“That’s enough,” said Lance, taking the axe from her and handing it to his squire.
“Oh, is it my turn now?” asked Jack, looking at the axe.
“Effie, dinna ye want a turn as well?” asked Coira.
Effie smiled down at the newborn babe in her arms. Her husband, Aidan, looked over her shoulder at the baby as well, holding the hands of their daughters, Elspeth and Arabella. Aidan’s squirrel, Reid, sat on his shoulder, chattering away.
“Nay, Coira, I want to stay with little Gavin,” Effie told her. “Every minute with our new son is worth more to me than even demolishin’ bad memories of the past.”
“I agree,” said Aidan, reaching down to kiss his son on the nose. “And someday, little Gavin will be big and strong like his da. And then I will teach him how to throw a caber.” He made silly faces and obnoxious noises talking to his son.
Storm MacKeefe’s head popped up from the crowd when he heard this. “So, will it be Gavin who finally beats me at the caber toss?” asked Storm with a smirk. “After all, we ken ye, nor anyone else of the clan, has ever been able to do it.”
“I can no’ only toss a caber better than ye, Storm, but I am stronger in every other way,” bragged Aidan.
“Prove it,” said Aidan’s good friend, Ian, from next to him. He had his arm around his wife, Kyla, who was also Aidan’s sister. She held their baby, Grant, while the twins, Finn and Quinn, chased Ian’s wolfhound around them in a circle.
“Och, do I hear a competition comin’ on?” The third of the MadMen MacKeefe, Onyx, rushed over, holding his son, Creighton, in one arm and his daughter, Davina, in the other. “Charles,” he called to his stepson. “Start collectin’ the bets. I say whatever the challenge, Aidan is goin’ to lose.”
“Lose? Ye think I’m goin’ to lose?” squawked Aidan, not at all happy at hearing his good friend was betting against him. “I’ll show ye that I willna lose and then ye will eat yer words.”
“Onyx, give me the children,” said Onyx’s wife, Lovelle, hurrying over to collect them. “I am going to take them to check on your wildcat while you boys make fools of yourselves again.”
“Let me help with the children since you’re pregnant.” Zara rushed over to take Davina from her.
“If you men want to prove your strength, how about tossing the rest of these cages into the fire?” asked Lance.
“I can do that.” Aidan gave his squirrel to his daughter to hold and bent down, picking up several of the iron bars at once. Instantly, the rest of the Scots were there to try to prove that they were stronger than the others.
“Coira, now is our time to sneak away.” Lance pulled her over to the side.
“Sneak away? Where are we goin’?” she asked with a smile.
“Just somewhere private where I can kiss you without anyone bothering us.” Lance directed her quickly to the garden. Sweetcakes followed, barking at them.
“Sweetcakes, we’ll be right back. Now go to Zara and play with the bairns.” Coira reached down and petted the dog on the head and sent it on its way.
“Hurry, before anyone sees us,” said Lance, running to the garden, holding her hand.
Coira laughed, having fun. Her heart felt lighter than ever now that she’d faced and released her fears of the past. She had never felt stronger than she did right now.
Lance stopped and pulled her into his arms, kissing her so passionately that she wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have the idea to make love right there in the garden.
A sweet scent of flowers filled the air. Coira took in a deep breath. “Lance, look, the roses are bloomin’,” she said excitedly. They turned to see the rose bush with red roses in full bloom, opening their petals to the sun. Then something caught her eye and she moved closer, taking Lance with her. She gasped when she saw what it was.
“What’s the matter, Coira?” asked Lance. “Is something wrong?”
Tears filled her eyes and she bent down to touch the soft petals of one blue rose, mixed in with all the red ones. “Nothin’ is wrong, Lance. Do ye see this?”
“It’s blue,” he said in astonishment. “I’ve never seen a blue rose before.”
“It’s because it is special and most people never see one in an entire lifetime,” Coira explained. “The legend of the blue rose states that when it appears, enemies turn to lovers.”
