Chapter One
DUNLAIDIR CASTLE
THE EASTERN COAST OF SCOTLAND, 1330
"What you need, my lady, is a champion."
Lady Caterine Keith stiffened her shoulders against her
companion's well-meant counsel and continued to stare
through the arch-topped windows of her tower bedchamber.
Far below, the North Sea tossed and churned, its slate-
gray swells capped with foamy white, its roiling surface a
perfect reflection of her own inner turmoil.
A heavy curtain of silence fell between the two women
until the crackle of the hearth fire and the hollow
whistling of the brisk autumn wind reached almost
deafening proportions.
Rain-laden gusts lashed at Dunlaidir's thick stone walls,
rattling the window shutters with such fervor Caterine
wouldn't have been surprised to see them ripped away and
hurled into the sea.
A niggling sense of foreboding crept up her spine, its
portent unsettling. A cloying premonition as cold and
relentless as the dark waves battering the cliffs upon
which Dunlaidir Castle so proudly perched.
Still, she said naught.
Her companion's suggestion didn't merit comment.
Undaunted by Caterine's silence, Lady Rhona gushed on. "I
can see him before me: a mighty warrior who swings a heavy
sword, a belted knight of chivalric fame," she enthused,
her young voice breathy with excitement.
Filled with flimsy fancies Caterine no longer believed in.
Mayhap had ne'er believed in.
Ne'er been allowed to believe in, much as her young heart
had once sought to cling to such foolish dreams.
"My lady," Rhona implored, her tone striving to capture
Caterine's ear. "Think of it! A battleworthy knight able
to vanquish your foes with a mere glance. A brave man
willing to hew them to bits should you but ask. A great
champi—
"I do not want a champion." Caterine swung around to face
her friend. "I desire naught but to be left alone."
"And I vow it is desire you need," the ever-romantic Rhona
blurted, then clapped a hand over her lips as a pink tinge
crept onto her cheeks.
Slipping behind Caterine, she yanked the shutters into
place, soundly closing out the rain and wind but plunging
the chamber into semi-darkness. "Of a mercy!" Rhona
fretted, hurrying to light a brace of tallow candles. "I
meant no disrespect. 'Tis only you've never kno—"
"I know fair well what you meant," Caterine stated before
the younger woman could babble on and embarrass them both.
Careful to keep her back straight, she sank onto the
cushioned seat built into the window embrasure.
It mattered scarce little that the slanting rain had
dampened the finely embroidered pillows. She had more
serious issues to contend with than catching the ague.
"Your concern is appreciated but ill-placed." She leveled
a sidelong glance at Rhona. "I know much of men. Think you
having outlived two husbands has left me an innocent?"
"Of a certainty, nay, my lady." Rhona busied herself
lighting the remaining two candles. "No one is more aware
of your plight than I. Did I have aught but your best
interests at heart, I would not urge you to send for a
champion."
Caterine made an impatient gesture. "You speak of desire.
I need a solution to my problems, to Dunlaidir's problems,
not a man to warm my bed."
Leaning down, she scooped her tiny golden-brown dog, Leo,
onto her lap. "I will not seek another man's attentions
regardless for what purpose. Leo is the only male welcome
in this chamber ...as you are full aware."
"Leo cannot protect you from a man as powerful as Sir
Hugh. The man is a dastard craven capable of great and
vile knavery. Your only recourse is to ask your sister to
send help."
"Think you one Highland warrior will deter a Sassunach
earl with a garrison of mounted knights at his disposal?"
Caterine drew Leo closer, taking comfort in the soft
warmth of his little body. "Even a mighty MacKenzie would
be hard-pressed to deter de la Hogue from gaining hold of
Dunlaidir through marriage to me."
Rhona tilted her dark head to the side. "Then you must
render such a union impossible by wedding your champion."
Indignation flared in Caterine's breast. "I do not have a
champion. Nor will I impose on Linnet's good graces by
asking her to send one. And were I so inclined, which I am
not, binding myself to such a man is no more palatable
than marriage to Sir Hugh."
