Excerpt of Tempted By A Warrior by Amanda Scott

Annandale, Scotland, 5 June 1377

His first slap made her left ear ring.

“Now see what ye’ve made me do!” he shouted over the rush and roar of the river below. A half moon lit the grassy track and revealed white foam on the water.

Holding a hand to her stinging cheek, seventeen-year-old Fiona Jardine scowled at the tall, powerful-looking man who had struck her and said stubbornly, “Clouting me won’t change the truth, Will Jardine. It was your fault, not mine!”

He loomed over her, terrifying in his fury. “By God,” he snapped, putting the face she had once thought so handsome close to hers, “ye’ll no talk to me like that!”

“You’re ape-drunk,” she said. In the crisp night air, she could smell the whisky on him, so powerful that it made her dizzy just to inhale its fumes.

When he drew back his hand to slap her again, she tried to get away, to protect herself. But his left hand shot out then, and with bruising strength, he caught her by an arm and whipped her back to face him.

“Let me go!” she shrieked. But he did not let go, and he was one of the strongest men she knew.

“Aye, I’ll let ye go. After I’ve taught ye a lesson.”

Struggling frantically and screaming with fear as she tried to break free, she managed to duck the next slap, only to suffer a backhanded blow instead that made her right ear throb with pain.

Before she could catch her breath, he hit her again, a hard smack of his calloused palm right across her mouth. Had he not held her upright, she would have fallen. As it was, she tasted blood and feared that he had loosened a tooth.

He laughed. “Ye should ken fine by now, lass, that what I say, I mean.”

His next blow flew at her belly, but by twisting hard, she took it instead on her side just above her waist. Gasping at a pain so sharp that it took her breath away, she continued to fight him anyway, out of pure terror. But the pain was overwhelming, her strength fast waning, and his next blow sent her reeling to the ground.

Her head struck something hard. Blearily, she saw him step toward her.

Then, looming above her, he drew back his foot.

Through the stunning ache in her head, distantly, she heard him say, “Mayhap, now, ye’ll remember to keep your place, madam wife.”

After that, she knew nothing more.

Chapter 1

Spedlins Tower, Annandale, 20 June 1377

The leather-clad, booted traveler approaching the open kitchen doorway on the pebbled path running behind Spedlins Tower paused at hearing a soft feminine voice inside:

“‘I expect I should be spinning, too, aye,’ the maiden said sadly. ‘But it would be t’ nae purpose. I could never finish so great a task in time.’”

The traveler took a step closer as the voice went on, creaking now with age, “‘Och, but I could spin it all for ye, aye,’ the old woman said.”

“Gey good o’ the auld crone!” cried several childish voices, as if they had many times heard the story and exclaimed always at the same place.

The traveler smiled, recognizing the tale from his own childhood. He moved nearer, trying to muffle the sounds that his boots made on the pebbles of the path.

He saw the speaker then, seated on the stone floor of the scullery with her back to him. Six fascinated children of various ages sat in a semicircle before her.

Beyond, in the dim, vaulted kitchen, the traveler discerned bustling movement and heard sounds indicative of preparations for the midday meal.

The storyteller went on in a soft, clear voice—doubtless her own, “So the maiden ran to fetch her lint and laid it in her new friend’s hand. Then she asked the old woman for her name and where she should call that evening for the spun yarn.”

One child, a dark lad of perhaps eight or nine, looked right at the traveler.

The man put a finger to his lips.

Although the boy obediently kept silent, he continued to stare.

The storyteller continued, “But the maiden received no reply, for the old woman had vanished from where she stood. The lassie looked long for her until at last she became so tired that she lay down to rest.”

Three of the children eyed him now as a fourth, the smallest lass—blue-eyed with curly auburn hair—piped up, “Aye, and when she awoke, it was gey dark!”

“So it was, Tippy,” the storyteller agreed. “The evening star was shining down, and as the maiden watched the moon rise, a rough voice startled her from—”

“Who is he?” the same small lassie demanded, pointing at the traveler.

The storyteller, turning, started and winced as she saw him. She began awkwardly to get to her feet, saying, “Good sakes, wherever did you spring from?”

He noted first that she had black hair and light blue eyes, and was stunningly beautiful, with delicate features, rosy cheeks, and plump, creamy breasts, their softness rising above the low neckline of her loose, blue kirtle. As she straightened, he saw with a surge of unexpected disappointment that she was heavy with child.

“Forgive me for interrupting you, mistress,” he said. “They told me at the stable that I should come this way as it was quicker, and none would mind. But if you will bid someone take me to Old Jardine, I shall leave you to finish your tale.”

