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

by Caroline Lee

  “S—Saf,” the lad croaked in a ragged whisper.

  Nodding, hoping to encourage the boy, Merrick stepped closer again. “And what are ye doing on Sutherland land, Saf?”

  “I…” The spy shook his head, a little too hard, as if trying to regain his wits. “Nay,” he croaked. He managed to pale even further, and looked in danger of collapsing. His confusion didn’t appear feigned.

  Either he was a brilliant actor, or he was genuinely close to fainting.

  “Saf,” Merrick barked again, hoping to gain the lad’s attention.

  The spy’s gaze jerked to his, and Merrick was surprised to see they were a brilliant blue under the haze of hunger and confusion and desperation. He began to reach for the lad.

  “Aye, milord?” came the ragged whisper, right before the lad folded over.

  Merrick was there before he made it halfway down, scooping the lad into his arms, and pulling him against his chest.

  He froze.

  Lad? Nay.

  Merrick cradled the still figure, and the chest binding was unmistakable. He patted the back of the surcoat, just to be sure. Aye, those were bindings, worn under the shirt.

  And pressed against his chest? Those were definitely breasts.

  This lad—Saf?—was a lass.

  He stared down at her face, visible now that her head had lolled back. Under the dirt she might be pretty. It was hard to tell. How old was she? Older than Willie, surely. Older than Mary?

  What was she doing spying for a bastard like Lindsay?

  And why should he keep her secret?

  From behind him, Gavin cleared his throat. “Laird?”

  He focused on the present situation. “This lad kens nothing of violence, ’tis obvious.” He’d decided to hide her sex. She must have a reason, and he had power over her if she didn’t think he knew her secret. She’d be more likely to reveal her reason for being here if she felt safe. Assuming she lived.

  “He needs food and water. He’ll tell us more if he feels safe.”

  It was impossible to miss the way Andrew scoffed. “He’ll tell ye everything ye wish to know, Laird.”

  “Aye, once he’s been fed.” Shifting her in his arms, he called out to one of the servants, “Have Corra send supper to my room. I’ll eat there and make sure the lad does as well.”

  “Is that safe, milord?”

  Merrick whirled on his former squire. “Ye’d question me?” he roared, disturbed to notice the lass in his arms didn’t even flinch at the sound. He took a breath, willing himself to adopt an instructive tone. “Have I no’ always told ye ’tis easier to win enemies with offers of peace?”

  Andrew’s response was swift. “Nay, Laird.”

  Hmm. “What have I taught ye, then?”

  Again, the reply was immediate, “To act swiftly.”

  “Aye,” Merrick agreed. “Because justice served swiftly is a mercy.”

  He’d learned that lesson over a decade ago. He’d been riding with Duncan Sinclair, and they’d caught another lad guilty of sheep-thieving. Merrick hadn’t been able to punish the rest of the band, but he’d strung the lad up.

  But he hadn’t died quickly, and the longer he watched the lad—only a bit older than Willie was now—struggle, the more uncomfortable he’d become. He hadn’t objected when, with a curse, Duncan Sinclair had cut the boy down. The former sheep thief had found a place at Duncan’s side as a bodyguard.

  Although the thief had grown into a loyal guard, he’d deserved the punishment Merrick had meted out all those years ago. And if Merrick had acted more swiftly, the Sinclair Hound would be dead now…but he wouldn’t have suffered.

  He shook himself, aware his men were watching. “A good leader kens when to take his time as well, lad,” he said gruffly. “This spy will tell us naught if he dies.”

  Gavin was nodding in support. “And he’s clearly no threat. Mayhap his loyalty could be bought.”

  “Aye.” Merrick grunted as he lifted the lass over his shoulder, so she hung down like a sack. He sent a small grin toward Andrew. “Besides, I have need of a new squire.”

  Andrew’s roar of disapproval followed Merrick up the steps to the laird’s chamber, and his grin grew. The lad had to learn when to question his laird, and when to keep his mouth shut. Threatening to give this Lindsay spy his highly-coveted position of squire was more than enough to irritate Andrew.