"How do you know if you haven't met the man your sister
will send?"
Caterine gave her friend a hard look. "I will not suffer a
third husband, champion or otherwise."
Rather than answer her, Rhona began pacing the chamber,
tapping her chin with a forefinger as she went. Caterine
braced herself for the absurd prattle soon to erupt from
the younger woman's pursed lips.
After years of companionship, she knew her friend well.
Fingertapping always preceded outbursts of foolishness.
Nonsensical ramblings that made sense to none save Rhona
herself.
"I have the answer!" Rhona cried then, clapping her hands
together. A triumphant smile lit her pretty face. "Simply
pretend to wed the man your sister sends."
Caterine's brows shot heavenward. "Pretend?"
"Aye." Her friend beamed at her, obviously waiting for
Caterine to comprehend the brilliance of such a scheme.
But Caterine comprehended naught.
Naught save her growing aggravation with Rhona's
persistent beseeching.
Pushing to her feet, she carried Leo across the rush-
strewn floor and set him upon his sheepskin bed near the
hearth. "I fear you do not understand. I will not plead
Linnet's aid nor will I enter into marriage again. Not
even a false one," she said, meeting Rhona's exuberance
with what she hoped sounded like firm resistance.
Firm and unbending.
Above all, unbending.
"But doing so is your best chance to rid yourself of Sir
Hugh," Rhona wheedled. "Have you forgotten he vowed to
obtain an order from his king forcing you to acquiesce
lest you do not agree to the marriage by Michaelmas?"
Rhona lifted her hands in supplication. "My lady, the
feast of Michaelmas is long past."
"For truth?" Caterine plucked at an imagined speck of lint
on her sleeve. "Since our stores have grown too meager to
allow us to celebrate St. Michael's holy day, I hadn't
noticed its passing. Nor do I care what Edward III
declares I should do. Yet is this land held for young
David of Scotland."
"Lady, please," Rhona entreated. "You have no other
choice."
Stung to fury, Catherine clenched her hands to tight
fists. Beyond the shuttered windows thunder sounded, the
low rumblings echoing the churning bitterness deep inside
her.
Rhona erred. She did have choices.
But, as so oft in her life, none appealed.
She'd e'er lived under a man's rule. Even now, newly
widowed of an elderly but not unkind husband, a time when,
at long last, she'd hoped to find some semblance of peace.
Peace and solitude.
Unbidden, Sir Hugh de la Hogue's thick-jowled face rose
before her, his swinish eyes gleaming with satisfaction,
the sound of his heavy breathing giving voice to his
lecherous nature.
Caterine shuddered. The mere thought of the Sassunach's
bejeweled fingers touching her made her skin crawl with
distaste and sent bile rising thick in her throat.
"Lady, you've grown pale." Rhona's troubled voice
shattered the loathsome image. "Shall I fetch the leech?"
"Nay, I am well," Catherine lied, flat-voiced.
Her dark eyes flooded with concern, Rhona rushed forward
to grasp Caterine's hands. "Oh, lady, you must relent. The
MacKenzie men are able and valiant. Your sister's husband
is a fair man, he will send you the most stalwart warrior
in his garrison."
Rhona released Caterine's hands and resumed her
pacing. "Do you recall when he and your sister came for a
visit some years ago? My faith, but the castle women were
all aflutter did he but glance—"
"There is more to a man than the width of his shoulders
and the charm of his smile," Caterine broke into her
friend's prattle. "I will not deny my sister's husband is
pleasing to the eye and possessed of a goodly character,
but I warn you, Duncan MacKenzie is nowise a man by which
to measure others. One such as he is a rare find. My
sister is much blessed to have him."
For a scant moment, Rhona appeared duly chastised, but
soon babbled on, her face aglow with renewed
wonderment. "On my oath, more than his bonny looks
impressed me. Ne'er will I forget how he unseated
Dunlaidir's finest at the joust yet had the good grace to
allow your late husband to best him."
