Lord of Legend
Page 1
Against a panorama that stretches from the wild Scottish Highlands to the glittering British court, award winning author Charlene Cross spins a tale filled with tangled intrigues and glorious love....
SCOTLAND’S FLAME-HAIRED BEAUTY
The hawk swooping after a female sparrow near her castle sent a chill of foreboding through lovely Chandra Morgan, Lady Lochlaigh. Legend said the ladybird would feel the hawk’s talons in her heart as he carried her away. Chandra, young chieftain of the Morgans, felt her fears growing for her cherished heather-covered land with its warring clans, and the omen of the hawk began to haunt her soul....
ENGLAND’S MAGNIFICENT WARRIOR LORD
Cold and wet to the bone, Alexander Hawke, Lord Montbourne, cursed his misfortune at being sent to the godforsaken Northern Highlands. The king himself had appointed Aleck guardian of Lady Lochlaigh and ordered him to find her a husband loyal to the Crown. Now, as Castle Lochlaigh stood gray and hostile before him, his infamous temper ignited at the clansmen barring his entrance, but far hotter feelings quickly flared when he beheld Chandra Morgan’s flashing eyes.
Chandra knew that here was the hawk of legend come to snare her, yet all her cunning couldn’t stop the desire running like fire in her blood...or the kisses that would brand her a traitor if she surrendered to his love....
PRAISE FOR CHARLENE CROSS’S
Deeper than Roses
Deeper than Roses has it all, passion, excitement, love, hate, betrayal and revenge. Historical romance at its best!...Once you pick it up, you won’t be able to put it down.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“This is another to add to your reading list for some excellent entertainment.”
—Rendezvous
“An exciting love story with a charming blend of adventure and tenderness.”
—Romantic Times
“I truly enjoyed Deeper Than Roses...Ms. Cross has created a story of intrigue and sensuality against the backdrop of gypsy folklore.”
–Inside Romance
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“I RUE THE DAY I FIRST MET YOU...”
“I swear you are naught but a bedeviling little witch.”
Chandra was pulled closer to him. Then his head descended slowly. Not again, she thought, her heart hammering wildly. “No!” she cried, twisting against his hold. “King James will punish you for this.”
“Punish me?” Aleck whispered just above her enticing mouth. “’Tis you who have mocked, not only me, but our king. James will not begrudge me this. Because I am English, you despise my touch. Were I Scot, would it still be the same? Whose kisses would you prefer?”
“Neither,” she blurted, knowing far and away it would be Aleck’s. But she’d die before she’d admit it.
“You speak falsely, little one. Open to me,” he rasped; then he drew back slightly to look into her eyes. Mutiny evinced itself in her gaze. “Damn your stubborn Highland pride.” He caught hold of her hair, and with a quick yank, her head fell back. Insanity, he thought, just before his eager mouth swooped, covering hers fully… .
Books by Charlene Cross
A Heart So Innocent
Masque of Enchantment
Deeper than Roses
Lord of Legend
Published by POCKET BOOKS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.simonandschuster.com
Copyright © 1993 by Charlene Cross
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue
of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-671-73825-9
eISBN: 978-1-4516-8278-6 (eBook)
First Pocket Books printing August 1993
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of
Simon & Schuster Inc.
Cover art by Donald Case
For my father-in-law and mother-in-law,
Cecil and Wanda—
Because of you, my life is complete.
Thank you for the gift of your son.
My love always.
In loving memory of Cecil Cross
April 7, 1992
Forever in our hearts.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
'Almost a Whisper' Teaser
Chapter
1
Montbourne Castle, Northern England June 1610
Quick strides carried the Earl of Montbourne’s chief steward along the castle’s freshly scrubbed corridors. Several centuries old, the huge stone fortress had been kept in good repair, and Felix Marlowe took great pride in his family’s contribution over the course of years toward its conservancy.
His swift feet never missing a beat, Marlowe surveyed the familiar surroundings; a wistful feeling overtook him. In less than a year’s time, the old stronghold would be shuttered and abandoned for a more modern structure, palatial in nature. The new stone edifice, being erected on the hillside opposite the castle, boasted upward of a hundred rooms, but Marlowe was not particularly impressed. To his eyes, the rising monstrosity was a blot on the lush landscape. Truth be known, had James of Scotland not succeeded to the throne of England upon Elizabeth’s death, allaying any further fears of war with the Scots, the ugly thing would not have been set under construction.
But the chief steward would never voice his thoughts openly. For generations, the Marlowes had served with quiet dignity, watching as the Hawkes of Montbourne gained in rank and distinction. First a barony, Montbourne was now an earldom. Presently, it was rumored, James planned to bestow a dukedom upon the sixth and current Earl of Montbourne. Only moments before, a messenger, accompanied by fifty men, had arrived with a missive from the king, and Marlowe wondered if the weighty packet he carried confirmed the rumor as truth.
