The Sinclair Jewels Books One-Three: A Scottish Medieval Romance Series Bundle

by Caroline Lee

She gasped out loud as her attention fell on a bundle of material atop Pearl’s chest.

  Her sisters watched as Agata hurried across the chamber, reaching for the things Pearl had left with them yesterday evening. Their youngest sister was always helping someone in the village or visiting clan members. She made a point of bringing food and companionship to those who were sometimes forgotten, including Elspeth, their old nurse. Yesterday, Pearl had visited the woman’s cottage, then returned for the evening meal before going to Da’s solar to deliver her ultimatum.

  But before she’d gone, she’d given Agata this bundle from Elspeth. At the time, Agata had only glanced at it, too distraught at the thought of Pearl leaving to really notice it, but now…

  “Ah!” she declared triumphantly as she held aloft the old tapestry. “The jewels!”

  Saffy was beside her in a moment. “No…” she breathed softly, reaching for the image. “I donae believe it.”

  Her fingers hovered above the threads, and Agata saw them tremble slightly.

  “Impossible,” Citrine stated definitively. “The jewels have been missing for generations.”

  “And this tapestry looks at least that old,” Saffy whispered reverently.

  While Agata knew paints, Saffy was the scholar of the sisters, and if she said these threads were that old, Agata would believe her. Gently, she draped the small tapestry across her forearm, and crossed to the bed. Citrine stepped out of the way, but when Agata placed the piece of material down, she felt her sisters peering over her shoulders.

  “Beautiful,” Saffy breathed.

  It was. The tapestry was no larger than one of Agata’s paintings, but full of color. The clan name had been woven in blues and greens across the top, and in the center…

  In the center was a bright green circle containing four smaller circles, arranged at the cardinal points. Decorative scrollwork was picked out in dark threads, delineating each sphere. The circle at the top was brown, intricately stitched to show shades ranging from sable to topaz. The circle to the right was a bright blue, the same color as the “S” in “Sinclair,” while the bottom one was a yellow dark enough to be called gold. The fourth circle was a beautiful white, which seemed to shimmer gray, despite the age of the threads.

  Agata exhaled softly. She’d glimpsed the image when Pearl had handed it to her, but had been too distracted to realize what it meant. “The jewels,” she whispered.

  Generations ago, the pride of the Sinclair treasury had gone missing. Elspeth had always told them the Sinclair line would end if the jewels remained lost, and only the bravest and worthiest of the Sinclair warriors would be able to restore the jewels and the clan’s power.

  Most of them had thought it a myth, but their mother hadn’t.

  Citrine leaned around Agata and pointed to each of the circles in turn, careful not to actually touch the ancient tapestry. “Agate. Sapphire. Citrine. Pearl,” she finished grimly. Then she stabbed one finger toward the outer circle. “And malachite?”

  The stones were all from the highlands. When each of her daughters had been born, their mother had named them for the colors of their eyes. Agata’s eyes were a dark brown with gold flecks. Saffy’s were a bright blue, Citrine a pale brown, and Pearl, a blue so light it seemed gray.

  The sisters had always known they were named for Highland jewels, and it was where the silly tradition of calling them the Sinclair Jewels had begun. But knowing they were named for the jewels in the missing Sinclair brooch, and seeing the brooch, were entirely different matters.

  “Is that… us?” Saffy whispered.

  Citrine made a noise somewhere between disgust and disbelief, and spun away. Agata’s hand found Saffy’s as they watched their sister stomp across the chamber and back, her bare feet slapping against the stone and rushes.

  “If Mother named us after some stones in an old brooch, did that mean she’d seen the jewels?” Citrine demanded, clearly not expecting an answer. “Or had she just seen this daft—” She waved her hand irritably toward the tapestry on the bed, her jaw working as she tried to find the right word. Finally, she ended with an angry, “Bah!”

  “Da would ken,” Saffy offered hesitantly.

  But Agata sniffed. “The man willnae tell us who we are to marry. He’s good at secrets.”

  “Aye!” Citrine whirled with her hands on her hips and a frown on her lips. “But that willnae stop us from asking him. And Elspeth.”

