CAPTURED BY A LAIRD (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY)

by Mallory, Margaret

He helped Alison to her feet with his good hand. Though he never admitted it, she knew the hand Walter had damaged still pained him at times.

  “I’ve something I want to show ye upstairs,” he said as he led her across the hall.

  “To relieve my backache,” Alison said, “you’ll need to do more than show it to me.”

  A softness came into his eyes. “Ye know I’d like nothing better than to make love to ye, if it’s not too close to the baby coming, but that’s not what I meant.”

  As they climbed the stairs Alison’s thoughts returned to her conversation with her sister.

  “Do ye think this dispute with the Hamiltons will break out in fighting?” she asked.

  “I do,” David said. “Tensions are high. Any spark will set it off.”

  “I’m worried about my sisters getting caught in it—especially Sybil,” she said. “And she says that Archie is counting on you to bring a large force to Edinburgh when the time comes.”

  “’Tis worth considering,” David said. “If he prevails, your sisters will all be safe, and Archie will be in a position to restore the title to the Hume lands to me, which will save our children trouble down the road.”

  “I agree, but I don’t like it.”

  “There are troubled times ahead, to be sure.” David stopped on the stairs and turned to face her. “But we’ll find our way through them together.”

  Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled up at him. “Aye, we will.”

  Instead of continuing up the stairs, he turned and opened the door to the old Laird’s chamber.

  “’Tis three years late,” he said, “but this is my wedding gift to you.”

  An enormous new bed dominated the room.

  “Oh, David!” she said. “’Tis beautiful.”

  He must have paid a fortune for it. The bed was made of a rich dark wood that held a hint of red, like the color of a roan horse, and there were intricate carvings along the head and footboards. Alison stepped closer and ran her hand over the pattern on the foot of the bed.

  “These look a bit like the pigs and horses ye carved for Beatrix and Margaret…” She turned to look at David. “You made this?”

  “Aye. I cut the boards from the table at Hume Castle when I was staying there before ye came for me.” He gave a dry laugh. “Surprising I didn’t cut my leg off as drunk as I was. ”

  She was touched that even when David believed she wanted her freedom instead of him he had enough hope in his heart to undertake making this exquisite gift for her.

  “Isabella made the bed curtains,” he said, pointing at the dark blue velvet.

  Alison walked around the bed, tracing the carvings with her fingertips. She could feel the love he had put into every one of them.

  “No lass has ever had such a wonderful wedding gift,” she said.

  “Ye like it then?”

  “Oh, aye,” she said, tears burning the back of her eyes.

  “Ye should get off your feet, love,” David said, giving her a worried look. Then he lifted her up onto the bed and sat beside her.

  When she turned and saw the first letters of their names linked together in the center of the headboard, her throat felt tight. She thought of the countless times they would make love in this bed and the children she’d give birth to in it.

  She loved him so much. His eyes drew dark as she ran her hands slowly up his chest.

  “Shall we find out if this bed is comfortable?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.

  “Are ye sure it’s safe?” David asked, looking down at her swollen belly.

  Alison caught him off guard and pushed him back on the bed.

  “I’m a bold and dangerous Hume lass,” she said, leaning over him. “But I promise I’ll try to be gentle with ye, if that’s how ye like it.”

  David’s eyes twinkled as he recognized the words he had once said to her. “Are ye having a bit of fun with me, lass?

  “Not yet, but I intend to.” She poked his chest. “And ye will enjoy it.”

  “I will, for certain,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face.

  Her heart squeezed as she looked down at the man she loved.

  “You’re mine, David Hume,” she said.

  “That I am, lass,” he said as he drew her down for a kiss. “Now and always.”

  THE END

  Thank you for reading my book!

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  HISTORICAL NOTE

  I first came across Archibald Douglas when I was doing research for THE GUARDIAN (THE RETURN OF THE HIGHLANDERS). I was intrigued by this handsome, young chieftain’s brazen power play in starting an affair with Scotland’s dowager queen, Margaret Tudor, so soon after the death of her husband, James IV. The affair led to lucrative appointments for his Douglas kin, and his eventual marriage to the queen put the Douglas chieftain in a position to vie for control of the young heir to the throne—and the country. For years, Archibald’s power rose and fell dramatically. He and his closest male relatives were forced to flee the country more than once to save their necks.

  This series was born when I began to wonder what happened to the women of the Douglas family who were left behind when the men escaped. While information on Archie’s sisters is sparse, I found enough to suggest they were in serious danger at times. In fact, one sister was eventually burned at the stake in Edinburgh Castle by Archibald’s angry step-son James V.

  Being a romance writer, I naturally wanted to give the Douglas lasses happy endings with men who would stand by them in tough times.

  With this first book in THE DOUGLAS LEGACY series, I’ve written a fictional story inspired by the real marriage between Archibald’s sister Alison and David Hume of Wedderburn. As is often the case with Scottish history going back five hundred years, history and legend are intertwined. I write fiction and take as much latitude as I need to make a good story. That said, the real David Hume did capture Blackadder Castle, did force the widow Alison to marry him, and did contract her two heiress daughters to marry his younger brothers. As best I can tell, he and Alison had six children together, and I found no mention of his having illegitimate children. From these two facts, I wanted to believe this forced marriage led to true love.

