love with you. I think it was there almost from the start as well,
but I did not want to recognize it.”

  She murmured her pleasure when he ran his hands down her back. “And when did you finally stop fighting?”

  “When Cecil took you. I could no longer deny it to myself.” He turned so that she was sprawled beneath him and he could look directly into her eyes. “It was when I was confronted with the very real possibility of losing you forever. The mere thought of that caused me such pain, I realized I was accomplishing nothing by fighting and hiding my emotions. It was easy enough to walk into Cecil’s hold because I had no fear of dying with you, but a great fear, a wrenching terror, of living without you.”

  Saxan curled her arms around his neck and kissed him, trying to convey the depth of the emotion she felt in her embrace. Here was everything she could ever want. Happiness welled up in her so strongly it brought tears to her eyes. She smiled when Botolf looked at her, gently brushing a stray tear from her cheek.

  “This makes you cry?” he asked, tentatively.

  “Since I first understood that, aye, I did love you, I have feared that you would never love me back.”

  “I am sorry I put you through that torment. I suffered the same fear for only a little while, and I would not wish that torture upon anyone. From the beginning you have given me so much and I have treated you most unkindly.”

  “Nay You never asked me to love you, never tried to force me to give you any more than duty, passion, and children. ’Tis best that you fought your demons before you freed your heart or those old wounds could dim this joy. Now you can give me a heart that is whole and unshadowed. That can only be good. Now we need not fear that every word or action could weaken what we can share. Our love can only grow stronger.”

  “Aye, and last, enriching the rest of our lives.”

  “And longer. Even death cannot still the love I have for you, my fine, dark knight”

  Saxan welcomed his hungry kiss. She had been right. Botolf Lavington was indeed a man of strong emotion, and she would joyfully revel in that for years to come.

  New York Times bestselling author Hannah Howell returns to the breathtaking Scottish Highlands with the unforgettable Murray clan and the stunning Annora MacKay, who cannot resist the desire an alluring stranger offers ...

  Annora MacKay senses a disturbing evil in Dunncraig Keep, the estate acquired by her cousin, a cruel and ruthless man. Only her affection for the tiny girl he claims is his daughter stops her from fleeing. Then a mysterious woodcarver arrives at the castle, and she cannot thinking—or longing—for him ...

  James Drummond, once a laird now an outcast, wants what was stolen from him—his good name, his lands, and his child. His disguise for getting into Dunncraig is step one of his plan, but the enticing raven-haired woman who cares for his daughter is an unwelcome surprise. For he has come seeking justice, not love ...

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Hannah Howell’s

  Highland Wolf,

  coming in December 2007!

  Prologue

  Scotland

  Spring, 1477

  Sir James Drummond, once laird of Dunncraig, once a husband and a loving father, crawled out of his hiding place deep in the Highlands’ most remote mountains and slowly stood up. He felt the hint of spring in the air, the promise of warmth in the moist dawn breeze, and took a deep, slow breath. He felt like some beast waking from a long winter’s sleep, only his had lasted for three long hard years. He was ragged, filthy, and hungry, but he was determined not to spend another season slipping from hollow to hollow, afraid to venture near friends or kinsmen because he had death at his heels and afraid to pass even the most fleeting of greetings with another person because they might be the one who would recognize and kill him. It was time to stop running.

  He clenched his hands into tight fists as he thought on his enemy, Sir Donnell MacKay. Even though he had never liked or fully trusted Donnell, he had allowed the man to come and go from Dunncraig as he pleased, for he was Mary’s kinsman. That simple act of courtesy and his wife Mary’s own sweet innocence, the sort that never saw evil in anyone, had cost her her life. James had barely finished burying his wife and was thinking how he could prove that Donnell had killed her when the man had made his next move. James had found himself declared guilty of murdering his wife; soon after that he was declared an outlaw; and then Donnell had claimed both Dunncraig and little Margaret, James’s only child. The few people who had tried to help him had been killed and that was when James had begun to run, to hide, and to keep himself as far away from those he cared about as possible.

  Today the running stopped. James collected the sack holding his few meager belongings and started down the rocky slope. As he had struggled to survive the winter, living no better than the beasts he had hunted for food, James had come up with a plan. He needed to get back to Dunncraig and find enough proof to hang Donnell MacKay and free himself. There was still one man at Dunncraig that James felt he could trust with his life, and he would need that man’s aid in beginning his search for the truth and the justice he craved. He would either succeed and then reclaim his good name, his lands, and his child—or he would lose it all, including his life. Either way, at least he would not be running anymore.

