by Amanda Scott
“I thought I might try,” she said, twinkling at him.
“Sakes, I’ll show you how myself.”
She had already learned ways to excite him, but he showed her a few more, and she responded eagerly to his instruction. He also taught her new ways that he could excite her, especially with his agile tongue.
At last, though, he took her swiftly and hard, demanding more and more of her until their passion sent them soaring at last to ecstasy.
Lying in her husband’s arms afterward, sated, Cat purred.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Highland Master. The story evolved from a Mackintosh legend about the Comyns damming a loch. The incident, never dated, may have taken place at Castle Moigh or the island castle at Loch an Eilein, known as Rothiemurchus (as was most of that part of Strathspey then and as much of it is to this day). I chose to set the book at Rothiemurchus, because the basin in which Loch an Eilein sits seemed a more plausible location for such an effective dam than Loch Moy would be.
Wolves were common in Scotland and northern England in medieval times, and there are many tales of their extinction. The last wolf in northeast Scotland died at Kirkmichael, Banffshire, in 1644. Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel at Killiecrankie killed the last one in Perthshire in 1680. And a MacQueen, stalker to the laird of Mackintosh, killed the last wolf of all in 1743 (Dictionary of Scottish History).
The Clan Battle of Perth, September 1396, is much studied, but controversy still exists over which two clans were involved. Nearly all historians agree that the victor was Clan Chattan, but many have suggested clans other than Clan Cameron as their opponent. The only one that makes logical sense to me is Cameron.
Clan Cameron was not only another powerful confederation but one with whom Clan Chattan, specifically the Mackintoshes, had been feuding forever over land that both clans claimed. That a continuing feud between two confederations, with many tribes in each, might make enough trouble in the Highlands that the King would bestir himself to intervene makes sense.
Also, a truce did exist between the two of them for a number of years, which began shortly after the clan battle. The legal issue was not resolved until the sixteenth century, however, when the courts decided in the Mackintoshes’ favor. One sticking point with regard to the Camerons’ being the second clan was that they continued to reside at Loch Arkaig in Lochaber, which was the land in question. Logically, the Mackintosh ought to have been able to kick them out.
I consulted my chief expert, however, and we agreed that my solution to that question in Highland Master is the most likely, given the circumstances.
Albany’s armies and those of his allies frequently attempted to pursue Highlanders into the Highlands but rarely with much success.
Readers often ask where I get information about wedding ceremonies. The words for the one in this book come from a missal used during the reign of Richard II in England (1377–99). The Scottish and English churches at the time both derived their rites from the Roman ones, so the ceremonies would have been the same.
After serving as Captain of Clan Chattan for nearly forty years, Lachlan mac William Mackintosh died at a ripe old age in 1407, leaving, by his wife Agnes, daughter of Hugh Fraser of Lovat, one son, Ferquhard, who succeeded him, and a daughter, whose name probably was not Ealga and who married Chisholm of Strathglass, not Shaw Mackintosh. He married “a daughter of Robert mac Alasdair vic Aona,” and therefore his daughter here, Catriona, is entirely fictional, as is Fin.
My sources for Highland Master include The Confederation of Clan Chattan, Its Kith and Kin by Charles Fraser-Mackintosh of Drummond, Glasgow, 1898; The House and Clan of Mackintosh and of the Clan Chattan by Alexander Mackintosh Shaw, Moy Hall, n.d., and, of course, the always impressive Donald MacRae.
I must also thank my webmaster, David Durein, for sharing his expert knowledge and personal experience in both creating and removing a similarly placed but well intended dam, and the always efficient Julie Ruhle, who keeps me sane by dealing with the trivia whenever she can.
As always, I thank my wonderful agents, Lucy Childs and Aaron Priest, my terrific editor, Frances Jalet-Miller, Senior Editor Selina McLemore, Production Manager Anna Maria Piluso, copyeditor extraordinaire Sean Devlin, Art Director Diane Luger, Cover Artist Claire Brown, Editorial Director Amy Pierpont, Vice President and Editor in Chief Beth de Guzman, and everyone else at Hachette Book Group’s Grand Central Publishing/Forever who contributed to this book.
