The Sinclair Hound
Sinclair Jewels
Book One
Copyright © 2019 Caroline Lee
Kindle Edition
Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
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Dedication
For the die-hard romantics. You know who you are.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books from Dragonblade Publishing
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Author’s Note on Historical Costuming
About the Author
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 again 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.
Agata clucked her tongue. “Yer groom will not care about yer knees, dear sister. He’ll be too busy eyeing yer thighs by the time Pearl’s hard work is revealed.”
The twins giggled again—probably at the thought of the marriage bed—and Pearl swallowed a sigh. Growing up the youngest of four girls, she’d heard all sorts of gossip and stories about the act, as Saffy always called it in hushed tones. But whereas her sisters were alternately excited and frightened by the idea of a man touching them, Pearl had never given it thought.
Unfortunately, if Da had his way, she’d have to give it much thought this summer.
Several long minutes passed in companionable silence, probably with each of the Sinclair jewels considering their futures, either with men or without. But finally, Citrine huffed slightly.
“There he goes again. I donnae ken how the man can pound William again and again wi’out breaking a sweat.”
Saffy hummed appreciatively. “Because yer William has grown into just as wee a man as he was a lad.” All three of them were used to teasing Citrine about her childhood obsession with that slight Sinclair warrior.
Agata chuckled dryly. “Nay, ’tis because hounds donnae sweat. Everyone kens that who kens aught.”
While the twins groaned at their older sister’s jest, Pearl’s eyes found his form once more.
He was one of her father’s most trusted men. Presumably he had a name, but Pearl had never heard it. For years he’d followed Da, devoted to the laird’s safety. He wasn’t the Sinclair commander, or even his Second. As far as Pearl could understand—without being allowed to even address the warriors directly—he had no real rank among the clan. He was the lowest of the men, but he was never seen away from Da’s side.
He was indeed the Sinclair Hound.
And whenever he looked at her, Pearl shivered.
Today, he was training in hand-to-hand with the men. He was easily half-a-head taller than his next-tallest opponent, and half again as broad. Dougal, Da’s commander, stood with his arms crossed as he watched the men wrestling, occasionally calling out suggestions or encouragement.
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