  “Mayhap the tapestry can tell us more.” Saffy pulled away and leaned over the weaving.

  “Like what?” snapped her twin.

  “Like what happened to the jewels.”

  Agata felt her heart begin to pound at Saffy’s distracted statement. Find the missing jewels? Was that possible? The sisters had spoken of them for years; she remembered evenings spent lying in bed well after dark, whispering theories back and forth. Saffy’s suggestions were always romantic and unrealistic, while Citrine’s guesses had involved pirates and bandits.

  But Agata had never even been sure the jewels had existed.

  She leaned over Saffy’s shoulder, examining the delicate tapestry. Although their mother had died soon after Pearl’s birth, Elspeth had known the woman—and their grandmother—well. Their old nurse had raised them with stories of the famed brooch, much larger than a man’s fist and fashioned from malachite and gold. Had it been real? Was it hidden somewhere with the jewels still intact?

  Would it be possible to find it again?

  “The clan doesnae need saving!”

  Agata glanced over her shoulder at Citrine, who was glaring at them both, as if daring them to contradict her.

  “What do ye mean?”

  “The legend!” Citrine scowled at the tapestry. “Elspeth told us the Sinclairs would fall without the jewels, aye? But we’re—”

  “Da has only daughters,” Saffy murmured distractedly, her hands braced on the coverlet on either side of the tapestry, her nose only inches from the threads. “If he doesnae remarry and sire a son, his line will end.”

  Agata’s eyes widened as she met Citrine’s, whose anger slowly turned to shock. Aye, they’d known the clan was in danger—hence the importance of their marriage alliances. But could their current state be the fate the legend foretold? Was the Sinclair name bound to fall because Da had no son to become laird after him?

  “Bollocks!” Citrine slammed one fist into the opposite palm with enough force to make Agata jump. “That’ll no’ happen!”

  Agata crossed her arms and raised her brows in silent question.

  “I’ll no’ let the Sinclairs fall. Remember what Elspeth told us?” Citrine glared in defiance. “If the jewels are lost forever, our line is doomed.”

  “A moment ago, ye said it was nonsense,” Agata pointed out.

  “’Tis nonsense, but I’ll no’ let it happen,” Citrine repeated angrily, if illogically. “We’ll find the damn brooch and ensure the Sinclair name is—”

  Unimpressed by her twin’s ranting, Saffy straightened away from the tapestry. “How?”

  Citrine scowled. “How what?”

  “How will we find the jewels? They’ve been missing for years, and this cannae be solved by swinging a sword at it.”

  Her twin’s scowl didn’t ease as she leveled a long finger at Saffy. “Verra few things cannae be solved by swinging a sword at them.”

  Saffy scoffed, likely already composing a long treatise in her mind on the history of the jewels. “Surely someone should ken the secret. We’ll just ask—”

  “Nay!” Citrine’s denial was forceful enough to make her sisters startle. She frowned fiercely while pinning them with a serious glare. “This is our business. If we are to find the jewels, we cannae be spreading our information around.” When Agata opened her mouth, Citrine cut her off. “I mean it! This must be kept a secret, if we’re to succeed.”

  Agata’s brows rose. It sounded as if this daring sister of hers was serious about hunting down the lost jewels. And to her surprise, Saffy was noddi
ng.

  “I hate to say it, but Citrine is correct. If we hope to find them and save the clan, we must keep our hunt a secret.”

  “Swear it,” Citrine demanded.

  “I swear,” her twin answered immediately.

  Both turned to Agata, who actually took a step back under their combined gazes. They were serious! They were planning on hunting down the jewels and serious about keeping it a secret?

  “Agata?” the twins prompted in unison, not a little eerily.

  She blew out a disbelieving breath. “Aye! All right, aye, I swear I’ll keep the hunt a secret.”

  “Ye’ll not share our reasons for asking so many questions?” Citrine asked.

  “Da might—”

  Saffy was shaking her head. “If we told him why we were hunting, he’d tell us we’re foolish. We can ask for help, though, aye?” she asked her twin.

  Citrine nodded. “Aye, we’ll take help where we can, but no one must ken why.”