If you enjoyed Highland Master, please look for Highland Hero, the story of Sir Ivor Mackintosh, an impertinent lass who ignores Sir Ivor’s infamous temper (and happens to be the King’s ward), and a seven-year-old prince with a habit of commanding all in his orbit. It should be at your favorite bookstore in October 2011.
In the meantime, Suas Alba!
Sincerely,
www.amandascottauthor.com
Don’t miss the second book in Amanda Scott’s tantalizing Scottish Knights Series!
Please turn this page for a preview of
Highland Hero
Available in mass market
in October 2011.
Chapter 1
Scotland, Turnberry Castle, February 1402
Her bare skin was as smooth as the silky gown she had worn before he’d helped her take it off. His fingertips glided over her, stroking a bare arm, a bare shoulder, its soft hollow, and then the softer rise of a full breast heaving with desire for him.
Cupping its softness, he brushed a thumb across its tip, enjoying her passionate moans and arcing body as he did and feeling the nipple harden.
Part of him had hardened, too. His whole body urged him to conquer the lush beauty in his bed, but although he was an impatient man, he was also one who liked to take his time with women. Experience—rather a good deal of it—had taught him that coupling was better for both when he took things slowly.
Neither of them spoke, because he rarely enjoyed conversation at such times. Preferring to relish the sensations, he favored partners who did not chatter at him.
Stimulating them both with his kisses, he shifted an arm across her to position himself for taking her. As she spread her legs to accommodate him, she caressed his body with her hands, fingers, and tongue, sparking responses from every nerve.
Her motions and moans fed his urges, making it harder for him to resist simply taking her, dominating her, teaching her who was the master in that bed.
The bed shifted slightly on the thought, and he had a fleeting semiawareness that he was dreaming—fleeting because he ruthlessly shoved the half-formed thought away lest, if true, he might awaken too soon.
Somehow in that moment, in the odd way that dreams have of changing things about, the beauty had got to one side of him and he could no longer see her in the darkness. Ever willing, he shifted to accommodate the new arrangement.
Finding the warm, softly silken skin of her shoulder, he reached for her breasts again, rising onto his elbow and leaning over her as he did. He felt her body stiffen, and when his seeking hand found one soft breast, it seemed smaller than before, albeit just as well formed and just as soft. Sakes, but the woman herself seemed smaller. Most oddly, though, he touched real silk there instead of bare skin.
Undaunted, he ignored her increasing rigidity and slid his hand down to move the annoying silk out of his way and gain access to his primary objective.
As he did, her body heaved under him, a gasping cry sounded near his right ear, and in a flurry of movement, she slid from his grasp. Flying out of the bed, she managed on her way to deal him a stunning blow across his face. Then he saw only flashes of movement and light, and before he could collect wit enough to know that he was awake and had been toying with an unknown but very enticing female in his bed, a sound near the door told him that she was rummaging through the kist there.
Leaping from the bed, he shot toward her, but the door crashed back just as he reached for her, clouting his outstretched fingers and hand hard as it did.
The glow
of torchlight in the corridor revealed long, lush, dark-red hair; a drab robe hastily flung over a pink shift that barely concealed long, lovely legs; curving hips, and a tantalizingly small waist as she ran. His aching hand and stinging cheek provided excellent cause for retaliation, but he no sooner started to give chase than he recalled his own state of naked readiness and swiftly collected his wits.
Chasing a nubile beauty by dead of night in a state such as his own just then might find favor in some masculine establishments that he had visited. But his grace the King’s royal castle of Turnberry was definitely not one of them.
The young woman dashing up the corridor did not dare to look behind her, lest her pursuer know and recognize her. But as she gripped the handle of the nursery door, she could not resist glancing back and felt a surge of relief to see that the dimly lit corridor behind her was empty.
She had been sure that he would pursue her. But what a coil if he had and worse had he chanced to recognize her or seen her clearly enough to know her later.
Shoving the nursery door open, she whisked herself inside. Then, relieved, she quietly shut the door, eased the latch hook into place, and bolted the door, giving thanks to God as she did that Hetty had not already done so.