Rhona aimed a keen-eyed stare at Caterine. "Aye, Laird
MacKenzie is a just man. He will choose you a stout-armed
warrior of great martial prowess, a man of honor to
protect you."
A man of honor.
Caterine swallowed the sharp retort dancing dangerously
near the tip of her tongue. She of all women had little
reason to believe such a paragon existed. Though she'd
seen many sides of the men who'd shared her life thus far,
honor was one attribute most of them had sorely lacked.
Only her late husband had possessed a portion thereof.
A meager portion.
She folded her arms. "And you think this fabled and mighty
Highlander, this man of honor, will lay aside his morals
and agree to pose as my third husband?"
Rhona ceased her pacing and began tapping a finger against
her lips. After a moment, the finger stilled and she
smiled. "'Tis for honor's sake he will agree. What man of
compassion, of worth, could refuse a gentlewoman in need?"
"Think you?"
"Of a surety." The tapping began again. "Especially if you
inform the lady Linnet of the near ruination facing
Dunlaidir. Once the severity of our situation is known, no
man who abides by the code of chivalry would refuse you."
Saints cherish her, but Caterine didn't think so either.
Then so be it she almost said but a loud clap of thunder
silenced her before she could form the words, stealing
them as surely as if a swift hand had snatched them from
her lips.
The thunder cracked again, a tremendous and resounding
series of booms powerful enough to shake the floorboards
and jar the window shutters.
The storm's black fury was a portent, she knew.
A sign the saints disapproved of the sacrilege Rhona would
see her commit.
Or worse, an indication they agreed and frowned on her
refusal to heed her friend's suggestion.
Something she would not, could not, do.
Caterine waited for the storm's rage to abate, then
smoothed the folds of her woolen kirtle. Before she lost
her resolve, her nerve, she drew back her shoulders and
forced herself to speak the words she must.
"Lady Rhona, I respect your counsel and ken you are ever
heedful of my welfare," she said, her voice surprisingly
calm, "but I forbid you to breach this matter again. I
will not send for a champion."
A fortnight later, on the other side of Scotland, deep in
the western Highlands, a lone warrior knight fought an
invisible foe. Naught but the repeated swish of his great
sword arcing through the chill predawn air marred the
quietude.
Even Loch Duich, hidden from view over the list wall, gave
itself silent, its dark surface no doubt smooth as finely
fired glass for not so much as a ripple, not the gentlest
lapping of waves on the pebbled shore could be heard.
The hour was well before prime, the time of day Sir
Marmaduke Strongbow favored for practicing his martial
skills. Soon, Eilean Creag Castle would come alive, the
empty bailey would fill with a bustle of activity and his
overlord's squires would trickle into the lists to join
him, each one eager for him to prod and teach them.
Help them hone their own sword arms.
But for the moment, he stood alone.
Free to challenge his secret enemies, daring enough to
face down the most formidable of them all: his own self
and the self-created demons he carried within.
He paused and drew a deep breath, then swiped the back of
his arm over his damp forehead. The plague take his cares.
The saints knew he had much to be grateful for. Soon his
own castle would be completed. Indeed, were he not a man
who enjoyed his comforts, he'd move into Balkenzie now,
this very day.
But he'd waited long years to raise his banner over a
stronghold of his own, a few more months would not cost
him overmuch. Then all would be ready and he would take
possession of his new home.
A castle he and his liege, Duncan MacKenzie, had designed
with great care.
A strategically ideal fortalice to guard the southern
reaches of MacKenzie land.
A home perfect in every way save one.
Unlike his liege and closest friend, Marmaduke lacked a
fair lady wife to grace his side. His would be a castle
filled with men.