  At the base of the hill, he paused and stared off in the direction of Dunncraig. It was a long, arduous journey, one that would take him weeks because he had no horse; but he could see it clearly in his mind’s eye. He could also see his little Meggie with her fat blond curls and big brown eyes, eyes so like her mother’s. Meggie would be five now, he realized, and felt his anger swell as he thought of all he had missed of his child’s growing because of Donnell’s greed. He also felt the stab of guilt born from how he had thought mostly of saving his own life and not what his daughter might be suffering under Donnell’s rule.

  “Dinnae fret, my Meggie, I will come home soon and free us both,” he whispered into the breeze. James straightened his shoulders and began the long walk home.

  One

  Dunncraig

  Summer, 1477

  “Pat the dirt o’er the seed verra gently, Meggie.”

  Annora smiled as the little girl patted the dirt as slowly and carefully as she patted her cat, Sunny. Margaret, who stoutly preferred to be called Meggie, was all that kept Annora at Dunncraig. Her cousin Donnell had wanted someone to care for the child and her family had sent her. That was no surprise for she was poor and illegitimate, a burden every kinsman and kinswoman she had was quick to shake off whenever they could. At first she had been resigned; but then she had met little Meggie, a child of only two with huge brown eyes and thick golden curls. Despite the fact that Annora thought Donnell was a brutish man, even feared him a little, she had some doubts about his rights to claim Dunncraig. Three years later she was still at Dunncraig and not simply because she had no better place to go. She stayed for little Meggie, a child who had stolen her heart almost from the very first day.

  “Seeds are precious,” said Meggie.

  “Aye, verra precious,” Annora agreed. “Some plants just grow again every spring all by themselves,” she began.

  “Cursed stinking weeds.”

  Bending her head to hide a grin, Annora quietly said, “Young ladies shouldnae say cursed.” Neither should ladies of four-and-twenty, she mused, fully aware of where Meggie had heard those words. “But, aye, weeds grow all by themselves in places where ye dinnae want them. Some plants, however, cannae survive the winter and we must collect the seeds or roots, storing them away so that we can plant them when it is warm again.”

  “’Tisnae warm yet.”

  Annora looked up to find Meggie scowling at the sky. “Warm enough to plants seeds, love.”

  “Are ye certain we shouldnae wrap them in a wee plaid first?”

  “’The earth is their plaid.”

  “Annora! The laird wants ye to go to the village and see how good that new mon makes a goblet!”

  Even as Annora turned to respond to young Ian’s bellow th
e youth was already heading back into the keep. She sighed and carefully collected up all the little bags of seeds she had intended to plant this afternoon. Ian was probably already telling Donnell that Annora was going to the village and, of course, she would. One did not say nay to Donnell. Taking Meggie by the hand, Annora hurried them both into the keep so that they could wash up before leaving for the village.

  It was as they were about to leave that Donnell strode out of the great hall to intercept them. Annora tensed and she felt Meggie press hard against her skirts. She fought the urge to apologize for not having raced to the village without hesitation and met his dark scowl with a faint, questioning smile.

  My cousin is a very handsome man, Annora thought. He had thick dark hair and fine dark eyes. His features were manly but not harsh. He even had good skin and no visible scars. Yet Donnell constantly wore such a sour or angry expression that his handsomeness was obscured. It was as if all that was bad inside of the man left some irrevocable mark upon his looks. The way Donnell looked now, Annora could not see how any woman could find him attractive.

  “Why arenae ye going to the village?” he snapped.

  “We are going right now, Cousin,” she said, doing her best to sound sweet and obedient. “We but needed to wash the dirt of the garden off our hands.”

  “Ye shouldnae be working in the gardens like some common slut. Ye may be a bastard, but ye come from good blood. And ye shouldnae be teaching Margaret such things, either.”

  “Some day she will be the mistress of some demesne or keep with a household to rule. She will rule it much better if she kens just how much work is needed when she orders something to be done.”

  The way Donnell’s eyes narrowed told Annora that he was trying to decide if she had just criticized him in some way. She had, all too aware of how little Donnell knew or cared about the work he ordered people to do. He never gave a thought as to how all his needs and comforts were met, except to savagely punish the ones he deemed responsible if they failed in some way. Annora kept her gaze as innocent as possible as she met his look of suspicion, breathing a silent sigh of relief when he had obviously decided that she was not clever enough to be so subtle.