Glancing over her shoulder, she noted in the light of the single cresset still burning in the chamber, and the dimmer glow of embers from the well-banked fire, that Hetty was fast asleep on a pallet near the hearth. In the far corner of the room, the drawn curtains of a cupboard bed warned her to wake Hetty quietly.
Moving swiftly to the pallet, listening all the while for sounds from the corridor that might herald a search by the man who had been sleeping in Hetty’s bed, she gently shook the plump, middle-aged mistress of the royal nursery.
“Hetty, wake up,” she murmured. “Oh, don’t screech, but do wake up!”
The woman’s eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright. “My lady!” she exclaimed. Softening her voice, she added, “What are ye doing in here?”
Seventeen-year-old Lady Marsaili Drummond Cargill grimaced. “I could not sleep, Hetty. I went to your room and climbed into your bed as I have bef—”
“Och! Ye did nae such thing! Not tonight of all—! What time is it then?”
“I don’t know, after midnight I think. Oh, Hetty—”
“Good sakes, but his grace’s man did say—”
“Someone was in your bed, Hetty. A man!”
“Is that no what I was just trying to tell ye? His grace’s gentleman—”
“It cannot have been his grace’s man,” Marsaili said. “His grace’s man—”
“Whisst now, will ye whisst? I’m trying to tell ye, if ye’ll just listen to me. Sakes, but I thought ye’d learned to curb such foolish, impulsive—”
“Hetty, he was naked!”
Henrietta Childs, Mistress of the Royal Nursery, grabbed Marsaili firmly by the shoulders, gave her a shake, and looked into her eyes. “Now, Lady Marsi, have done! Ye’ll tell me right now, was the man awake?”
“Not at first.”
“At first!” Hetty’s voice went up on the words, and with a swift look at the curtained bed in the corner, she lowered it to a whisper to add, “What did he do?”
“He rolled over and… and, before I realized that it wasn’t you—”
“Ay-de-mi, did he touch ye?”
Remembering, and instantly feeling the strong, hitherto unfamiliar but most pleasurable sensations that his touch had first stirred in her, Marsi swallowed. But Hetty looked fierce, and Hetty had known her from her cradle and was reminding her of that with every word and look, so Marsi said, “He did, aye. But he did not see me, Hetty. I jumped out of the bed, snatched up my robe, and fled here to you.”
“Snatched up your robe, did ye? What more have ye got on under it?”
“My shift. But, Hetty, who is he?”
“I dinna ken his name, and I’m no to tell anyone about him.”
“Hetty, it’s me. Who would I tell? I haven’t a friend in this whole castle except you, and haven’t had since Aunt Annabella died. What’s more, they say that the Duke of Albany is on his way to Turnberry right now. He may arrive tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then on Tuesday. His grace warned me that the duke is most impatient to arrange my marriage and has no intention of waiting the year that I must wait, in order to mourn Aunt Annabella’s death properly.”
“My lady, I ken fine that the Duke of Albany comes to Turnberry. See you, that is why that man is in my bed now.”
“He is Albany’s man?”
“Nay, he is not.” Hetty looked upward, as if seeking guidance from above. Then, drawing breath and letting it out, she said, “I’ll tell ye, then, but only so that ye do not go about trying to find out for yourself, as I ken fine ye’ll do if I do not tell ye. But ye must no breathe a word to anyone else of what I say. Swear it now.”
“You know that I will tell no one,” Marsi said. “I keep secrets even better than I ferret them out, Hetty, and well do you know that.”
“I do, aye, or I’d no say aught of this to ye. Our wee laddie’s life may depend on it, though, so see that ye keep your word. See you, his grace did send for that man to take Jamie away from here to greater safety.”
“Away? But when do they go, and where will he take him?”
“Mayhap as soon as tomorrow, for I was to pack for him,” Hetty said. “His grace’s man did not tell me where we will go, nor were I so brazen as to ask him.”
“Aye, sure, his grace must mean for them to leave tomorrow if Albany is on the way. Dearest Annabella feared mightily that Albany would take Jamie in charge if he could but think how to manage it. But must you go with them, Hetty?”
“So his grace’s man did say,” Hetty said with a sigh. “I cannot say that I want to, for I ken fine that ye’ll miss me sorely, my lady. But if Albany does come, he will take ye both, and I’d have naught to say to anything that he might do.”
“Faith, but I did hope that he would just lecture me and say that I must obey him even though I am the King’s ward, not his,” Marsi muttered. “But I warrant you are right, that he will take us both in charge. As set as he is on marrying me to one of his toadies, if he takes Jamie, he’d be unlikely to leave me with his grace.”
“He might, though,” Hetty said. “His grace has stood against him before.”
Marsaili gave an unladylike snort. “Mayhap he has, once or twice. But you ken fine that his grace cannot hold out long against him if Albany gets him alone and says he must not. What can I do, Hetty? Albany terrifies me.”
“Aye, he terrifies most folks who have a grain of sense.”
“Come with us, Marsi,” piped up a third voice. “Wherever we go, it would have to be a happier place than Turnberry will be whilst my uncle bides here.”
Both women turned toward the curtained bed, where the tousled auburn head of seven-year-old James Stewart, Earl of Carrick, peeped between the blue curtains.
“Jamie, were you listening?” Marsi demanded. “Naughty laddie!”
“I couldna sleep,” the dark-eyed lad who stood second in line for the Scottish throne said soberly, sounding, as he always did, much older than his years.
Hetty got up and reached for her yellow robe, which lay across a nearby stool. Putting it on, she said, “I’ll warm ye some milk, sir. It’ll settle ye again.”
“I don’t want milk. Must I command ye tae go with us, Marsi?”
“Oh, Jamie, I wish you could. But your royal ways don’t fool me, laddie. You fear your uncle Albany almost as much as I do.”
“Aye, sure, but he canna find either of us if we are not here,” James pointed out. “When he leaves Turnberry, we can come back and be comfortable again with my royal sire. Do come, Marsi. Ye make me laugh, and Hetty does not.”
Marsaili hesitated, thinking furiously.
Hetty gave her a stern look. “My lady, ye must not. For once in your life, I pray ye—me, Hetty, who kens ye best—heed the dire consequences of such an act.”
>
But Marsi rarely heeded consequences. Before her doting parents had died and left her a ward of her aunt, the Queen of Scots, most consequences had been pleasant ones. And when they were not, they were nearly always soon over.
However, now that Annabella was dead and could no longer protect her, the consequences of remaining to face Albany would likely be worse than anything she had ever known.
“I could pose as your assistant, Hetty, and help you look after Jamie.”
“And I could help ye look after Marsi, Hetty,” James said.
Henrietta looked dourly at Marsi. “Good lack, what was I thinking to tell ye that ye must not?” she muttered. “A body would think that after knowing ye for all of your seventeen years I’d ken better nor to challenge ye so.”
“Is anyone else to go?” Marsi asked. “Any of Jamie’s gentlemen?”
“Nay, for the King’s grace kens fine that some of them be in Albany’s pay, and nae one save Albany kens which ones. We’ll leave before they arise, I expect.”
“Then there is naught to stop me,” Marsi said. “I must get some of my clothing, but then I’ll come back here.”
“Ye’ve nowt that be suitable for a maidservant to wear, my lady! Nor would ye fool anyone for long in such a menial guise, for ye were no born to it.”
But now that she had made up her mind, Marsi dismissed such objections without hesitation. “I can easily talk as a common maidservant would, Hetty, as you know gey well, having often scolded me for doing so. I shall say that I served Annabella and that she gave me some of her cast-off clothing. She did give it away, after all. Then I can say that since you and I hail from the same part of Scotland, when my position ended with her grace’s death, I offered to help you.”
“I can say that I know her well, too, Hetty, for I do,” Jamie said.
“Faith, but I can also say that I just want to go home,” Marsi said. “After all, wherever we go from here, we are likely to go north or east. If worse comes to worst, I can tell whoever escorts us to take me to my uncle Malcolm at Stobhall in Perth. He wants me to marry his second son, and I can tell you, Hetty, if the choice is between a toady of Albany’s and my dullard cousin Jack, I’d prefer Jack.”