  A hero has to be heroic, and I confess that some of the things David Hume was alleged to have done created a challenge in that regard. By all accounts, David’s father and uncle were lured into Edinburgh to negotiate their dispute with Regent Albany, executed for treason, and had their heads displayed on the Tolbooth. Clearly, David had reason to be angry.

  Since David appears to have killed off every Blackadder male who might have been able to challenge Beatrix and Margaret’s inheritance rights, I had to make the Blackadders villainous and deserving of their fate. My apologies if they were in fact good and honorable men. I also made David’s brothers younger than they actually were so as not to offend myself and my readers. Alison’s daughters were likely confined to the castle until they came of age (twelve!), when they were married to David’s brothers, who were probably in their 20’s. That age difference would have been unremarkable at the time, and the marriages appear to have been lasting.

  The character of Lord D’Orsey is very loosely inspired by Albany’s close friend, Lord Antoine D’Arcy, who was a much-admired man in his time. There was already bad blood between D’Arcy and the Humes when they had a confrontation regarding the siege at Langton Castle. David or his brothers ended up killing D’Arcy and displaying his head on the market cross at Duns. Hair from his hair is rumored to have been kept in a chest by the Humes until the 1800’s. />
  In future books in the series, you’ll probably hear more about the mysterious deaths of the beautiful Drummond sisters, Alison’s aunts on her mother’s side. They may well have succumbed to mere food poisoning, but why were the three sisters the only ones who died?

  The next book in the series, CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER, takes place when Archibald Douglas is forced into exile for the first time. I invented Sybil Douglas, the heroine, from whole cloth, but I was inspired to create her handsome Highlander hero in part by a remarkable MacKenzie chieftain who lived in this time period.

  Excerpt: CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER

  The Douglas Legacy #2

  by Margaret Mallory

  PROLOGUE

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  December 1513

  Rory MacKenzie wiped the icy rain from his face and limped into yet another tavern. His injured leg was throbbing, his belly was empty, and he had no money, but these were not the worst of his problems.

  He waited for his eyes to adjust to the murky light, then swept his gaze over the occupants. Damn. No one but a serving woman and some old men who had the settled look of regular customers. Hunching over to avoid banging his head on the blackened wooden beams of the low ceiling, he crossed the room. Out of habit, he chose an empty bench where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the door. He gritted his teeth against a hot blade of pain that shot through his leg as he eased himself onto the bench, then took a couple of slow, deep breaths.

  “Good evening to ye,” he said, speaking in Scots to the old men, who were local merchants, judging by their soft bellies and Lowlander clothes. “I’m a MacKenzie, and I’m hoping to find some of my clansmen in the city.”

  “Haven’t seen any lately,” one of the men said around the pipe clenched between his teeth, and the others shook their heads.

  Rory doubted these men could tell a MacKenzie from another Highlander, but he had already looked all over the city with no luck. He knew most of the taverns where his clansmen were likely to gather from the year he had been forced to study at the university.

  What in the hell was he going to do? He had walked for days just to get as far as Edinburgh. He needed to get home to Kintail to protect his brother.

  “Looks as if you’ve had a rough time of it, lad,” the man with the pipe said.

  “The English took me captive after Flodden,” Rory said, his thoughts skittering back to the disastrous battle. The English had kept the highborn prisoners for ransom and killed the rest. “I escaped a few days ago.”

  Rory had known better than to wait for his uncle to pay for his release.

  “Escaped?” One of the old men said and gave a low whistle. “Tell us your tale, and I’ll buy ye a cup of ale.”

  Rory had the full attention of everyone in the tavern now, including the serving maid, a woman of impressive size with strands of greasy hair falling out of her filthy head covering.

  “Add a bowl of stew,” he said with a grin, “and I’ll give ye a story that will curl your hair.”

  “Just looking at him is making my hair curl,” the serving woman said, then she gave him a broad wink and a nudge when she brought his stew and ale.

  Rory did not bother embellishing his tale, as would be expected at home. These old merchants had never fought themselves, so they were wide-eyed at the bare truth. They cringed and made faces when he mentioned the number of lashes he received after being caught the first time he tried to escape. A whipping was a small matter, but the damned English had taken his horse and all his weapons—his claymore, axe, and several dirks.

  “I need a horse and a blade to go home,” he said, presenting his problem to the old men. The journey would take too long on foot, and only a fool would travel in the Highlands without a weapon, and preferably several.

  “Ye can’t buy those with a tale or your good looks,” one of the old men said, and the others guffawed.

  Rory had considered stealing a horse, but the city was on edge in the wake of Flodden, fearing an attack by the English, and armed men were everywhere. He could not take the risk of getting caught and failing to get home.

  “I’m good at cards.” He had done little else while held hostage. “Do ye know of a game where I’d have a chance of winning that kind of money?”

