скачать книгу бесплатно
Lion's Legacy
Suzanne Barclay
Revenge Ran Hot In Kieran Sutherland's Veins For the betrayal of his clan had driven him to denounce love for war - until he met the Lady Laurel.A Highland witch in chain mail who had the power to inflame him with a need more urgent than any cry to battle! Her Visions Had Foretold The Coming Of A Proud And Powerful Knight And Laurel knew that Kieran Sutherland was indeed a warrior to be feared. Yet she also knew of the loneliness that scarred his soul and that Destiny had called on her to heal his wounded heart."Lion's Legacy is absolutely captivating." - The Medieval Chronicle
“I’ve been taught how to attend a man in his bath, but if it tweaks your modesty, I’ll withdraw,” (#u5998ffe7-4642-5ddf-a4bd-d66c212a8517)Letter to Reader (#u4c8d6659-4a2e-57d4-8384-c0a047234ad5)Title Page (#ued6ca7e5-8b87-53f9-ae63-c604608e1d45)About the Author (#udb914f3b-5624-5350-b9f8-1aed0277564b)Dedication (#u092bf988-1a3c-5cde-a5d1-4ad7e8334664)Chapter One (#u4194ea43-61d5-5a71-98ad-c71430edf0ef)Chapter Two (#u63cb3225-f42b-50d4-8d6d-c8c6bfbb72c6)Chapter Three (#u5cb3becc-615c-5fd2-9ba4-02f8c00e1301)Chapter Four (#u2d1189a2-63d0-515a-a2c1-3668e711bc89)Chapter Five (#ua8e5cf40-1cf2-57fd-a8d3-8305af56202d)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I’ve been taught how to attend a man in his bath, but if it tweaks your modesty, I’ll withdraw,”
Laurel offered pleasantly.
“’Tis not my modesty that will be strained,” Kieran growled.
“Oh? Will it ease you if I promise I will not look?”
“I doubt it.”
Her expression turned gentle; her hand came up to cup the line of his jaw. “You should do that more often, you know.”
“What?” he managed to ask past the sudden tightness in his chest
“Smile. At least I think it was a smile. The corners of your mouth turned up. And you’ve a dimple, here,” she pointed out, drawing her fingers across his cheek.
Fleeting as her touch was, it left him aching for more. “Knights don’t have dimples.” He tried to be stern, failed
“You do. Though you keep them carefully hidden...like so many other things....”
Dear Reader,
In Lion’s Legacy, the third book of Suzanne Barclay’s Lion Trilogy, a Scottish warrior is hired to protect a tower from English raiders, and discovers that his benefactor has nothing to give him in return for his services but the hand of his unwilling granddaughter. The first book in the series, Lion’s Heart, earned the author a 5
rating from Affaire de Coeur, and The Medieval Chronicle describes Lion’s Legacy as “absolutely captivating.” We hope you’ll agree.
With Twice Upon Time, her second Harlequin Historical time-travel novel, author Nina Beaumont weaves an exciting tale of an ancient curse and a passion too strong to be denied. And in Emily French’s new book, Illusion, the growing love between an ex-soldier and an heiress who have been drawn into a marriage of convenience is threatened by embezzlement and extortion.
Diamond, the fourth title for the month, is the first in Ruth Langan’s new Western series. The Jewels of Texas, featuring four sisters who think that they are only children until the death of their father brings them all together at his ranch in Texas.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope that Harlequin Historical novels will keep you coming back for more. Please look for them wherever books are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Lion’s Legacy
Suzanne Barclay
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUZANNE BARCLAY
has been an avid reader since she was very young; her mother claims Suzanne could read and recite “The Night Before Christmas” on her first birthday! Not surprisingly, history was her favorite subject in school and historical novels are her number one reading choice. The house she shares with her husband and their two dogs is set on 55 acres of New York State’s wine-growing region. When she’s not writing, the author makes fine furniture and carpets in miniature.
To Linda, for listening to Lion’s story and for steering me to the wild and wonderful Border Country of Scotland for its conclusion
Chapter One
Edin Tower, June 1381
Danger!
It whispered on the wind and moaned through the trees, making them sway around the tiny, moonlit clearing. Laurel’s heart leapt, then thudded wildly as she whirled around. “Who’s there?” she whispered, scanning the thrashing brush.
No one answered, yet she could feel something out there waiting, watching her. The hair at her nape rose. The forest seemed to press in on her from all sides, dark and mysterious. Then through the trees she saw Edin Tower standing out black against the gray sheen of the loch.