  Corra had anticipated his request; supper was already waiting for him as he pushed open the door to his chamber. And as much as he wanted that stew and ale, the lass needed it more. Nay, she needed water first.

  Gently, Merrick pulled the lass from his shoulder and tried to stand her upright, her head lolling against his chest. He reached for the ewer of water which always stood beside a basin on his father’s trunk. He cradled her in the crook of his arm and nudged her head forward. When she was positioned correctly, he used his other hand to dripple water past her lips.

  He found himself whispering a silent prayer for her survival.

  For the information she can give me, naught else.

  He almost believed himself.

  He watched her swallow, then swallow again as he offered her more water. Finally, she started to breathe a little easier. Still, it was another age before she began to revive… her eyes opened and she snatched the ewer from his hands.

  “Easy, Saf,” he murmured as she guzzled the water. “Easy, la—lad.” He reminded himself of his earlier decision. If she didn’t know he was aware of her secret, she’d be more open with him. “Too much will—aye, that.”

  He held the basin while she vomited, then set her in a chair and poured her a smaller glass.

  “Slower,” he commanded, and saints be praised, she followed his commands.

  The act of drinking seemed to exhaust her, but it was more likely the culmination of her last days. She swallowed the last mouthful and rested her head against the wooden back of the chair with a soft exhalation.

  “Eat, Saf,” he urged gently.

  When she ignored his offering of bread, he frowned, worried she was in worse shape than he’d thought. He dipped the brown bread in the ale, then held it against her lips. To his relief, they parted, and after a long moment, she swallowed the soft food.

  It was slow process, but he continued to feed her, though the task was below a laird. She finished more bread and drank more water, but her eyes remained unfocused and closed most of the time. When they did open, she seemed not to understand where she was or what was happening.

  Who is she?

  The question was impossible to answer, not with her in this state. Eventually, there was a moment when she would eat no more, and Merrick realized she’d passed out again. Asleep or another faint? Or was there something more treacherous afoot here?

  When she began to tip forward, he caught her once more, and lifted her in his arms the way he might Adelaide or little hellion Eva. Saf was older, definitely, but felt just as small. He took the time to study her.

  She had high cheekbones and pale skin, although that might’ve been because of her imprisonment. And aye, her hair was a rat’s nest and she was filthy. He lifted one of her hands, turning it over to examine the broken nails. Again, evidence of a hard adventure, but her fingers weren’t callused. Only a rough spot between her thumb and forefinger, where one might hold a stylus, seemed permanent. The blisters and bruises were more recent.

  Hmm.

  He placed her on his large bed, then stood staring down at her.

  She was no servant or crofter, and not used to hard labor. It was impossible to imagine a lady in her current position, but her hands didn’t lie. If she was a Lindsay, was she one of the laird’s family? John’s cousin or sister?

  Or—Merrick’s hands fisted at the thought—his whore?

  Mayhap she was no lady at all, but another position used to ease. But why would she be spying for Lindsay dressed as a lad?

  There was no way of knowing until she recovered enough to tell him. Although it
was hard to believe she’d wake before tomorrow, Merrick secured the weapons in the room before moving the food to the table beside the bed. He’d leave her in his room tonight and sleep elsewhere.

  She’d eventually tell him what he needed to know.

  He vowed it.

  Chapter Four

  From the time she was a young girl, Saffy had woken easily. She’d shared a bed with various sisters over the years—sometimes all three!—and had gotten used to Citrine’s early-morning jolting-upright-in-bed. Saffy would then wake, but would often hold herself still while Citrine thrashed about, attempting to extricate herself from the coverlet. That’s how Saffy often got accused of having bony knees, although it was obviously not the case. It was just Citrine, flopping around.

  The memories of Citrine jolting the bed were what had Saffy confused this morning. She was lying on a comfortable mattress, aye, but she was perfectly still. Her twin wasn’t making her bounce about. Now that Pearl and Agata were married, Citrine would be the only one sharing a mattress with Saffy, and she was unnaturally still. Had she awakened already?