Quickening his gait, the man rounded a corner. A dozen more steps and he stopped before the door securing his lordship’s chambers. Knuckles poised, ready to strike, the steward heard the muffled sounds of feminine laughter, followed by a deep, masculine growl. Both were drowned out as the ropes supporting the feather mattress creaked loudly, straining against the wooden side rails of the huge canopied bed.
At the sound, Marlowe flushed from his Adam’s apple to the tops of his ears. Although the earl had left strict instructions he was not to be disturbed, the steward decided that the king’s missive took precedence. With a hard swallow, he squared his shoulders and straightened his doublet. In rapid succession, his fist struck the wood; his voic
e rose: “Lord Montbourne … sir!”
A curse exploded from Alexander Hawke’s lips. The emerald-encrusted gold medallion jingled on its heavy chain as he jerked away from the lush body beneath him. “The castle had best be burning, Marlowe, or I’ll have your head for this disruption!”
“Th-there is no fire, milord,” the steward replied through the wood. “But ’tis of equal urgency. The king’s messenger has just delivered a letter. He waits below for a reply.”
While he viewed the tempting brunette stretched out beside him, a teasing smile lighting her hazel eyes, the young earl shrugged, then reached for the sheet at his feet. With a snap of his wrist, white linen billowed upward to float down over the couple, concealing their nudity.
Seeing his mistress was modestly covered, Aleck stashed a plump down-filled pillow behind him. “Enter,” he ordered, drawing his long, hard body into a sitting position. He leaned back against the headboard, the Montbourne crest carved into its polished oak surface. Sky blue eyes beset by thick black lashes watched as the door creaked open; the steward’s uncertain face peered around its edge. “Enter, I said.”
Marlowe shoved the panel wide. As his booted feet scraped across the stones, their hasty tread was intermittently lost in the assortment of handwoven carpets dotting the chamber’s expansive width of floor. Such appointments were rare in most castles, but not at Montbourne, for its master hated the feel of cold stone against his bare feet.
Reaching his master’s side, Marlowe passed the packet into the earl’s hands. “Shall I await your reply?” he asked.
A distinct tightness had sounded in the steward’s voice causing Aleck to observe the man. Marlowe’s fingers fidgeted with the lace-edged ruff encircling his thin neck. A violent red hue stained his face, and anyone except Aleck would have thought the man was choking. Unable to look at his master, Marlowe had attached his gaze to the ceiling, examining it with great interest. Positive the man suffered from acute embarrassment, the earl smiled.
A man of high morals, Marlowe obviously felt a great deal of discomfort when faced with his master’s lusty habits. The man had never voiced his opinions, yet Aleck knew his steward wished he would marry again, and soon. But to Aleck, that was out of the question.
Betrothed during childhood, he’d married his intended—a girl he neither knew nor loved—at the age of nineteen, only to discover that his pale, virginal bride was frigid. Every time he had approached her, she’d immediately sustained an attack of the vapors. No words could gentle her, and after listening to her hysterical cries for close to an hour on each occasion, he would at last cease his attempts to soothe her. Quietly he had slipped from her chamber, swearing he’d come to her again, for he’d been determined to bed her. But their physical union never came to pass. She’d come to him a virgin and had left him a virgin. Alas, the jittery Elinor had died less than four months after their nuptials. Since she’d not been ill, Aleck imagined she had succumbed to her own fright.
Having endured one such disastrous marriage, short as it had been, Aleck was content to remain a widower. Over the ensuing six years, he’d had his share of mistresses to entertain him, Felicia Emory being his latest. When the time came to sire an heir, then, and only then, would he take a new bride, but she would be of his choosing. High-spirited, willing to please him in every way, she’d be one whose desires matched his own. Aleck chuckled to himself; as passionate as he was, he suspected they might never leave his bed. Truly, should he ever find such a woman, he might be persuaded to try the state of wedlock once more. Until then, he would have none of it.
The soft body next to him shifted against his side; Felicia’s hand crept across his chest to move low over his taut belly. Aleck swallowed the breath that had nearly hissed through his teeth. “Wait in the hall, Marlowe,” the earl commanded. He noticed the man still inspected the ceiling. “I’ll call you when I have drafted a reply.”
After the door had closed, Felicia sat up. The cover fell to her hips. Her voluptuous breasts pressed against Aleck’s back as she rested her head on his shoulder and fingered the parchment in his hand. “Are you not interested in what James has to say?” she asked, her throaty voice drifting into his ears. Certain their sovereign had bestowed the much-talked-about dukedom on her lover, Felicia felt her heart swell with excitement. A long fingernail broke through the wax seal. “Read it, darling. Hurry.”