“I guess that’s us,” said Lance, pulling her closer and kissing her again.
“I dinna ever want to be enemies again,” she told him, staring into his deep, blue eyes.
“And neither do I,” he told her. “But I would like to be lovers.” He pinched her bottom and chuckled. Coira slapped his hand away and giggled.
“Lance de Selby, what kind of lassie do ye take me for to be pinchin’ my bottom right here in the garden where anyone can see?”
“I take you to be the sweetest, most beautiful, kindest lassie I’ve ever met.” He kissed her between each of the attributes he mentioned. “But most of all, I take you to be my wife, Coira. You are the strongest, most amazing woman I have ever met.”
She blushed and shyly looked up through hooded eyes. “Ye dinna really mean that, do ye?”
“I do,” he said. “You are the sweetest and prettiest flower in this garden. I will love you forever because you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, my Scottish Rose.”
From Elizabeth Rose
I hope you enjoyed Scottish Rose and will leave a review for me.
In history, someone from Clan MacDuff always crowned the Scottish kings. Isabel MacDuff (in my story, Coira’s grandmother) crowned her cousin, Robert the Bruce, after he killed John Comyn and was excommunicated for it. Later, she ended up hanging in a cage left out in the elements for four years, put there by the English. Records show they don’t know what ended up happening to her. But in my story, I come up with a possible solution.
To find out more about this, please read Aidan – Book 2 of my MadMan MacKeefe Series You will also read about Coira and her sister, Effie, who were put in hanging cages, just like their late grandmother.
Here are the links for the books of my MadMan MacKeefe Series, preceded by my Daughters of the Dagger Series.
Daughters of the Dagger Series:
Prequel
Ruby – Book 1
Sapphire – Book 2
Amber – Book 3
Amethyst – Book 4
MadMan MacKeefe Series:
Onyx – Book 1
Aidan – Book 2
Ian – Book 3
Elizabeth Rose
About Elizabeth Rose
Elizabeth Rose is the bestselling author of over 80 books. She writes medieval, historical, contemporary, paranormal, and western romance. She is an amazon all-star, and a multi-time award finalist. Her books appear as ebooks, print, and some audiobooks as well.
Her favorite characters in her works include dark, dangerous and tortured heroes, and feisty, independent heroines who know how to wield a sword. She loves writing 14th century medievals, and is known for her medieval series.
Elizabeth started out over twenty years ago as a traditionally published author. But life takes it twists and turns and after losing her day job she decided to try her hand at Indie publishing.
She started self-publishing, creating her own covers and her own booktrailers on a dare from her two sons. She loves anything paranormal and is inspired by spending time in nature. Elizabeth has a secret garden that serves as her outdoor office where she writes in the summer. This same secret garden inspired her series, Secrets of the Heart, and is the setting of these books.
Series by Elizabeth Rose:
Secrets of the Heart
Seasons of Fortitude
Legendary Bastards of the Crown
Second in Command
Holiday Knights
Tangled Tales
Barons of the Cinque Ports
Legacy of the Blade
Daughters of the Dagger
MadMan MacKeefe
Elemental Series
Greek Myth Fantasy
Tarnished Saints
Cowboys of the Old West
Once Upon a Rhyme
Sweet Nothings
A Look Behind the Series
You can find out more about Elizabeth’s books and read excerpts by visiting her website. Be sure to also sign up to receive her newsletter.
Elizabeth invites you to join her private readers’ group, and follow her on social media at Twitter, Goodreads, Bookbub, Facebook, and Amazon.
Bonus Excerpt from Elizabeth Rose
Excerpt from Aidan – Book 2
MadMan MacKeefe Series
The Scottish Highlands. Late summer 1362.
Only a madman would use a stone for his pillow. The Stone of Destiny to be precise.
Aidan MacKeefe tossed restlessly in his sleep, having used the Stone of Destiny as his pillow for the last six months now, hoping to have prophetic dreams. Supposedly, the stone was used back in the days of the Bible, and Jacob had used this exact stone and had dreams of angels.