  Agata threw up her hands. “Fine, I swear. Ye two are ridiculous.”

  Saffy frowned. “’Twas Citrine’s idea.”

  “Ye agreed!” Citrine pointed a finger at her twin’s chest. “And for that matter, what was that ‘I hate to say it, but Citrine is correct’ nonsense?”

  Used to her sisters’ bickering, Agata pushed them from her mind and stepped up beside the tapestry again. While the twins argued behind her, she peered at the weaving. The circles within the circle had to represent the jewels set in the brooch. If they were as large as the legend said, the jewels must be quite valuable. Is that why the whole thing had gone missing? The stones were native, but still worth more than the gold they were set in, if they really were flawless. But the scrollwork of the brooch itself appeared intricate…

  Frowning, Agata peered closer. In fact, the ornate decoration around the jewels almost looked like words.

  Behind her, Citrine had just launched into one of her favorite lectures about strength and determination, but Agata strained her eyes to make sense of the jumble of squiggles she was seeing.

  “Mackenzie,” she whispered.

  Was that really what it said, or just a name she wanted to see? Thinking about Callan might’ve made the clan’s name appear at the front of her mind, but it was difficult to argue with the collection of letters before her. “Mackenzie,” she said again.

  “What?” Saffy questioned as the twins moved up on either side.

  Agata took a breath and pointed at the intricate design around the edge of the brooch. “Is it my imagination, or does that say ‘Mackenzie’?”

  Citrine leaned closer, then snapped straight once more with a curse she’d learned from the warriors. “Why would our brooch say Mackenzie?”

  Her sister had apparently gone from doubting the veracity of the tapestry to claiming ownership of the once-mythical jewels. Agata shrugged. “Maybe the Mackenzies have it?”

  “Ye were there for nigh a year, Agata,” Saffy pointed out. “Did ye see any of the jewels or hear any rumors indicating they’d stolen them?”

  Stolen? Agata shook her head. “As far as I ken, my marriage to David was the first connection between the Sinclairs and Mackenzies in many years.”

  “So, they must have stolen them!” Citrine slammed her fist into her palm again. “Come on, we’ll ask Da about this.”

  She stormed, still barefoot, out of the room. Hurrying to keep up, Agata watched Saffy lean back over the tapestry, apparently not as interested in what Da had to say. But Agata… she knew their father wouldn’t tell what he knew. The man still hadn’t told her who she was to marry, only to make herself ready soon. Why would he tell them what he knew about the tapestry or the missing jewels… or the Mackenzies?

  With the Hound away from the holding, escorting Pearl to the Abbey, there was no one standing guard outside Da’s solar. Citrine pushed open the heavy door, and Agata wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved their father wasn’t there. The room was empty, with weak afternoon light filtering through the window.

  Citrine immediately crossed to the row of shelves which held many scrolls, muttering to herself as she pulled out random ones. Agata, unsure what they were looking for, crossed to Da’s desk. It was cluttered with parchments; letters, contracts, and petitions all seemed to merge into one pile, but her name caught her eye.

  She nudged a letter out of the way and pulled out an official parchment. A marriage contract… with her name on it.

  Her heart began to pound as she read the words.

  Whereas… alliance… familiarity… acceptable…

  She was betrothed. To… her eyes dropped to the bottom, to the Mackenzie seal. She was betrothed to Jaimie Mackenzie, David’s wastrel younger brother.

  The parchment fluttered to the desk, and Agata caught the corner to keep herself upright. She was betrothed to Jaimie? She was going back to the Mackenzie holding?

  She’d be able to hold Callan again.

  “Agata?” Citrine called out, staring at her. “Ye look all pale. Come help me.”

  “I’m…” Agata took a breath. “I’ll be fine.”

  Her sister didn’t seem to notice. “Good. Then get over here and help me find some kind of proof against the Mackenzies. We need them to look for our jewels!”

  “I’ll do it,” Agata whispered.

  “What?”

  “I’ll do it,” she repeated, stronger. Her gaze dropped to the marriage contract on the desk in front of her, and she pressed her fingertips to the space between her name and Jaimie’s. “I’ll look for the jewels.”