Aleck also believed the letter stated he was now a duke, but he wondered at what price. James, along with his wife, Anne of Denmark, was infamous for being a spendthrift. He was equally notorious for presenting titles of nobility, at first knighthoods, then baronetcies, but the honor was not bestowed out of the goodness of the king’s heart. The title’s recipient had to pay a hefty sum for the distinction—and if he refused to accept the honor, James fined him, the figure being far higher than the original cost of the title. In order to fill his empty coffers, James, at the prompting of Lord Salisbury, had devised this ingenious plan. His sovereign was no fool, Aleck decided. No doubt a provision was attached to his dukedom. His skepticism rising, he pondered again whether he could afford James’s price.
“Well?” Felicia prompted impatiently.
Slowly the packet was unfolded in Aleck’s hands. Another sealed document lay within. He set the second one aside, his blue eyes scanning the contents of the first. With a jerk, he sat straight up; Felicia’s head hit the wood behind her. A volatile curse escaped through Aleck’s lips, followed by another.
Her hand rubbing the lump growing on her scalp, Felicia peered over at the missive. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Hard eyes turned on her. Spying the flame of wrath in their depths, Felicia swallowed a frightened gasp. She knew Aleck possessed a temper, had beheld the effects of his ire once, perhaps twice. Fortunately, his fury had not been turned on her. But never before had she seen him this angry. Unknowingly she moved away from him. “D-did James deny your appointment?” she asked, eyeing him carefully.
“No,” he said through clenched teeth. “He gives it to me, but at a stiff cost.”
“Surely, Aleck, of all those in England, you can afford his fee.” Absently she fingered the heavy gold chain resting against his chest. “Your wealth exceeds nearly all others.”
“It is not my gold he wants, Felicia.”
Astounded, Felicia stared at him. “If not money, then what has he requested of you?”
“There is no request. It’s a royal command. If I refuse, I’ll most likely find myself ensconced in the Tower, possibly in the same cell that was occupied by your late husband.”
“Harry? Surely you could never anger James the way Harry did. After all, you are one of his favorites at court.”
Aleck shot her an inquisitive look. “Favorites? Do you equate me with the likes of Hay, Herbert, and Carr?” he asked, naming the more renowned of their king’s male companions.
Felicia’s light laughter rang forth. “It was not meant as it sounded, darling. I know, as does everyone else—including James—that you are interested only in the fairer sex. I meant that he values you as a friend. Because he does, he’d never send you to the Tower.”
Glancing at the letter, Aleck did not respond, and Felicia rambled on. “James simply placed Harry there to teach him a lesson. It was to be for only a month. Had Harry not been so deep in his cups and made such a bawdy remark about Carr, he’d still be alive today. No one thought he’d take a chill and die so quickly, least of all James. No, Aleck, he would never risk losing you. Your friendship means too much to him.”
“Does it?” he asked.
“Yes, it does.”
“Well, it’s about to be tested.”
“In what way?” Receiving no response, Felicia found she’d grown weary of his secrecy. “Aleck,” she demanded, “tell me what it is that he wants you to do.”
“Our heedful sovereign has made me guardian of a Highland lass, one Chandra Morgan. She is the heiress of Lochlaigh, its lands and barony—Lady Lochlaigh, if she c
an be deemed such—and is chieftain of her clan, The Morgan of Morgan. James fears some sort of insurrection is about to take place and has ordered me to the north of Scotland, where I am to make certain she is married off to a man who has sworn fealty to our sovereign and the Crown. I’m not to return to England until it is done.”
“Is that all?” she asked, surprised by the vehemence of his anger.
“Is that all!” Aleck sprang from the bed to stride naked about the room. “Damnation, Felicia!” he shouted, his hand raking through the thickness of his black hair. “James knows I cannot abide the Scots, especially those in the northernmost climes. They’re all heathens—a filthy, ill-bred lot who run unclothed through the wood and over the hills.” Felicia’s laughter spun him around. “What is the source of your merriment?”
Pinpointed by Aleck’s frigid glare, Felicia tried to swallow her giggles, but they continued to bubble forth.
“Do not mock me, Felicia,” he warned, stopping at the bed’s edge. “Why do you laugh?”
“You speak of unclothed heathens, while you yourself prance about the room without so much as a stitch to hide behind. As for mocking you, perhaps it is not I but James who is laughing the loudest.”
“What, pray tell, is the source of his merriment?”
“Did you not hear yourself just now, maligning the Scots? When at court, you are equally vocal, though, fortunately for you, in a far more diplomatic manner. James knows you are loyal to him, that you would lay down your life for him. He also knows you oppose a united Britain. But remember, Aleck, his birthplace is Scotland and he was king there long before he was made ruler of England. Maybe he is sending you to the Highlands for a dual purpose.”
“Which is?”
“As his loyal subject, you are to quell the insurrection you mentioned. He knows that if anyone can prevent the clans from rising again, it is you.”
“And?”