“This is a good place to stop for a time,” she said, raising a hand to the short veil she wore over her long, shiny, thick plaits, as if to be sure the veil was properly in place. “I can easily finish the story later.”

To a chorus of indignant protests, she replied firmly, “Nay, then, you must all go now to Cook and ask how you can help him. Davy, you and Kate take care to see that the wee ones know what they must do.”

“Aye, we will,” the largest of the three lassies said. The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy who had first noted the stranger nodded his agreement, still eyeing him.

As the children scrambled to obey her, the young woman turned her lovely eyes to the stranger again, adding, “Surely, someone must have told you that Jardine of Applegarth lies on his deathbed and refuses to see anyone.”

“He will see me,” the traveler said confidently, noting that the dark rims of her irises made them look transparent, as if one might see right through to her thoughts.

“Mercy, why should he see you? Have you no respect for a dying man?”

“I doubt that the old fustilugs is really dying. But he will see me nevertheless, because he sent for me. Sithee, I am his heir.”

Instead of the hasty apology he had every right to expect from a servant who had spoken so pertly to him, she stiffened, saying, “You must have taken that notion from a tale of the same sort that I’ve just been telling the bairns.”

His temper stirring, he said, “Mind your tongue, lass, lest—”

“Why should I? Do you dislike being told you are wrong?” she asked. “For so you are if you claim to be heir to Old Jardine’s estates.”

Doubt stirred. No servant of the old man’s would dare speak so boldly.

Despite their kinship, he barely knew Jardine. But if even half of what he had heard about the contentious old scoundrel was true, Jardine’s minions would tread lightly and with great care—especially when speaking to another nobleman.

“Who are you, lass?” he asked.

She gently touched her belly. “I am his heir’s mother, or mayhap his heir’s wife. Whichever it may be,” she added, squaring her shoulders and giving him look for look, “I can tell you without hesitation that you are not his heir.”

Stunned, he realized that Old Jardine’s lie came as no surprise to him. He had suspected some deception but only in that he doubted the old man was really dying. Ruthlessly stifling the unexpected anger that leaped in response to her near disdain, he said, “I expect, then, that you must be Will Jardine’s wife.”

“Aye, of course, I am—or his widow,” she added. “But who are you?”

“Kirkhill,” he said.

She frowned. “Should I know you? Is that all anyone ever calls you?”

“People call me several different things. Some call me Seyton of Kirkhill. But most folks hereabouts know me as Kirkhill. My family has lived in upper Annandale for two centuries. However, as I am Will’s cousin, you and I are clearly kin by marriage, so you may call me Richard if you like, or Dickon.”

“I will call you Kirkhill,” she said firmly but almost as if her thoughts had briefly flitted elsewhere. “I warrant it must be Lord Kirkhill, though,” she added.

“More to the purpose, my mother has the misfortune to be that old scoundrel’s sister,” he said.

“Good sakes, I did not know that Old Jardine had a sister!”

“I think she’d liefer not be one,” he said with a wry smile. “But he did send word to me that he was dying and bade me hie myself to Spedlins Tower.”

“Then I expect that I should go and tell him you are here and see if he will receive you,” she said. “I will get someone to take you to a more comfortable—”

“Nay, my lady—Lady William, I should say—”

“‘My lady’ is sufficient,” she said. “No one calls me Lady William.”

“’Tis the usual way, so forgive me if I have irked you,” he said. “In any event, I did not come here to kick my heels whilst my crusty uncle takes his time to decide that he does indeed want to see me. You will take me to him. First, though, I want to hear about what happened to Will.”

“So do we all,” she replied.

“God’s troth, do you not know? Jardine’s messenger told me that my uncle was on his deathbed and that I was to be his heir, so I assumed Will must be dead. But as you have that said you are either the heir’s wife or its mother…” He paused.

“Aye,” she said, touching her belly again. “I do not know which it is. See you, Will was here; then he was not. He has been gone for over a fortnight.”

“Then I hope you will forgive my asking if you and he were legally married. I am sure that no one informed my mother of such a grand occasion, because she would certainly have told me.”

“Aye, sure, we were legally married,” she said with a flash in her eyes and deep flush to her cheeks. “If my good-father did not tell his sister of our union, it was through no fault of mine.”

“It would not have been your fault in any event,” he agreed.

Looking away, she added, “He has plainly called you here to no benefit of your own, sir. Doubtless, you would be wise to turn round and go home.”

He waited until she met his gaze again, this time with wariness in her eyes.

“Do I look like the sort of man who would do that?” he asked.