by Quinn, Paula
He tossed her an impatient look with a sigh to go with it. “You are not going to ask questions the entire time, are you?”
He needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be alive long enough to answer them.
There were twelve men in her company. Where were the rest of them? She was sure she could take down two with her daggers. One being Sir John. But then what was she to do? The rest of them would kill her.
Her traps were useless since she was on the ground and they were leaving the forest.
“Are you going to answer me?” she asked.
“We’re not going to England, dear Aleysia,” he told her impatiently. “We do not have to. Edward will do what I want now that I have disposed of the Scottish king.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying, Robert the Bruce is likely dead by now.”
Aleysia’s eyes opened wider. “You are in league with King Edward.” Now it made sense that Sir John had sought out the Scottish king. He planned on killing him quietly in her castle. Cainnech would never let it happen. But he could still be in the dungeon.
Amish would stop it. But it was an ambush. Father Timothy, Nicholas—Mattie!
She reached for the dagger shoved behind her bodice. She had to get back to the castle! She looked around at Sir John’s guards. Which one looked the most daunting? She found a man who sat tall in his saddle. He looked like a mean one, with a black patch over his eye and at least four hilts that she could see sticking out of his belt.
She pulled her dagger free and flung it all in one motion, aiming for his heart. Her blade landed in his chest with a thump. She moved swiftly, pulling another dagger out of her boot. She pointed it at Sir John and addressed his men.
“The next man to move ends his life!” she warned in a loud, clear voice.
“You will never get away,” Sir John warned. He smiled and it was so unlike Cainnech’s resplendent, patient smile that she nearly wretched thinking about life with this man.
“What do you care?” she asked him, oddly calm. “You will be dead. Now, tell your men to—”
Something dropped out of the trees and took down two guards before Aleysia realized it was Cainnech. His sword flashed in the filtered sunlight. Blood splashed a nearby tree. A guard came at him on his horse but Cainnech stopped him with a brutal blow from his axe. He whirled around in a deadly dance that was both captivating and terrifying to watch. Even Sir John could not tear his eyes away from the carnage Cainnech wreaked havoc upon his men. He didn’t stop swinging and jabbing until every man save Sir John, was dead.
Aleysia thought about what he must be like on the battlefield. She shivered in her spot.
Thunder reverberated beneath her. Horses were coming.
Cainnech came toward Sir John and Aleysia, his léine pulled free from his waist and stained in blood, his eyes glittering like the northern sky. He dropped his axe and held open his arms, a dripping sword in one hand. “Come!” he roared at Sir John.
Her would-be betrothed, and possibly the Scottish king’s killer, wilted in his saddle. He held up his shaking hands and surrendered.
Cainnech still came forth. Aleysia held out her hands to stop him, forgetting the dagger she’d held on Sir John.
The Norman leaped for her, knocking them both from the saddle.
Cainnech was there instantly, lifting Sir John off the forest floor by his collar. When Cainnech had him on his knees, he pulled the Norman close, letting Sir John see her as he pressed the edge of his blade against the knight’s throat.
She met Cainnech’s cold gaze over Sir John’s shoulder. He was going to cut his throat.
The thunder beneath her grew louder. They looked toward the sound to see the king and Amish, everyone coming into view. She darted her gaze back to Cainnech. She didn’t want him to kill Sir John. His king would not forgive him.
“Let him go, my love.”
He smiled and kissed the top of Sir John’s head and then let him go, sending him forward on his knees before the king with a kick to his backside.
Aleysia didn’t care about what was going on around her. Her eyes were on her husband. He looked up and their eyes met. This savage, merciless bloody Highland warrior was hers. Hers.
She ran into his arms, where she ached to be, where she belonged. No damned king was going to take her from him again.
They sat with the king in the great hall as night fell. They drank and cheered Nicholas, who had saved the king’s life. Mattie was especially happy. She hadn’t stopped smiling all night.