  “When?” Citrine demanded.

  “After my wedding.”

  Chapter Two

  Jaimie Mackenzie was drunk.

  He couldn’t remember a time he wasn’t, at least a little. Of course, he couldn’t remember much of anything, being drunk.

  That was the point.

  In the months since he’d been back home, he’d turned David’s solar into his. By that, of course, he meant he’d tossed as many pieces of parchment into the fire. As many as Edward, the seneschal, would allow. David had always been so serious about clan business, so determined to do things the “right” way… and Jaimie wasn’t David. Not even a little.

  So, the damn contracts and letters and whatever else a laird needed to know about was left for Edward. He knew anything he left lying on David’s wide desk was as likely to wind up burnt as read.

  And Jaimie used the space for drinking.

  This afternoon he sat in David’s chair, his booted feet propped up on the desk, a flagon of ale dangling from his ruined fingers. Through lank hair, he glared at the one thing on the desk he hadn’t burned in all these months; he’d never been that drunk.

  The map had been carved before his grandfather’s time and was a thing of beauty. Even with the paint all-but-chipped away, it was clear the colors had been bright and bold. Some long-ago artist—someone with ten whole fingers, damn him—had outlined the Highlands and Lowlands, and surrounded them with fanciful representations of sea monsters and ships. The clan boundaries had been carved as well, or at least where the boundaries had been all those years ago. Even without color, the wood was smooth and perfect and calming.

  Remembering long ago evenings spent pouring over the map with David and their father, Jaimie winced and lifted the flagon to his lips. He and David both had learned geography from that map.

  They’d learned how to be hard from their father.

  The ale was nearly gone. How much effort would it take to get more? Edward had probably sent up a half-full ewer anyhow. The old man—along with Aunt Jean—was always harping on him to drink less. Still, if Jaimie dragged his sorry arse to the door and started hollering, surely someone would bring him more, aye? He was the laird’s regent, after all.

  As if conjured, steps in the corridor outside told him someone approached. Through a muddled mind, Jaimie strained to listen. Was it the distinctive shuffle of that young serving wench—what was her name? Morag? Or one of his bro
ther’s warriors sent with another nagging task and possibly more ale as well?

  “Jaimie Mackenzie!” came the feminine call from outside the door. “Ye’d better be decent this time.”

  Damn. It was his aunt, which meant there’d be no more ale.

  When Aunt Jean pushed her way into the solar, Jaimie brightened momentarily to see Edward behind her. But the old man’s arms were empty of another ewer of ale, so Jaimie slouched, dejected in David’s chair once more.

  “Hello, Aunt,” he drawled, allowing his head to fall back against the hard wood of the tall chair. “Come to spy on me again?”

  The short, stout woman just scowled and brushed away his comment with an irritated wave. The last time she’d entered the solar without knocking or calling, he’d been in the middle of some… business. The wench from the brothel in the village had been bent over the desk, facing the door, when Jean had entered.

  Jaimie always took them from behind so they wouldn’t have to look him in the face. Because he was a kind man.

  Still, that hadn’t helped the poor lass’s embarrassment as she’d squealed at the interruption, pulled down her skirts, and fled, pushing by the exasperated, older woman.

  Aunt Jean had made a point of calling out since then.

  “Drunk again, are ye, lad? In the middle of the day?”

  He set the flagon on the desk beside him. “Not drunk enough, I’m beginning to suspect. What do ye want?”

  The short dragon moved to the window, tugging it open, and allowing the sunlight and damnable fresh air to sweep through the room. Jaimie winced and shut his eyes to the affront, knowing his aunt had intended to punish him for his lack of manners.

  “I want what I’ve wanted for half a year now, lad.” She turned to face him, so the early summer sunshine outlined her outdated wimple and made her glow like some kind of nagging saint. “I want ye to quit feeling sorry for yerself, get off yer arse, and be the man wee Callan needs ye to be.”

  Wee Callan.

  Jaimie ignored the way his stomach clenched at the boy’s name. He’d come back home months ago, after Aunt Jean’s letter had reached him about David’s illness, and had seen Callan for the first time since Aileen’s death.