Quelling the bitterness that oft mocked him when alone,
Marmaduke adjusted his grip on the leather-wrapped hilt of
his sword and lunged anew at his unseen foes. Faster and
faster, his blade rent the morn as he spun and dipped,
thrust and withdrew, skillfully slicing his doubts and
regrets to ribbons, banishing them one by one.
Until the morrow when he'd challenge them anew.
"Sir ..." the soft voice behind him was little more than a
whisper to his ears but a great roar to his warrior's
instincts. Instantly lowering his sword, Marmaduke wheeled
around to face the lady who'd addressed him.
"Fair lady, I am always pleased to see you, but you should
know better than to approach a man's back when he wields a
sword," he said, sheathing his steel. "Nor do I believe it
is good for you to be out in the chill morning air."
"I am fit enough," Linnet MacKenzie countered, drawing her
woolen cloak more securely about her before resting one
hand upon her swollen middle. "I would speak with you
alone, now before the others stir."
Sir Marmaduke peered intently at his liege lord's lady
wife. Her lovely face appeared more pale than it should
and lest the vision in his good eye was failing him, she
bore faint purple shadows beneath her eyes.
Nor did he care for the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
That she'd overtaxed herself in seeking him out was
painfully obvious.
"Lady, you should be abed," he admonished, trying to sound
firm but unable to be duly stern with her. "Does your
husband know you are about?"
The two bright spots of pink that bloomed on her cheeks
gave him his answer.
"I must speak with you," she said again and placed a cold
hand on his forearm.
"Then let us adjourn into the chapel." Closing his fingers
over her hand, Marmaduke led her toward Eilean Creag's
small stone oratory. "It is closer than the great hall,
and private." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I would
know you warm before I hear what troubles you."
He'd scarce ushered her inside when the oratory's heavy
wooden door burst open behind them. With a resounding
crash, it slammed against the whitewashed wall.
"Saints, Maria, and Joseph!" Duncan MacKenzie fumed,
ignoring the sanctity of the holy place. Ill-humor
swirling round him like a dark cloak, he made straight for
his wife. "Have you taken leave of your senses,
woman? 'Tis in your bed you should be. The entire
household is searching for you."
Bracing fisted hands on his hips, he tossed a dark glance
at Marmaduke. "Why am I not surprised to find her with
you?"
"Becalm yourself, my friend," Sir Marmaduke urged, his
smooth baritone voice unruffled by the other man's
bluster. "No harm has befallen her."
"Were she your lady, I vow you would want to know her
safe, too, Strongbow." Duncan ran a hand through his
disheveled hair.
"I care for her as if she were my lady, as you know."
Marmaduke placed his own hands on his hips. "Her well-
being is of equal import to me. There is naught I would
not do for her."
"My lords, please." Linnet leaned back against the
recumbent stone effigy of a former MacKenzie warrior, one
hand still resting upon her midsection. "I have told you
naught will go wrong this time. I know it. My gift has
shown me."
Duncan MacKenzie peered hard at her, his handsome features
as set-faced as his stone-carved ancestor. After casting
another dark look in Marmaduke's direction, he swung about
and strode across the oratory.
Dropping to one knee, he busied himself lighting a small
brazier in the corner near the altar. "Have you told him?"
he asked his wife when he stood.
"Told me what?" Marmaduke quirked a brow.
"My lady would ask a favor of you." Duncan slanted a
glance at Linnet. "A great favor."
Sir Marmaduke did not care for the way his friend spoke
the last three words, nor the ghost of a half-smile
suddenly twitching the corners of Duncan's mouth, but such
reservations scarce mattered. He'd championed the lady
Linnet since her arrival at Eilean Creag Castle five years
ago, and she'd repaid his gallantry a thousandfold and
then some.
In her presence, he could almost imagine himself rid of
the scar that marred his once-handsome face and believe
that, once more, his looks and not his well-practiced
charm could turn female heads.
Indeed, he revered her greatly.
"No request Lady Linnet may ask of me is too great,"
Marmaduke vowed. Turning to her, he made her a slight
bow. "How may I serve you, my lady?"
