by Sherry Ewing
To Love a Scottish Laird
Sherry Ewing
Text copyright by the Author.
This work was made possible by special permission through the de Wolfe Pack Connected World publishing program and WolfeBane Publishing, a dba of Dragonblade Publishing. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack connected series by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. remains the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc., or the affiliates or licensors.
All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.
De Wolfe Pack: The Series
By Aileen Fish
The Duke She Left Behind
By Alexa Aston
Rise of de Wolfe
By Amanda Mariel
Love’s Legacy
One Wanton Wager
By Anna Markland
Hungry Like de Wolfe
By Ashe Barker
Wolfeheart
By Autumn Sand
Reflections of Love
Reflections of Time
By Barbara Devlin
Lone Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 1
The Big Bad De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 2
Tall, Dark & De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 3
By Cathy MacRae
The Saint
The Penitent
By Christy English
Dragon Fire
By Danelle Harmon
Heart of the Sea Wolfe
By Emily E K Murdoch
Whirlwind with a Wolfe
By Hildie McQueen
The Duke’s Fiery Bride
By Jennifer Siddoway
De Wolfe in Disguise
By Kathryn Le Veque
River’s End
By Lana Williams
Trusting the Wolfe
By Laura Landon
A Voice on the Wind
By Leigh Lee
Of Dreams and Desire
By Mairi Norris
Brabanter’s Rose
By Marlee Meyers
The Fall of the Black Wolf
By Mary Lancaster
Vienna Wolfe
The Wicked Wolfe
By Meara Platt
Nobody’s Angel
Kiss an Angel
Bhrodi’s Angel
By Mia Pride
The Lone Wolf’s Lass
The Last Wolfe Lass
By Michele Lang
An Honest Woman
By Rosamund Winchester
The Defender and the Dove
By Ruth Kaufman
My Enemy, My Love
My Rebel, My Love
By Sarah Hegger
Bad Wolfe on the Rise
By Scarlett Cole
Together Again
By Sherry Ewing
To Love a Scottish Laird
By Victoria Vane
Breton Wolfe Book 1
Ivar the Red Book 2
The Bastard of Brittany Book 3
By Violetta Rand
Never Cry de Wolfe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
De Wolfe Pack: The Series
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
Long ago, there lived a warrior named Gaetan de Wolfe who was a champion knight for the Duke of Normandy. Known as Warwolfe, he was descended from the House of Vargr, the kings of Breton. Gaetan led a contingent of knights who were called Anges de Guerre, or Angels of War. Together, these men were experts in warfare and came to England during the Norman invasion.
With the Saxon king, Harold, dead at the Battle of Hastings, one of their own was captured. The Angels of War traveled far for his return with the help of a woman warrior named Ghislaine, the Beautiful Maid of Mercia, who had her own score to settle with her brother who had taken their comrade.
But even seasoned warriors can fall in love. Gaetan and Ghislaine eventually married and after the Battle of Wellesbourne, Gaetan was given the title of Earl of Wolverhampton. They had eleven children and, over time, the de Wolfes became one of England’s most notable families throughout history.
This is the story of one of his descendants, Lady Catherine de Wolfe, and how she came to love a Scottish laird.
Chapter One
Wolverhampton Castle, England
1152
Lady Catherine de Wolfe shielded her eyes from the glaring sun. Searching the cloudless sky, she watched in fascination as her falcon swooped down toward the crystal-blue lake. With talons stretched forward, the bird took hold of an unsuspecting duck before flying to the shore where both birds tumbled to the ground. A cheer arose from those who had accompanied Catherine on her morning ride at the magnificent display of the falcon capturing its prey.
Pleased with the bird’s training, Catherine put her heels to her horse’s flanks and the steed trotted forward. When she neared her falcon, she held out her leather-gloved hand and the bird flew to her. “My, what a beauty you have become,” she cooed to the bird before she handed the animal to one of the falconers. “Ensure she is fed well this morn when you return her to the mews. She has earned the reward.”
The sound of a fast-approaching horse had Catherine turning her attention back toward her home. A frown marred her face at what awaited her next. It had become a well-known fact that her brother Padraig, the Earl of Wolverhampton, had been bringing forth a multitude of nobles for her to make a match. ’Twas not that she was against marrying. But those who had recently been presented at Wolverhampton Castle saw not the woman they were to possibly wed but the wealth and notoriety they would gain by marrying into the de Wolfe family.
She gave an appreciative sigh while gazing at her ancestral home. The castle itself was majestic and worthy of a king. Situated on a hill, the battlement walls were well reinforced and had protected the inhabitants from possible invasion for many a year. Even from the distance, the keep towered six stories above the tree line and was an impressive sight. From high atop the parapet, her brother could see any who came near his lands whether they were friend or foe.