For attempting to kill the king, Sir John was shipped off to Normandy in three separate crates as a message to Aleysia’s cousin.
Aleysia was afraid this would make them enemies, but the Bruce assured her that was not the case. He was sorry for sending her off with a killer.
He was not so forgiving to Cainnech. “How did ye get out of the dungeon?”
“Does it matter?” her husband asked him, in between sips of wine. “I told ye I wasna leavin’ withoot her.”
“Cain, I have known ye since ye were a lad. I fergive much from ye because of yer past. But yer insolence is gettin’—”
“Sire,” Nicholas interrupted, rising from his seat. “Cainnech is—”
Cainnech set his steady gaze on his brother and Nicholas sat down, saying nothing else.
This piqued the Bruce’s interest. He eyed them both. “When did ye escape that dungeon, Cain? Before or after the Normans infiltrated the castle?”
Cainnech blinked slowly, his gaze still on his brother. “After.”
“Brother,” Nicholas said and then looked at the king. “Sire, he saw the Normans coming inside.”
“Nicholas,” Cain said again.
“Nae. Let him speak,” the king commanded.
He told the king what had happened and when he was done, the Bruce commended him on his honesty. Again, he wasn’t so forgiving to Cainnech. “Ye saved my life, so I canna toss ye back into the dungeon—not that it would do any good. Instead, I will grant ye whatever ye ask. Insolence or not, I want no one else by my side in battle.”
“Thank ye, Sire,” Cain said. “But I willna be fightin’ fer awhile. I want to start a family with my wife. I also want Lismoor—”
He stopped when Aleysia leaned up and whispered in his ear.
“Are ye certain?” he asked her.
“Aye,” she told him softly and without hesitation.
He took her hand and turned back to the king. “I want Lismoor and Rothbury to be given to Nicholas. I am goin’ home to rebuild my life.”
Aleysia closed her eyes. She would be there to help him, for as long as he needed her. Images of him killing ten men to save her flashed across her mind. She would never tame him.
“Cainnech,” she whispered to him, leaning in close. “Tonight, I do not think we need to be overly concerned with being gentle.”
He looked at her and then laughed. It was a deep, rich, beautiful sound. A sound she was growing to love. She said a silent prayer and looked across the table at Father Timothy. They both smiled.
Hearts of the Highlands Series
Heart of Ashes
Heart of Shadows
Heart of Stone
Paula Quinn
About the Author
Paula Quinn is a New York Times bestselling author and a sappy romantic moved by music, beautiful words, and the sight of a really nice pen. She lives in New York with her three beautiful children, six over-protective chihuahuas, and three adorable parrots. She loves to read romance and science fiction and has been writing since she was eleven. She’s a faithful believer in God and thanks Him daily for all the blessings in her life. She loves all things medieval, but it is her love for Scotland that pulls at her heartstrings.
To date, four of her books have garnered Starred reviews from Publishers Weekly. She has been nominated as Historical Storyteller of the Year by RT Book Reviews, and all the books in her MacGregor and Children of the Mist series have received Top Picks from RT Book Reviews.
Her work has also been honored as Amazons Best of the Year in Romance, and in 2008 she won the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence for Historical Romance.
Website:
pa0854.wixsite.com/paulaquinn
The Sinclair Hound
Sinclair Jewels
Book One
Dedication
For the die-hard romantics. You know who you are.
Prologue
It wasn’t his duty to follow her, to watch her, but that had never stopped him before.
Pearl, the youngest of the Sinclair’s daughters, often spent her afternoons helping the needy of her clan. And if he wasn’t required elsewhere, he’d make sure to keep an eye on her.
This afternoon, she hadn’t gone far. The widow Forba’s cottage sat on the outskirts of the village, far enough not to be heard, but close enough so the warrior could crouch unseen in the shadows. Pearl had passed through the village, the basket from the keep’s kitchens on her arm, and spoken cheerfully to everyone she’d met. When she’d reached her destination, he’d watched her being welcomed as a dear friend.
Forba’s husband had died in the autumn in a skirmish with the Gunns, leaving her pregnant and with four other young ones. The clan, her family, had provided for them, and neither Forba nor her children would ever go hungry.
But Pearl offered them more than sustenance.
She offered friendship and compassion.
The warrior watched Forba, huge with child now, pull Pearl down on a bench in front of the house so they could talk. He’d watched her enough to know that talking was one of Pearl’s favorite pastimes…because it put people at ease. From the way Forba was laughing now, it had worked again.
The two women pulled cloth from the basket, and Forba immediately began mending what appeared to be a man’s shirt. And Pearl, the daughter of the laird, joined her.
Forba often mended the warriors’ clothing in exchange for money or food for her family. Pearl delivered the clothing and helped with the sewing, too.
Forba’s oldest, Inghinn, joined them, and it was obvious from the girl’s smiles that she adored Pearl. Sitting there on a simple log bench, Pearl didn’t look like a lady. She didn’t look like one of her father’s jewels.
But she looked just as magnificent as he knew her to be.
While she sewed with Forba, Pearl joined Inghinn in a simple tune. Her singing voice wasn’t perfect, but it was full of joy. The warrior found himself imagining what it would be like to hear her speak to him.
To hear her say his name.
He scoffed at the impossibility, wondering if he should slip away. She was obviously safe, and his protection unnecessary. But while he knew he was just torturing himself by watching her, he couldn’t leave so easily. She did things to him, made him feel alive, made him imagine things he shouldn’t.
Pearl reached in the basket, pushing aside folded material, and pulled out one of last year’s apples. Inghinn took it and curtsied, which made Pearl blush and shake her head.
The lady was humble and caring, and no matter who her father was, she seemed to belong here.
A commotion beyond the cottages had him reaching for his blade, ready to stand and protect his lady from any danger. But he needn’t have bothered, within moments, an unruly band of boys tumbled into the yard, and he recognized them as Forba’s sons.
Although he was too far to hear, he could tell from their frantic gestures that one—a boy of seven or so—had been hurt. When Forba made to stand, Pearl waved her back down, pushed her sewing back into the basket, and took the boy by his hand.
She led him to the water bucket, where she washed his hand and arm. Even from this distance, he could see blood, but Pearl didn’t seem to mind when it splattered the front of her simple, green gown. No, instead, she focused on the boy, soothing him and offering him smiles as she worked.
Pearl always had a small leather pouch on her belt. She pulled out a needle and a length of thread, and began to stitch up the cut on the boy’s arm as if it were a tear in a shirt. The boy’s brothers hopped around, overwhelmed by the excitement, until a sharp word from Forba had them running for the rear of the cottage. Inghinn held her younger brother by the shoulders while Pearl worked, and nodded seriously whenever the lady spoke.
Wondering what it would be like to feel her hands on him some day, he smiled. He wondered how it would feel if she were to smile at him the way she smiled at the boy. How her joy might sound, feel, and taste.
The corners of his lips tugged down, knowing it was useless to even consider the possibility. She was a lady, one of the Sinclair Jewels.
And he? He was her father’s Hound.
Chapter One
Highlands, 13th Century
“’Tis no’ hard to believe the men call him the Sinclair Hound.”
Her sister’s comment dragged Pearl’s attention away from the strands of heather she was embroidering around the hem of Citrine’s shift. She looked down over the practice fields, her gaze searching out a familiar form.
On her other side, Citrine’s twin, Saffy, hummed low in her throat as she tucked her legs up under her skirts and smirked at the men in the field below. “I donae see why Da keeps him around. You cannae tell when a hound will turn.”
Citrine tsked. “’Tisnae true. The man is as loyal as they come. I’ve no’ heard him say a cross word to our father or any Sinclair.”
Agata hadn’t looked up from her embroidery, but at that comment, she quipped dryly, “You’ve no’ heard him say any word, sister.”
Saffy and Citrine shared a look over Pearl’s head, then dissolved into giggles.
On fair days—and today was the bonniest of the late Highland spring—the four of them sometimes brought their sewing out-of-doors to enjoy in companionable conversation, when their other duties were not pressing. The grassy knoll over the practice fields was a favorite location; they could bask in the sunshine and giggle about the Sinclair warriors’ physiques well away from any listening ears, but still know the laird’s four jewels were well-protected.
Today they were working on Citrine’s bridal clothes, for their father, the laird, had just secured yet another marriage contract for one of his daughters. But whereas practical Agata congratulated her sister on the match and sat down to begin embellishing the soon-to-be wedding gown, Pearl couldn’t make herself rejoice. Citrine’s engagement was the third in the last two months, and hers was the only one not yet finalized. Not only that, but thrice in her hearing, Da had brought up Laird Sutherland, who’d already lost two wives and was rumored to have half a dozen bastard children. She had no interest in marrying the man, even if it was a strong alliance.
“How is the hem coming, Pearl?” Saffy prompted teasingly. “Ye ken ’tis vital Citrine’s knees be covered by beautiful embroidery to disguise their knobbiness from her intended.”
Citrine gasped and plunked the neckline of her shift down in her lap. “I donnae have knobby knees! My knees are graceful and elegant, like the rest of me!”
Saffy covered her giggle with a snort. “We might be near identical, but ye have the knobbiest knees of us all. I’ve spent enough nights being poked by them!”
She had to duck when her sister grabbed a clod of dirt to hurl at her, and soon they were both laughing. Agata paid them no attention, as usual, and Pearl…
Pearl was still watching the men practice.
As the youngest of four girls, she’d known her role in life was to be bartered for a strong alliance. Their oldest sister, Agata, had been married last year, but returned home after being widowed last winter. Maybe it was the fact her marriage contract had been cancelled, because it was as if Da had lit a fire in a long-dormant hearth. He’d gathered them together at Hogmanay and explained they would be married within a year, and their wishes mattered naught.
Well, actually, he hadn’t said that. Pearl had just sort of mentally added that part. He had ignored her wishes—or rather, her vehement objections. While Agata, already twenty-four and home ag
ain after being widowed last winter, went along with their father’s schemes, the twins seemed more worried about being separated from one another. But Pearl had no interest in leaving Sinclair lands at all.
This was home. And without her older sisters, home would be lonely, it was for certain. Although their duties during the day rarely left them with this much free time, she cherished these moments with them, teasing and all. And where they’d accepted their fates, Pearl couldn’t imagine leaving Da. Agata had gently pointed out this was their duty, and they’d been groomed from a young age to know their duty. But Pearl realized she hadn’t. While her sisters had been preparing to one day be ladies of grand keeps, Pearl hadn’t.
She was happy here. She was happy sitting on a blanket, her bare feet digging into the cool grass, not caring the rains from earlier in the week meant she’d track mud into her slippers when it was time to return to the great hall. She was happy to spend her days in service to the clan, running herself ragged to make sure each member knew how important they were. She was happy sitting among her sisters, watching the eagles soar over the distant hills, and the strong men preparing for battle below.
Of course, with her sisters’ marriage alliances, that battle would hopefully never come. Life in the Highlands could be contentious with all the feuding and long-held grudges. But Da was a peaceful man and had been Laird Sinclair for many, many years. Everyone agreed he was smart to use his daughters to secure peaceful alliances with neighboring clans.
But Pearl didn’t want to be used.
Her eyes had found the figure she’d been unconsciously searching for, and she sighed. She was happy here, and that should count for something.
“I think our wee sister has completely forgotten about my hem or my knees.”
Citrine’s teasing words jerked Pearl back to her task, and she bent over her embroidery once more.