Rather than answer him, Linnet cast her gaze downward and
began scuffing her toe against the stone flagging of the
chapel floor.
Ignoring his friend's ill-concealed bemusement, Marmaduke
lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Name your
desire and it is yours," he sought to encourage her.
She met his gaze but kept her silence. After a moment, she
moistened her lips and said, "Now that I stand before you,
I fear it is too much to ask."
Marmaduke shot a glance at Duncan then immediately wished
he hadn't. His handsome friend now wore a bold smile.
A too bold smile.
Somewhere in Marmaduke's gut, a tiny shard of unease broke
loose, a jagged-edged shard that jabbed his innards and
grew more unpleasant by the moment.
The smile on Duncan MacKenzie's face grew as well and the
gleam in the Highlander's eyes bode ill for Marmaduke.
He turned back to Linnet. "I cannot help you if you will
not tell me what it is you wish me to do."
"I cannot," she whispered, shaking her head.
"And you?" He glanced at Duncan, alarmed to see that his
friend's smile had now turned into a silly grin. "Will you
divulge this great secret?"
"With pleasure," Duncan said, the mirth in his voice
undeniable. "My lady wife's sister is in need of a
champion."
Marmaduke lifted a brow. "I see naught amusing about a
lady in need."
"Then you will go to her aid?" Linnet asked, the tremor of
hope in her voice going straight to Marmaduke's heart.
Iron control hid the mounting tension swirling in
Marmaduke's breast, the dull thudding of a heart filled
with other plans than riding off to slay some unknown
gentle-woman's dragons.
"Think you I am the man to champion her?" his valor asked
before his heart could stay his tongue.
"We know of no one better suited," Duncan answered for his
wife. "The lady Caterine is newly widowed and plagued by a
persistent Sassunach earl who would press her to marry
him. Her holding, Dunlaidir Castle in the east, is sorely
failing. Without help she will lose both the peace she
craves and the home she holds dear."
He laid his arm around Linnet's shoulders and drew her
close. "Nor is it in our best interest in these troubled
times to see as strategic a stronghold as Dunlaidir fall
into English hands."
Marmaduke rubbed the back of his neck. "Why not send a
contingent of able men to assist her? Many are the
warriors you could choose from."
"Name one whose sword arm is mightier than yours."
Duncan's fingers kneaded the woolen folds of his wife's
cloak. "Who better than you, a Sassunach of noble blood,
to challenge an English earl? You, with your martial
skills and smooth tongue, are more suited to the task than
a score of fighting Gaels."
Unconvinced, Marmaduke shook his head. "A full retinue
would serve her better than a single man."
"Dunlaidir is possessed of a stout garrison. They only
need direction. A firm hand and a clear-headed man to lead
them. Nor can I spare more than a few men with Balkenzie
nearing completion. Nay, Strongbow, the task falls to
you." His smile gone, Duncan aimed a penetrating stare at
Marmaduke. "Or would you deny my lady's sister of your
skill?"
"You know I cannot. It is only—" Marmaduke broke off, near
stumbling over his unusually thick tongue. He ran a finger
under the neckline of his tunic. The chapel's somewhat
stale, incense-laden air closed in on him with such
pressure he almost gagged. "I'd planned to take occupancy
of Balkenzie soon."
A lame excuse, to be sure, but he'd so hoped to hoist his
own banner before Samhain.
"I'd hoped to see the castle well-garrisoned and secure,
secure for you, before the onset of winter," Marmaduke
said, his words casting down the gauntlet of his
hesitation.
"And so you shall." Duncan's flashing smile
reappeared. "Upon your return."
Marmaduke opened his mouth to rebuke the notion but Duncan
silenced him with a raised hand. "You shall be snugly
ensconced within your own keep's walls by Yuletide at
latest," his liege declared. "Then we shall all gather at
Balkenzie's hearth and drink to my lady's health."