The rider came up next to her. “Milady,” he said with a nod of his head. “Your brother asks for you to join him in the great hall. He has received an important missive.”
“And thus ends my morning of leisure,” she casually responded. “Do you know who sent it?”
“Nay, milady. The earl only asked me to find you and return to the keep.”
She led her retinue back to the castle. They crossed the space between the lake and the curtain wall and slowed their steeds as they neared the gates.
As they entered the inner bailey, lads ran from the stables to take hold of the bridles of their horses. Catherine led her beast to a nearby block so she could dismount easily. Tearing off her leather gloves, she jumped down before sl
inging her bow and quiver of arrows over her shoulder, then quickly began making her way toward the keep.
Catherine hesitated only an instant before the door opened for her to enter. She smoothed down the fabric of her kirtle knowing how displeased her brother would be with her unkempt condition. Padraig expected her to look the part of the perfect lady, much like his lady wife, yet Catherine would rather be outdoors than sitting in a solar with a needle between her fingers. Such had been the source of contention between them for a long time, although they loved each other dearly. Sometimes the arguing between them was the highlight of their day.
The hall was filled with knights, ladies, and servants as they awaited whatever news was written in the missive. Padraig and his wife Nicola were seated near the massive hearth at the far end of the hall. Catherine’s eyes automatically traveled to the tapestry hanging in a place of honor high above the mantel.
The family crest of a wolf had been lovingly embroidered by some ancestor long since passed, and underneath, in neat stiches, the de Wolfe family motto Fortis in arduis, strength in times of trouble, was displayed. If she listened hard enough, Catherine swore she could almost hear her ancestor and his knights as they declared to one another for God and Glory before they went into battle.
Catherine shook her head and as she neared the hearth, Padraig’s son Patrick threw himself around her legs. He was a rambunctious child at only five summers, but she saw much of herself in the boy. Patrick looked up at her with sparkling hazel eyes, his black hair standing up on end. The de Wolfe’s tended to share the same physical traits, and she ran a hand quickly through her own black locks in case her hair was just as unruly since she had left this morn without braiding it.
“You were with the bird, Auntie?” he questioned with the excitement of the young at heart. Before she could reply, he rushed on in a tone that forewarned Catherine he was not happy about something. “Father would not take me to find you.”
Catherine noticed the little wooden sword she had given him tied to his belt and knew Patrick had no doubt been slaying dragons before they had all been summoned to her brother’s hall. She ruffled his hair, knowing his childhood would be fleeting. Yet, he would one day be a great knight, much like those who came before him.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I will tell you about it later, but first I must speak with your father.”
Patrick left her, running the rest of the way through the hall to take a chair next to his mother, leaving Catherine to make her way alone. A hush began to fall within the hall, for they would now learn the reason they had been summoned to hear the earl’s news.
Reaching the hearth, Catherine took hold of her bow and quiver and handed it to a nearby servant. Her brother’s scowl told her much about his mood.
“You have kept us all waiting, sister,” Padraig announced as though such a fact was not already evident.
“As you can see, I am now present. Shall you continue to keep us waiting, or will you tell us whatever news you have received and the reason for summoning us here to await your pleasure?” Catherine asked with a hint of humor.
Padraig stood and waved the missive in the air. “Henry, the Duke of Normandy, has recently wed Duchess Eleanor of Aquitaine in Poitiers,” he declared while a low murmur of voices reacted to his news. “We have been invited to Caen, in Normandy. In celebration of their wedding, a grand tournament will be held with nobles far and wide in attendance.”
“Let me see,” Catherine said, stepping forward and holding out her hand for the missive. She began reading, her knuckles white from clutching the parchment so tightly. “Will not King Stephen and Louis VII think such an act an insult?”
“I will not concern myself with the actions of kings, especially one in France. Suffice it to say, the Duke has sent us an invitation, and I would be remiss in my duties to decline it, especially from a man who is likely to one day sit on the English throne.”
“The household will barely have time to pack in order for us to arrive in time for you to compete, Padraig,” she murmured while thinking of all the preparations she herself would need to accomplish. This, of course, did not even include ensuring her bird continued its training in her absence, unless her brother would allow her to take the falcon with her, which was doubtful.
Padraig sat back down. A pensive expression crossed his features that should have warned Catherine to his thoughts. She did not have long to wait for him to voice them. “We shall find a husband worthy of you and the de Wolfe name,” he said with conviction. “’Tis long past time you wed, sister.”
A low moan of displeasure came from her throat. “You make me sound as though I am some trophy to be won, brother. I refuse to be used as some pawn for the gain of others,” she said in a low, warning tone, “even if ’tis for you.”