Aidan was in the middle of a dream. Mist surrounded him in his little stone cottage in the MacKeefe camp. He couldn’t see anything in the darkened room, but then the door opened, and in the bright light – he saw an angel. The angel walked toward him, covered with a long, white, hooded cloak, her fiery red tresses falling in ringlets down to her shoulders. Stopping in front of him, she peeked out from under the hood. While he couldn’t see her face well in the dark, he could still see her wide, green eyes that reminded him of the color of the moors on a warm summer’s day. Her gaze steadied upon him and she lit a candle in her hand, illuminating her face beneath the hood.
Her skin was fair, like alabaster, and a smattering of fine freckles trailed down her nose and spread to her rosy cheeks. Aye, she was a bonnie lass, and though he couldn’t see her body under the robe, he was sure it matched her beauty. He wanted her badly. Then she smiled at him, and her laugh rang out across the room like the sweet song of a small meadow pipit, bringing with it a fragile innocence to its tone. She was a fine angel. A perfect, Scottish angel. He wanted naught more than to reach out his hands and touch her, but something weighted him down and he could not move.
As she reached out to him, he saw a strawberry birthmark on the inside of her arm that looked like . . . a skull. He felt himself jerk away from her touch, and then she turned away from him and nodded toward the door. Aidan’s attention focused across the small room and, to his horror, he saw English soldiers following her into the cottage with their weapons drawn.
Aidan tried to cry out for help, but couldn’t speak. He tried to reach for his sword at his side, but couldn’t move. Then his eyes scanned down her body and, to his horror, he saw sticking out from the back of her robe right by her doup – a tail. A furry, red tail! It reached out and brushed across his face and, in his only form of defense, he leaned forward . . . and bit it.
The sickening screech of an animal cried out, pulling him from his slumber. His eyes popped open, bringing him out of the dream and he sat up quickly, not knowing what was happening.
Then he saw Reid, his pet red squirrel, scurrying off his chest, scolding him, running in circles around the room. The door opened just then, but instead of his dream angel, his friend, Ian, stood there with a dour expression upon his face.
What in the clootie’s name was that screech?” asked Ian. His tall, muscular form filled the entire doorway, and his dark hair looked wet as if he’d just come from bathing in the loch.
Aidan jumped up, realizing he was fully clothed, and that it was well into the morning hours. Then he remembered taking a nap, too full to move after eating his fill of skirlie, an oatmeal and onion dish topped off with a goose egg. The food for the clan had been prepared by his younger sister, Kyla, and the chieftain’s wife, Wren.
The door pushed open from behind Ian, and there stood their good friend, Onyx, who had recently married an Englishwoman, Lady Lovelle of Worcestershire, after finding out that his true family was English, not Scottish at all.
“Aidan, ye dunderheid,” said Onyx, spying the squirrel running around the room in a heated frenzy. Onyx’s two different colored eyes stared back at him in question. “What did ye do to yer squirrel?”
“I think I bit its tail,” he said, running a hand through his hair and leaning back against the stone. The Stone of Scone, or Stone of Destiny as most called it, was a large, black, basalt rock with ancient hieroglyphs etched into it. It had iron-looped handles embedded into the sides to use for carrying with a pole through them. The stone was very heavy and took at least two full-grown men to move it – if they were strong. He’d embedded the thick stone into the dirt of the cottage floor to lower it, and pulled his pallet over it, to use as his personal pillow.
The Angel and the Prince
A Medieval Romance Novel
Laurel O’Donnell
Copyright
The Angel and the Prince Copyright © 2011 by Laurel O’Donnell
www.laurel-odonnell.com
Published by ODONNELL BOOKS
ISBN# 978-0-9848895-2-5
Cover design by Hot Damn Designs!
www.hotdamndesigns.com
All rights reserved. No part of this romance ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author, Laurel O’Donnell.