Home! There was home and safety. A single light burned in the tower’s uppermost window. ’Twas likely Aunt Nesta waiting up, wondering where she was. As Laurel unlocked her frozen limbs and took a step, the wind abruptly died away. In the terrible, unnatural silence that followed, she heard a sound. Halfway between a whisper and a whimper.
“Who’s there?” she asked, gooseflesh chasing down her arms and legs. No one answered. She tested the air like a hunted hare, smelled danger lurking beneath the innocent scent of rich loam and trampled herbs. Behind her, a twig snapped.
Laurel spun around, a scream lodged in her throat.
The brush parted, and a stallion stepped into the clearing. Black as the night that had spawned him, he halted at some unspoken command from his rider and pawed the ground, breath billowing like dragon smoke. Laurel’s eyes rose from the gauntleted hands that held the great beast in check to the man himself. He was big, his wide shoulders and thick chest encased in gleaming metal armor.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
If he heard, he made no reply, merely raised the visor on his helmet and stared in the direction of Edin Tower. Pale, eerie moonlight slanted across his features, illuminating them.
Sweet Mary! ’Twas him! The man who’d haunted her dreams this past month. Always before she’d viewed him from a distance, riding across a bloodied battlefield, standing in the prow of a ship as it braved the storm-tossed sea. Yet she’d sensed him drawing nearer and nearer. Now he was here.
“Who are you?” she asked again, voice raw with fear.
He turned toward her then, revealing a ruggedly handsome face framed by thick black hair, but ’twas his eyes that captivated her. They were a cool shade of violet, bright as gemstones, hard and glittering with a hunger that was more threatening than the gleaming length of steel at his waist.
“Why have you come here? What do you want?”
“Everything, ” he murmured, his voice dark as the aura of danger that surrounded them. “Everything you are and will be.”
Edin. He must mean Edin and her clan, for her home and her family were all to her. She backed up a step, then another. She turned and ran.
He came after her, the forest floor shuddering under the weight of his warhorse’s footfalls.
“Nay!” Laurel screamed, and wrenched upright in bed. It took her a moment to realize she was safe in her own bed. Shuddering, skin slick with sweat beneath her linen night shift, she wrapped both arms around her waist and tried to slow her ragged pulse.
“’Twas a nightmare, nothing more.” The words failed to reassure. She didn’t have simple nightmares. Though she railed against the Fates for cursing her so, the visions that disturbed her sleep were far more complex and mysterious than any mere dream. They were a portent, a glimpse into a future she was both unable to interpret and powerless to prevent.
Fear trickled down Laurel’s spine. When the knight had looked at her with those dark eyes, she’d felt...a jolt. A connection such as she’d never felt with another person, not even her Aunt Nesta, who was a seeress. Who was this knight?
“M’lady ? Are ye all right?” Annie MacLellan peered around the door, broad, freckled face scrunched with concern.
“I... I am fine,” Laurel replied, feeling anything but.
Annie frowned. “I heard ye call out”
“I had a dream..”
“Do tell.” Annie giggled. “What was it, another drought?”
Laurel sniffed. “I should think you’d be glad we had a wet spring, instead of the dry one I predicted.”
“Oh, I am, and I didn’t mean to hurt yer feelings, but I thought ye’d given up trying to foretell the future.”
“I have.” She’d stopped telling people what she dreamed. It was too humiliating. Truly she was a disgrace to those who’d gone before—the generations of MacLellan women who’d been gifted with the sight. Sight, bah! In her ’twas more like hindsight. After the fact, she sometimes found a grain of truth linking her vision to the actual occurrence. Small consolation. People expected better from the lass who should be their next seeress.
Mayhap if she’d been a conjurer like her Aunt Nesta, she’d have had more control over her visions. Instead, Laurel’s glimpses into the future came in dreams, unbidden, impossible to interpret and better forgotten. Still she couldn’t suppress a shiver at the memory of the violet-eyed stranger who’d looked at her so angrily yet so possessively.