"And to our bairn's," Linnet added, the conviction in her
voice and the look in her eyes doing more to dismantle
Marmaduke's resistance than all her husband's bold words
combined.
As if he sensed his friend's crumbling will, Duncan
clamped a firm hand on Marmaduke's shoulder. "It will not
take long for a strong-armed warrior such as yourself to
have done with one odious Englishman?"
Taking his hand off Marmaduke's shoulder, Duncan gave him
a playful jab in the ribs. "A fat and ill-fit one, if we
choose to believe the tongue-waggers."
Marmaduke swallowed hard.
Something was amiss.
And whatever it was, it slithered up his back, cool and
smooth as a snake, to curl deftly around his neck and
squeeze ever tighter the longer he watched the merry
twinkle dancing in his friend's eyes.
Marmaduke frowned. "There is something you are not telling
me."
Linnet glanced away and Duncan stretched his arms over his
head, loudly cracking his knuckles. His fool grin
widened. "As ever, I can hide naught from you," he said,
his deep voice almost jovial. "I've long suspected you're
as blessed with the sight as my fair lady wife."
Lounging against the cold stone form of his long-dead
forebear, Duncan finally tossed down his own
gauntlet. "Lady Caterine wishes you to pose as her
husband. Only if word spreads she has wed a third time,
does she believe she can rid herself of her current woes."
Marmaduke stared at his friends, too stunned to speak.
None would deny he revered them well. Saints, he would
gladly give his life for either of them. But what they
proposed went beyond all lunacy.
Impossible, he should pose as any lady's husband no matter
how great her plight.
No matter who her sister.
Never had he heard anything more preposterous.
"You ask too much," he found his voice at last. "I will
offer the lady full use of my sword arm, and I shall guard
her with my life so long as she requires my aid, but I
will not enter into a blasphemous relationship with any
woman."
He bit back a harsher refusal on seeing the hope fade from
Linnet's eyes. "By the Rood, Duncan," he swore as softly
as he could, "you should know I am not a man who would
pretend to speak holy vows."
"Then don't," Duncan said, triumph riding heavy on his
words. "Make the lady your bride in truth."
Make the lady your bride in truth.
His friend's parting comment lingered long after Duncan
and his lady took their leave. Like the repetitive chants
of a monk's litany, the taunt echoed, increasing in
intensity until the words seemed to fill not just his mind
but the close confines of the oratory as well.
Make the lady your bride...
By the saints, did his liege mean to mock him? Duncan
MacKenzie knew better than most of the loneliness that
plagued Marmaduke in the darkest hours of the night, was
well aware of Marmaduke's most secret desire: to have a
fine and goodly consort of his own once more.
And a sister of the lady Linnet could be naught but a pure
and kindly gentlewoman.
Was there indeed more behind his friends' insistence that
only he can champion the ill-plighted young widow?
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Marmaduke's mouth and
a pleasant warmth the likes of which he hadn't felt in
many years began to curl round his heart.
Make her your bride...
The words came as a song now.
A joyous one.
Hope beginning to burgeon deep within his soul, Sir
Marmaduke went to the altar, sank to his knees, and bowed
his head.
Sometime later, he knew not how long, a shaft of multi-
colored light fell through the chapel's one stained glass
window to cast a rosy-gold glow upon his folded hands. The
beam of light illuminated his signet ring, turning it to
molten gold and making the large ruby gleam as if set
afire.
Then, no sooner had the colored light appeared, did it
vanish, extinguished as if a cloud had passed before the
rising sun.
But Marmaduke had seen it rest upon his ring.
A portent from above.
Once more, Marmaduke murmured a prayer. One of
thanksgiving and hope. When at last he rose, his decision
was made.
As soon as he could muster what few men Duncan could spare
him, he would journey across Scotland to aid a damsel in
need, a lady he would offer not only his warring skills
and protection, but marriage.
A true one.
If by God's good graces, she would have him.
Copyright © 2003 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder