Kidnapped by a Rogue, kindle

by Margaret Mallory

  But Archibald Douglas, the 6th Earl of Angus, was not just her brother. He was the head of her family, the chief of the Douglases, and—most importantly of all—their young king’s stepfather. Now that Archie had returned with the backing of Henry VIII and many of the Scottish nobles, he was again one of the most powerful men in Scotland.

  “If ye don’t wish to go, you can stay with us at the castle,” Alison said, putting an arm around Margaret’s shoulders. “Ye know my husband will not let Archie take you.”

  That would cause a dangerous conflict between her brother and brother-in-law, which would be a poor way to repay Alison and her husband for all they had done for her.

  “I won’t worry about it now,” she said, to calm herself. “I expect Archie will be too busy to bother with me for some time.”

  “He’s already sent men to fetch you,” Lizzie said. “I rode hard to get here first to warn you, but they’ll be here soon.”

  Margaret’s hand went to her throat. “They’re on their way?”

  “Aye,” Lizzie said. “They weren’t far behind me.”

  Margaret pushed through the door of Thomas’s cottage and sat down hard on one of the kitchen stools. Could she go back to the life she had before?

  Did she have a choice?

  She had grown up in one of Scotland’s most powerful families, accustomed to a life of great castles, fine gowns and jewels, and frequent visits to court. Her family’s fall—and everything she lost with it—had been hard, but she had gotten through it and survived.

  She missed nothing of her former life. It had brought her too many sorrows.

  The sound of pounding hooves of twenty horses arriving in the village filled the cottage, like an echo from her past, trampling on her hope of making a small, quiet life for herself.

  ###

  Finn stood outside the door to the great hall of Huntly Castle, the seat of the mighty Gordon chieftain, the Earl of Huntly. A month ago, he’d been a member of the earl’s guard, a respected position for a warrior of the clan. And he gave it up for naught.

  Asking Huntly to take him back was a humiliation he’d rather not face sober. Though he’d been drinking steadily all day in diligent preparation, he took out the flask for one last pull.

  Ach, this could not be that bad. Even if Huntly threw him in the dungeon for fighting for a rival clan, at least Finn didn’t have to deliver a severed head this time.

  Still, a man who underestimated the Gordons was a fool. The Sinclair clan would burn down a village over a small slight, but no one could match the Gordons for cunning self-interest. While the Sinclairs stood their ground and died with the king in the Battle of Flodden, the two Gordon earls—Huntly and Sutherland—foresaw the outcome, took flight, and saved themselves.

  A serving woman he suspected he had slept with greeted him when he entered the hall.

  “Thought you could use this, Finlay Aluinn,” Handsome Finlay, she said, and handed him a large cup of whisky.

  “Ach, lass, ye must have the sight,” Finn said and gave her a wink.

  “’Tis been dull as dirt without ye.” She leaned close to speak in his ear. “I could meet ye in the stables tonight.”

  He gave her a noncommittal smile. He could be in the dungeon by nightfall. Besides that, he had no interest, which was a startling revelation as she was precisely his kind of woman: a buxom and willing lass with no expectations beyond a good roll in the hay.

  The hall was even more crowded than usual and abuzz with conversation, which made him wonder what had happened. Perhaps Huntly had negotiated a betrothal for his granddaughter. Whatever it was, Finn hoped it was good news that would make the earl receptive to taking him back into his guard.

  He groaned when he saw his mother stalking across the hall toward him with his father in her wake. Damn it, it was too late to escape. She’d seen him. People said his mother had been a great beauty, but her firm belief that she married beneath her had imprinted a permanent frown of resentment on her face.

  “We didn’t expect to find you here,” his mother said, jutting her chin out. “Thought you’d be living on Orkney.”

  “Lovely to see you too, Mother,” he said, then nodded to his father, who was probably too drunk to notice.

  “What did ye do to make my uncle Sinclair decide not to give ye the lands he promised?” she asked.

  “The Sinclairs lost the battle,” Finn said.

  “Ach, I told ye it would all be for naught,” his mother said, shaking her head.

  She appeared to have forgotten she’d encouraged him to go.

  “I have bad news, I’m afraid. Your uncle was killed, along with most of the Sinclair warriors who sailed to Orkney.” He told her about delivering the head as well, since she was bound to hear of it.

  “Then my cousin George is chieftain now,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “He’ll make a strong chieftain.”

  Finn was not surprised she took the death of her kinsmen in stride. His mother was not a sentimental woman.

  “How did you survive the battle when so many others were lost?” she asked in the same tone George Sinclair had put the question to him.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Mother,” he said.

  “Ye know that isn’t what shhe meant.” His father spoke in a slurred voice. “Ansswer your mother.”

  “They had to pick someone to deliver the head. Guess I was just lucky,” Finn said with a shrug. The Orkney men said they chose him because of how bravely he fought, but his family would never believe that.

  “So now you’ve come crawling back here to beg the Earl of Huntly to take ye back,” his mother said. “Ach, why did I expect more of ye?”

  Lord above, he needed a drink. Where did that lass with the whisky go? Finn looked over his shoulder, hoping to see her, and instead saw his brother Bearach and his wife Curstag were here as well—and fast approaching. Nay, not them too.

  Clearly, God had decided not to wait until he was dead to punish him for his sins.

  “Unlike you, Bearach is a credit to this family,” his mother said when the couple joined them. “He was a hero in the fight against the Douglases at the Battle of the Causeway.”

  Finn just smiled, which he knew would irritate her, and kept silent. But when his gaze caught Bearach’s, he could not avoid the bitter memory of finding his older brother cowering in a doorway during the battle.

  Pull your sword and fight, damn it! Finn had shouted at him as half a dozen warriors came running toward them down the narrow street. While Finn fought them off, his brother took the opportunity to run.

  The incident hung between them, poisoning the air like a fish gone bad. Bearach resented that he owed his life to Finn and hated him for witnessing his cowardice. Though Finn would never stoop to tell the tale, it would change nothing if he did. He had long ago given up trying to persuade his family that he was anything other than a wastrel.

  “What will ye do now?” Bearach’s wife, Curstag, asked.

  Finn could no longer avoid looking at her. Curstag was a black-haired beauty, and despite his best efforts, he still remembered the feel of her voluptuous curves beneath his hands and the purr of her voice as she told him she loved him. He’d been sixteen and believed her.

  She only asked the question to make him remember all of that, so he gave her a lazy smile to show her he had long since put that heartbreak behind him.

  “I’ve come to speak with Huntly,” he said. “But first I have a lady waiting for me, so I’d best be off.”

  “You’re too late,” his mother said before he had taken two steps.

  He turned back to face her. “Too late for what?”

  “To speak with Huntly,” his mother said.

  “He’s left the castle?” Damn it. “Where’s he gone?”

  “To his grave,” she said. “The Earl of Huntly is dead.”

  Finn could almost hear the faeries laughing in their faery hills at his bad luck. Hell, what could he do now? As a skilled warrior, he could al
ways go to Ireland or France and fight for the highest bidder, but he’d hate to leave Scotland.

  “Why don’t ye come home to Garty?” his father asked. “Just until ye figure things out.”

  Jesu, he hoped he had not sunk that low. He would rather live by his sword in a strange land or spend the rest of his days in one of his relatives’ dungeons than live at his parents’ home.

  “I appreciate the offer, Father,” he said, “but—”

  “For God’s sake, Finlay is a grown man,” his mother interrupted, planting a hand on her hip. “He neither needs nor deserves our charity.”

  At that moment, like an angel from heaven, Janet Kennedy, the former mistress of King James IV of Scotland, appeared at Finn’s side to rescue him from his family. Janet was a woman not even Finn’s mother would dare challenge.

  “I have need of Finlay,” was the only explanation she gave them before taking his arm and leading him away.

  “God bless ye,” Finn said as they crossed the hall.

  “How did ye manage to know that woman for twenty-seven years and not murder her?” Janet asked.

  “Drinking helps.” He picked up a flagon of wine and two cups as they passed a table. “Where are ye taking me?”

  “Upstairs,” Janet said. “You and I need to have a talk.”

  “Only a talk?” Finn smiled and cocked an eyebrow. Though he was in no mood for flirtation after hearing the news of Huntly’s death, Janet expected it as her due.

  “Aye, just a talk,” she said with a laugh.

  Janet Kennedy was an extraordinary woman, still vivacious and beautiful at five and forty. In her youth, the strong-willed lass with flaming red hair had attracted powerful men, including the king. She was married three times, though the king had her first marriage annulled when he made her his mistress, and her third husband divorced her. Having outlived them all, she now reveled in her independence.

  When Finn was twenty and full of himself, Janet had taken him to her bed and taught him lessons that every woman he bedded since should thank her for. Years had passed since their affair, but they remained good friends.

  She led him up the enclosed circular stairs to a richly furnished bedchamber. As the mother of two royal bastards, she was an important guest and given one of the best chambers. She was also related to the Gordon chieftains, which probably made her and Finn third or fourth cousins, once or twice removed.

  Janet took one of the chairs before the hearth, and Finn sprawled in the other and put his feet up.

  “Damn Huntly for dying on me,” he said. “Ach, he probably wouldn’t have taken me back into his guard anyway.”

  When Janet refused the cup of wine he poured for her, he drank it himself.

  “Becoming a drunkard like your father,” she said, “will not solve your problem.”

  “It serves him well enough,” he said, giving her a smile.

  “Unlike your father, ye have no lands,” she said. “Consequently, you must make yourself valuable to someone who can give them to you.”

  “I tried that and was nearly killed on Orkney for my efforts,” he said, raising his cup to her. “I suppose I could offer my sword to Huntly’s son. Ach, no, he’s dead too. The next Earl of Huntly is the sniveling grandson, isn’t he?”

  An image of the fat-cheeked lad stuffing his face with sugared plums and shouting at the servants came into Finn’s mind’s eye.

  “Sniveling Huntly is eleven years old and presently is in the queen’s care, so he won’t be adding you to his guard.” Janet leaned forward to rest her hand on Finn’s arm. “Besides, you can do better. You underestimate yourself and aim too low.”

  “I’m a second son of a second son, with no lands of my own,” he said. “I have no prospects except to live by my sword.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Janet leaned back with a knowing smile. “A widow with a title and lands is easily within your reach.”

  “If this is what ye brought me up here to discuss,” Finn said, “I’ll need something stronger than wine.”

  “You’re everything a land-rich, highborn widow could want in a husband.” Janet ticked off the points with her fingers as she continued. “You’re close blood relations with three earls, and you’re a renowned warrior who could protect her lands.”

  “Janet, please,” he groaned.

  “Add to those qualities soulful blue eyes, a devilish smile, and a muscular physique, and I believe ye can do quite well for yourself.” With a coy smile, she added, “Not as well as I did, of course. But you could gain what you want through a well-planned marriage.”

  “The only problem with your plan,” Finn said, “is that I don’t want a wife.”

  He especially did not want a wife of high status. His mother never let any of them forget she had married beneath her. His brother’s wife was an ambitious schemer cut from the same cloth, except that she wrapped it in an appealing facade.

  “Please tell me you’re not still pining for that horrid Curstag,” Janet said. “She was cruel to toy with ye, but it was inevitable she’d choose your brother. After all, he’s your father’s heir and you own nothing but your horse, your sword, and the clothes on your back.”

  “That was a long time ago.” He’d been naïve to believe she would have him, despite his lack of prospects. He would never make that mistake again.

  “Women must marry to acquire the home and position they expect in life,” Janet said, “which is why we must find ye a widow who already has the wealth and lands ye both need.”

  “And have her lord it over me the rest of my life?” he said. “Nay, a night under the blankets and a few laughs is all I want from a lass.”

  “Not all women are like your mother and Curstag,” Janet said. “Or me, for that matter.”

  “You’re not like them,” Finn objected.

  “Oh, but I am,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “I’m just far more charming and clever in how I go about getting what I want.”

  Finn laughed. One of the things he admired about Janet was that she was utterly honest, a decidedly rare quality in highborn women. She was, however, not easily deterred once she set her mind to something.

  “Now to find the right woman of property…” Janet tapped her chin. “She shouldn’t be too old, nor too young. And definitely not the small-minded sort who would complain about other women.”

  No matter what Janet believed about him, he’d feel bound by his vows. That was one more reason never to marry.

  “I appreciate your concern for me, but marrying for land ’tis not worth the misery,” he told her. “I’d rather the Orkney men had drowned me or hung my head off the mast of their boat or—”

  “All right.” Janet laughed and held up her hands. “Let me speak with my son. He may be able to suggest another way.”

  Her son was the Earl of Moray, a royal bastard of King James IV of Scotland. Moray was an exceedingly clever young man of twenty-four. Those who liked him called him politically astute; those who didn’t called him conniving. Either way, Moray was a good man to have on your side. And a dangerous one to have against you.

  Janet meant well, but her son was an important player at the highest level of royal politics. His interests were driven by forces far greater than Finn’s fate, and Moray never gave a favor that did not advance his own interests.

  Surely Finn had nothing to offer that Moray would want.

  CHAPTER 3

  “By the saints, I missed you,” Margaret’s brother George said as he lifted her off her feet and spun her around.

  After he set her down, Archie gave her a stiff embrace. Her handsome brothers seemed unchanged, except that Archie’s features had grown harder. Despite all the trouble her brothers had left in their wake when they fled the country, Margaret was overjoyed to see them.

  “You’re as gorgeous as ever.” George grinned as he looked her up and down. “But, my God, what are ye wearing? Ye dress like a grandmother.”

  Margaret felt herself b
lush. George had always teased her about dressing as if she hoped to join a nunnery. When she was thirteen and painfully shy, her family had dressed her in exquisite gowns and paraded her in front of the king in hopes that she would catch his eye. Although the king failed to show an interest, she’d had so much unwanted attention that she preferred to dress to avoid it. Her husband had preferred that as well.

  “I thought our escort was taking us to Tantallon Castle,” Margaret said to change the subject. “I didn’t expect to meet ye here in Edinburgh, especially at Holyrood Palace.”

  She had been looking forward to seeing her childhood home, and she had deeply unhappy memories of the last time she was in Edinburgh.

  “We must be where the king is,” Archie said, “and the king is here.”

  “How did ye manage to get past the queen’s cannon fire?” Lizzie asked.

  Archie’s jaw tightened, and he shot a heated glare at Lizzie, which did not appear to bother her at all.

  “The queen has withdrawn to Stirling, under pressure from the King’s Council,” Archie said. “The king is now free of his mother’s overbearing and unfortunate influence.”

  That sounded like a significant victory for Archie over his estranged royal wife.

  “I, for one, am glad the queen is not here,” Lizzie said. “While ye were away, she called us all in for questioning and threatened us.”

  “We heard it was not pleasant for you,” Archie said.

  That was hardly an apology, but Archie had never been one to admit blame.

  “Not pleasant?” Lizzie said. “Ye must have heard what Wretched William did to Margaret. I hope ye take a hot poker to his eyes and put his head on a pike.”

  “You’re a bloodthirsty lass,” George said with a laugh.

  “And Sy—”

  “Enough, Lizzie,” Margaret said, and discreetly stepped on Lizzie’s foot to stop her from telling them what her sister Sybil had done to escape the queen’s wrath. For the time being, it was best her brothers not know where Sybil was.

  “Do ye think exile was pleasant for us?” Archie snapped. “We had to live on the charity the French court and then on my brother-in-law’s.”