  For that matter, it was obviously well past dawn; the sunlight streaming in through the open window attested to that. Why had she slept so late? And where were the familiar tapestries she’d come to know over the years? The room looked completely different. These tapestries were done in reds and blacks instead of blues and greens, and showed battle scenes, like a warrior might prefer. And the goblets on the far table weren’t something she or her sisters might use.

  She blinked slowly, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

  This wasn’t her room, was it?

  Nay, she’d been…she’d left home, hadn’t she? Traveling to Dornach with Munro, then further alone. Dressed as a lad. Sleeping on the ground.

  Exhaustion.

  Being captured by the Sutherland and accused of spying!

  The dungeon!

  The hunger, the weakness, the hopelessness!

  The memories slammed into her, and Saffy pushed herself upright in the bed, the coverlet falling across her lap.

  She touched her hair, and wasn’t sure if she was relieved or horrified to know she hadn’t imagined being dressed as a lad. Despite the sumptuous bed, she was still wearing the surcoat and braies, and when she wiggled her toes, she could feel the stockings. Her hands were filthy, and she imagined the rest of her was as well.

  The days and nights in the Sutherland dungeon had taken their toll on her.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of hunger, but surprisingly, it wasn’t as strong as she remembered. And there was a stale taste on her tongue—ale?

  There was…there’d been a man. She remembered being scared, but he’d held her gently and… She closed her eyes, the effort of remembering making her head hurt. He’d fed her, hadn’t he? He’d worn Sutherland colors, and she’d been terrified, but he’d fed her and spoken soothingly, as if she’d been a bairn.

  “Ye’re awake, then?”

  The voice—a low rumble—came from across the room, and Saffy’s eyes flew open. When she saw the strange man slouched in the chair, flipping the short dirk back and forth, she sucked in a breath. He was wearing Sutherland colors! Heart racing, she scrambled back against the headboard, as if the bed covers would offer her some protection.

  But instead of pouncing, the man chuckled as he pushed himself upright.

  And Saffy sucked in another breath for an entirely different reason.

  Dear God, the man was beautiful.

  His dark hair had flashes of silver at the temples and was cropped close. The color matched the short stubble on his cheeks, as if he hadn’t yet scraped his chin that day, as many warriors preferred. And his eyes…his eyes were striking. A blue so pale it looked like ice, but surrounded by a dark ring so that he looked at the world through a tunnel.

  Her own eyes widened at the sight, mesmerized by his features.

  And then his lips twitched, and his amused gaze was so intriguing, she swore she stopped breathing.

  Her sisters had mentioned this, this wanting when a beautiful man smiled. Agata and Citrine had talked about the way a man could make heat pool deep in their bellies, to make a woman want to squirm. And Saffy had seen attractive men before, of course, but this one…

  Mayhap it was his age. He looked like a man experienced enough to know what a woman wanted. Mayhap it was his eyes, or his smile, or those high cheekbones.

  All she knew was that she was sitting in a strange bed, dressed as a lad, and on a mission to save her family…and she very much wanted to touch this man.

  Sutherland or not, she wanted to kiss him. And that was something she absolutely could not do, not if she wanted her mission to be successful.

  Slowly, he stood. Her eyes went wider as she took in all of him, from his simple linen shirt to the plaid slung low on his hips, to the way he slipped the long dirk into the sheath on his belt, to his strong legs and boots.

  Her gaze lingered on his hands, and she had the strangest feeling they’d touched her before.

  “Aye, Saf,” he said with a rumble. “I was the one who fed ye yesterday.”

  Yesterday? She glanced at the window. It was late afternoon already. She’d been asleep for more than a day? Her stomach growled again, and he jerked his chin in reaction.

  “There’s more food for ye.”

  He crossed to a table and picked up a tray, which he carried to the bed. “Can ye feed yerself? Or do I need—”

  “I can do it,” she hurried to reassure him, alarmed at how rough her voice sounded.

  As much as Saffy wanted the man to sit beside her and treat her gently, Saf the lad wouldn’t want that. Boys were independent, and would hate to have him fussing over her.

  Him.

  Whatever.

  She scowled at her own thoughts and reached for the bread. After dipping it in the ale, she took a small bite, and the flavor brought back a memory. Her gaze flashed to him.

  He had fed her, hadn’t he? She remembered him carefully pushing a piece of ale-soaked bread between her lips. He’d treated her so gently, and he knew her name.

  The man was stretching, as if his muscles were kinked. She chewed slowly and watched him, trying to keep the interest out of her gaze, afraid she was revealing too much of her feelings. When he finished, he crossed his arms and propped his hip against the windowsill. Lit from behind by the late afternoon sun, he looked like some kind of…

  Saffy shook her head. She definitely did not believe in the fairies and little people, but couldn’t deny he looked otherworldly. Angelic? Nay, harder than that.

  The longer he watched her eat, the more his silent stares began to unnerve her.

  “Thank ye,” she managed to croak. “I was…I needed…”

  “Food, aye. And water.” He gave a curt nod. “I’ve come in several times since last night to make sure ye drank water, but I didnae think ye’d remember.”

  He’d given her water, even if she was asleep? That would explain the way her now-full stomach was pushing against her bladder. Still, she could do naught about it until he left, so she reached for the hunk of cheese and bit into it, trying to distract her mind.

  She could swear he’d narrowed his eyes. “’Twas the least I could do,” he said entirely too nonchalantly, “after Andrew locked ye in my dungeon.”

  My dungeon.

  Saffy froze, the bite of cheese turning sour on her tongue.

  My dungeon.

  He was… Her heart began to pound again. He was a Sutherland, and called the dungeons his? Did that mean the keep was his, too? If so, he was… He was…

  Oh, dear God.

  His brow twitched. “I’ve surprised ye? Allow me to introduce myself.” He stepped away from the window and bowed briefly. “Merrick Sutherland, laird of this clan.”

  The Sutherland Devil.

  Saffy began to choke on the now-dry cheese in her mouth, and reached for the flagon of ale to wash it down. Forcing herself to concentrate on n
ot choking to death, she closed her eyes and tried not to think of what this meant.

  She was in the same room as the most ruthless laird in the Highlands! A man she’d heard horror stories about! A man she absolutely did not want to be at the mercy of.

  A man who held ye gently and made sure ye were fed and watered.

  The Sutherland Devil!

  He does no’ look like a devil.

  She forced steady breaths as she lowered the flagon.

  Nay, he didn’t look like a devil, did he? With those fascinating eyes and that otherworldly glow.

  The Devil is otherworldly, is he no’?

  Whose side was her mind on, anyhow?

  He was watching her reaction—and her internal argument, likely. He looked amused.

  “Ye were not expecting a laird to be watching ye sleep, waiting for ye to awake?”

  It was as good an excuse as any. “Aye,” she croaked. “That’s it.” She began to tear the bread into small pieces, hoping to hide her shaking hands.

  He shrugged and propped his hip against the window ledge once more. “Get used to it,” he said. “Ye’re in my keep, and I intend to learn everything I can about ye, Saf.”

  “Why?” she’d blurted before she could think better of it.

  “Because I want to ken what Lindsay is up to, and I think ye can tell me.”

  Lindsay? The lad who’d captured her—Andrew—had used that name, too. He’d called her a spy for Lindsay, but she didn’t know what he’d meant.

  Shaking her head, she tried to arrange her words. “I…I’m no’ a spy. Andrew called me that, but I’m no’. Truly.”

  His brow twitched. “That’s what a spy would say.”

  “Aye, and also what an innocent…lad would say.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed the slight hesitation and pushed on before he could, hoping to put him on the defensive. “I came to yer home, looking for work.”

  “Dressed as a Lowlander,” he shot back.

  Surprised, she glanced down at her clothing. “’Tis no’ such unusual dress. Men of my clan wear this in the winter.”

  “And what clan is that?”

  When she saw the hungry look in his eyes, she winced, knowing she’d given away too much. “I’d—I cannae say.”