“You are a score and two, dearest sister, and since you have refused those who have previously come to Wolverhampton, I must take the next step to ensure your future. Unless you prefer a nunnery.”
She had no desire to devote her life to God and live in a sheltered environment. “You would condemn me to such a fate?”
“You know I do not wish to take such drastic measures, Catherine,” Padraig said, his tone sounding somewhat comforting given this same discussion had occurred between them more often than Catherine cared to count.
“Then stop throwing such an option in my face,” she said.
Padraig took her hand. “Then find a knight at the games, sister, that I would approve for you to wed,” he said. “Such a task should not be difficult considering all those who shall be in attendance.”
“And what of love?”
Padraig’s gaze followed Nicola as she made her way from the hall. “I pray you find love with the man you choose, or with the knight I chose for you. If not, at least let us hope you find common ground. ’Tis more than most couples begin their marriage with.”
Her brother kissed her forehead before he began calling out orders to begin packing up his household. Catherine slumped into his vacant chair and stared in the distance as her future unfolded before her; wed to a man she could not love. Yet, she hoped fate had other plans for her.
Chapter Two
Berwyck Castle
The Border of Scotland and England
Laird Douglas of Clan MacLaren stood upon the parapet walls of Berwyck Castle. Lost in thought, he stared across the sweeping landscape. For generations, a MacLaren had been responsible for his vast holdings. The forests, primed for hunting, had seen them through many a winter and was far enough from the curtain wall that an enemy could be easily spotted.
Since the passing of his sire many years ago, Douglas had naturally become the next in line to lead the clan. His home, Berwyck Castle, was a mighty stronghold sitting on the edge of a cliff. It had been fought over by the kings of Scotland and England for its strategic location. But none of this mattered to Douglas. Berwyck belonged to Scotland now, and in Scotland it would stay, til Douglas’s dying breath.
“Ye know ye must go, my son. If nothing else, as a sign of peace between ye and the English,” his mother, Lady Myra said.
His jaw clenched while he turned his attention to the all but forgotten missive still clenched between his fingers. A nervous twitch ticked in his eyes, a signal of the unpleasant news he had just received. His gaze fell to his mother who appeared tired. Steaks of gray were mixed in with her brown hair and her blue eyes lacked the sparkle of her youth. He supposed if he had seen several babes buried, and his mate as well, he might appear the same.
Douglas rubbed at the back of his neck. “Ye speak of peace, and yet I cannae dismiss the feeling that by going tae the tournament, we bring unwanted attention tae Berwyck.”
Myra laughed. “Berwyck has survived an English invasion before, Douglas. Surely the Duke of Normandy has more on his mind than what is happening at Scotland’s border.”
“I do not relish a siege at my gates, no matter who will one day sit on England’s throne,” Douglas murmured al
oud while taking another look at the missive. “Caen is on the coast of Normandy. I would need tae gather my men quickly tae travel such a distance.”
“Ye know yer men are at the ready no matter where ye may lead them. It willnae take long tae pack yer gear and then ye can show the English and French what a Scottish laird is made of!” Myra beamed at her son, and for an instant, Douglas saw his mother from years past.
“Ye think I will win?”
“Of course ye shall. Are ye not my son?”
“Ye have too much faith in me, Mother, although ye know I love ye for it.”
Myra reached up to caress his cheek. “Ye are my son. I have more than enough faith for both of us if ye do not have enough in yerself.” She gestured at everything before them. “Look how Berwyck has thrived since yer father left us, God rest his soul. Go tae the tournament and pay homage tae the duke and his new wife. Mayhap, if ye are lucky, ye can find yerself a bonny bride since none here in our clan have met yer fancy.”
Douglas laughed, and the rich baritone carried on the wind. “A bride? Nay, Mother, I do not seek a wife, only the glory of winning over English and French knights too full of themselves tae be bested by a Scottish laird.”
Myra playfully swatted at his arm. “Ye be a score and five! Why ye and yer sister have not wed and given me grandchildren in my old age is beyond my ken,” she complained.
“All in good time. And ye are hardly old,” he teased her with a knowing smile. “Besides, Freya is no more inclined tae wed than I am.”
“Then make her. Choose a husband for her. She is already a score, and if ye do not find a match for her soon, no one will take her.”
“I can see how that will go over. Ye, better than anyone, knows ye cannae force Freya tae do anything she does not wish tae. I wonder where she comes by such a stubborn disposition.”
“Are ye calling me stubborn, Douglas MacLaren?”
He crossed his arms over his chest while. “I would not dare.”
She wagged a finger at him. “See that ye do not. Ye may be bigger than me, but never forget I can still grab hold of yer earlobe tae give it a squeeze like the disobedient child of yer youth!”