  “Enough to buy a horse and a sword?” a bald-headed man with red cheeks asked in a high voice.

  Everyone laughed, except for the man with the pipe, who said, “Mattie, aren’t those fancy-dressed nobles having one of their games in your back room tonight?”

  “Hush!” She swatted the man with a filthy rag. “They give me good money to guarantee them privacy and clean lasses, and they don’t like to mix with us lowly folk.”

  “I’m a Highland chieftain’s son, so I’m as good as any of these Lowland nobles.” Better, in fact. When the woman still hesitated, Rory spread his arms out and gave her his best smile. “Come, Mattie, help a lad out.”

  “What woman could say nay to that pretty face?” she asked the others, then turned back to him. “All right, ye young devil.”

  Pretty face? Ach. Now he just needed something to start the game with. “If one of ye will lend me a silver coin, I’ll return it doubled.”

  When his request was met by another round of guffaws, desperation clawed at his gut. He never should have left his brother Gavin this long. When he answered the king’s call to fight, Rory had not anticipated being held prisoner for two months after the battle.

  He reminded himself that his half-brother was sixteen and should be able to take care of himself. Although Rory was six months younger than Gavin, he’d always felt older. Gavin was too goodhearted. He didn’t see people for what they were, but as he wanted them to be. That was dangerous for any man, but especially for one who would soon take on the duties of clan chieftain.

  Rory was reconsidering stealing a horse when the serving maid plopped down next to him with a heavy thump and wrapped an arm as beefy as a blacksmith’s around his neck.

  “I’ll lend ye a bit of money for the game,” she said, her sour breath in his face. With her free hand, she reached inside her bodice, pulled a silver coin from between her ample breasts, and held it up between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Isn’t that the coin I gave ye, Mattie?” the red-cheeked man said.

  “Believe me, lads,” she said turning to the others, “I earned it.”

  “Ye won’t regret this,” Rory said over the men’s laughter. But when he tried to take the coin, she held it just out of his reach.

  “Promise, on your mother’s grave, that if ye can’t repay me in coin,” –Mattie paused and grinned at him, showing her brown and broken teeth— “you’ll repay me in a manner of my choosing.”

  Rory’s stomach clutched. In addition to her many unappealing attributes, Mattie probably was not “clean” of the pox, like the lasses she provided the men in the backroom. But he could not shake the feeling that his brother was in trouble, so he had no choice.

  “On my mother’s grave.” He jumped when Mattie reached behind him and squeezed his arse with her ham-sized hand. He closed his eyes and thanked God that none of his clansmen were here to see it.

  Ignoring the throbbing in his injured leg, he got up and followed Mattie behind a curtain into a dark corridor. At the far end, candlelight spilled through a partially closed door.

  “Have a care, Handsome, these are powerful men,” Mattie whispered as they paused outside the door. Then she poked his chest. “You’ll be no use to me dead.”

  Though her smell was overpowering, Rory leaned closer to see the men inside. There were five, all young and well-dressed, sitting around a table with cards and small piles of coins.

  “Who are they?” he asked in a whisper.

  “That one is the new Douglas chieftain, and the one next to him is his brother,” she said, pointing a thick finger at two black-haired men, neither of which looked much over twenty. “Their father was killed with the king at Flodden, and their grandfather,
old Bell the Cat, died last week, making young Archibald here the Earl.”

  Rory had never met Archibald Douglas, but he had once caught a glimpse of the beautiful Douglas sisters riding through Edinburgh. He smiled to himself, remembering a giggling young lass with flashing blue eyes and hair as black as a moonless night.

  “They say this young Douglas chieftain is ‘comforting’ our grieving queen,” Mattie said, drawing Rory’s attention back to the present. “I believe the other men at the table are Boyds and Drummonds, close kin of the Douglases.”

  Archibald Douglas must have heard her speak this time, for he shifted his gaze to the doorway and called out, “Who’ve ye brought us, Mattie?”

  Rory stepped into the room with no premonition of how this night would change his fate.

  CHAPTER 1

  March 1522

  Sybil set her sketch aside and covered her face with her freezing hands. She wished someone would come and spirit her far away, out of the queen’s reach. She was furious with her brothers. After sending reassurances for months and then ordering her to wait for them here, her brothers and uncle had escaped to France, leaving the rest of the family to the queen’s mercy. As if that spiteful woman had any.

  A shadow fell over her. How did James find me out here? She had not left the warmth of the hall and the safety of her uncle’s castle to sit under this tree on the frozen ground because she wanted company. Particularly his.

  “I thought ye left, James,” she said, still keeping her hands over her eyes. “I told ye I won’t do it, so go.”

  When she did not hear James walk away, Sybil was tempted to kick him. Exasperated, she dropped her hands—and sucked in her breath.

  A huge Highland warrior stood over her. Her heart thumped wildly as she dragged her gaze from his giant sword, the tip of which rested mere inches from her foot, to the dirks and axe tucked in his belt, and then to his broad, muscular chest. She had not yet reached his face when he spoke in a deep voice that seemed to make the ground vibrate beneath her.