The characters and events portrayed in this historical romance novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Prologue
France, 1410
The choir of voices ascended to the far corners of the cathedral, where sculptured angels listened with somber faces to the Latin words. Shining white marble pillars spiraled down to the steps of the great altar. At the top stair stood King Charles VI. Behind him stood eight small boys dressed in immaculate white robes, each holding a red velvet pillow with golden tassels at each corner. Upon every silky velvet pillow there rested a resplendent sword. Above and behind the boys, golden statues of saints stretched out their cold arms in welcome and forgiveness with unseeing eyes.
The king shifted his regal stance, his gaze locked on the tall wooden doors at the back of the church. He knew eight young men waited anxiously outside, their breath tight in their chests, their palms slick with nervous sweat. Each one would enter as a squire filled with a boy’s apprehension, and each one would leave as a knight of the realm filled with a warrior’s pride.
One of the banners caught his eye. It was for Ryen De Bouriez, the third son of Baron Jean Claude De Bouriez. King Charles scanned the mass of people before him until they came to rest on two men – the elder De Bouriez brothers. They were tall, even by knightly standards. Lucien was fair; his honeyed hair, blue eyes, and boyish looks were rumored to have cost more than one maiden her virtue. Andre was dark, with chestnut eyes and a heart of gold. Both were skilled warriors, and this pleased the king, for he knew Ryen would make an excellent addition to his troops. He studied the brothers closely. They shifted from foot to foot nervously; even Andre, who was usually so calm, seemed unsettled. The king frowned. Perhaps the two giants were uncomfortable with the civil surroundings and were eager to be out of the church. King Charles sympathized. The De Bouriezes were, after all, known for their prowess in battle, not their sociability.
The king glanced over row upon row of nobles in their elegant satins and velvets. The Countess of Burgundy was there. Not far from her, the flamboyant golden caul headdress of the Duchess of Orleans caught his eye. Slowly, his brow creased into a frown as he finished surveying the attending nobility. Where was Ryen’s father?
The choir of voices that had filled the chamber suddenly ended, their last echoes resonating throughout the cathedral until they slipped
away into nothingness.
Glancing toward the trumpeters awaiting his signal in the balcony, King Charles nodded. When they put the long golden horns to their lips, the triumphant music began. All eyes turned to the heavy oak doors at the back of the church as they slowly creaked open.
Eight squires advanced down the long carpeted aisle, one behind the other.
Sunlight streamed in from the stained glass windows, reflecting brilliantly off the shining silver-and-gold plate mail of the approaching men. King Charles squinted as a ray of light shone in his eyes. He tried to be a fair man, judging all men equally, but he found himself anxious to see Ryen De Bouriez, around whom so much controversy swirled. The first time his name had reached the king’s ears, it was with the capture of Castle Picardy, the feat that had earned him his knighthood. King Charles had heard the same story three times, and with each telling Ryen’s achievements had seemed to grow until they were of Herculean proportions. Since then, the name Ryen De Bouriez had arisen time and time again in casual conversation. The man’s strategic maneuvers were ingenious.
The initiates climbed the stairs to the great altar and bowed before the king, then stepped aside to form a row before their lord. As the squire preceding De Bouriez bowed, King Charles tried not to seem obvious as he peered over the top of the man’s head to get a glimpse of Ryen. Finally, like a curtain being drawn, the squire stepped aside and Ryen De Bouriez was revealed to King Charles. The initiate still wore his helmet. All traces of astonishment disappeared as anger descended over the king. It was disrespectful for anyone to wear a helmet in the house of God. The young man’s headgear covered most of his face except for his eyes. King Charles could see the striking blueness of them; they shimmered in the shadows of his helmet like a great cloudless sky. His gaze raked the young man again. He is very small indeed, the king thought. I cannot believe the great Baron De Bouriez squired this runt. Perhaps De Bouriez is absent because he is embarrassed by his son’s size.
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