“Why, ye’re quaking like a newborn lamb. Must be sickening with the ague.” Annie slammed the door and advanced, neat brown braid thumping against her slender back with every purposeful stride. “No wonder. Up half the night, riding the hills with the men.” She grabbed a sheepskin coverlet from the floor and bundled it around Laurel, tisking in fair imitation of Janet, her mother, who was housekeeper at Edin. “Indecent and unwomanly, wearing yer da’s chain mail and carrying his dirk and playing at being a warrior when all the while—”
“I do what I must to protect our people. If that means donning armor and riding into battle in Grandda’s stead, then so be it,” Laurel added. Not for the world would she admit to anyone how much she hated the violence and the fear. Not fear for herself, but the terror that cramped her belly each time she made a decision that sent the men of Clan MacLellan into harm’s way. Sweet Mary aid her, she was a healer, not a fighter. What if she made a mistake and it cost the lives of those she loved?
“There, ye’re trembling again.” Annie molded the sheepskin more tightly to Laurel’s body. “Bide here and I’ll nip down to the kitchens for a hot ale and a posset—”
“I’m just a bit tired.” Tired! She was weary to her soul, sick unto death with fighting and scheming to keep her people safe. “I’ll break my fast with Grandda, as usual.” Laurel threw off the heavy coverlet as she longed to do to the even heavier burden she’d been forced to take on when Duncan MacLellan had been ambushed and gravely wounded.
“Ye were so late getting in, ye should sleep till dinner at least,” Annie grumbled, not liking her lady’s pallor, nor the dark circles under her eyes, but judged the advice would go unheeded. Sighing, she moved to open the chest placed under the room’s single shuttered window. “What will you wear... the green gown or the blue?”
“Is the other set of da’s clothes clean? ’Twould save time if I put them on, for I must ride out again after mass.”
Simple, practical words, yet Annie saw the shadow they sent over Laurel’s fragile features, and her heart sank. How much more was her poor mistress expected to bear? Her parents dead these six years, her grandfather hurt two weeks ago, all of Edin Valley threatened by the reivers who’d done the evil deed and no one to lead the MacLellans save Laurel. ’Twas too weighty a burden for a lass of ten and eight, and her gently reared.
How Laurel found the strength to go on day after day, only God knew. In vain, Annie had tried to persuade Laurel to leave the fighting to the men, but she’d always been stubborn and independent.
“Ye know the laird hates being reminded ye’re determined to lead the men in his place,” Annie said quietly.
Laurel closed her eyes to hide the pain. It wasn’t only duty that made her don the clothes her sire had worn as a lad and ride out to try and catch the raiders. ’Twas guilt. She’d had a vision of trouble and warned her grandda not to leave Edin. The memory of her past inaccuracies flickering in his eyes, he’d patted her on the head, reminded her they needed the salt, spices and wine from Kindo’s merchants and gone as planned. And been ambushed.
Her vision had come true, horribly true, but because so many hadn’t, her beloved grandsire had brushed aside her warning and nearly died. ’Twas a lesson she’d not forget. She’d never again ignore her dreams. But what exactly did this latest one mean?
Laurel opened her eyes. “Men’s garb is more practical, Annie, but I confess I do miss dressing like a lass. I’ll wear the blue gown, then change before I go out again.”
Annie bent to the chest. “Ye’ll catch the fiends soon.” Stout words, yet threaded with the fear that haunted every MacLellan. Truly the reivers, whose sudden interest in raiding Edin Valley had cost Laurel’s kin so dearly, must be made to pay. No matter how unsuited she was for the task, Laurel vowed to hold them at bay until Duncan was well enough to take command.
If he ever was.
Nay. She mustn’t think like that. Suddenly the memory of this morn’s vision flooded back. Was the knight in her dream one of those who’d attacked her grandfather? Springing out of bed, she snatched the gown from the startled Annie and began pulling it on over her night shift.
“Here, here. Have a care or ye’ll rip it,” Annie chided. “Not that ye don’t have gowns aplenty, what with all the lovely things Laird Duncan had made when ye wed Aulay Kerr last year,” she added as she stripped Laurel bare.
It wasn’t the chill draft seeping in through the shuttered window that raised the gooseflesh on Laurel’s body as she donned a fresh shift. ‘Twas the reminder of her short-lived marriage and Aulay’s betrayal. ’Twas what came of trusting an outsider.
“New clothes are the only good thing that came of that sorry mess,” Annie murmured as she drew the blue wool gown over Laurel’s head. “I know ’tis a sin to think ill of the dead...”
“I’m certain the Almighty will make an exception in Aulay’s case,” Laurel said. Her late, unlamented husband had been far more the devil’s servant than God’s.
“Who’d have thought such a pleasant, mild-speaking man’d turn out to be rotten at the core. Too bad, too, for we could have used a strong man like him to defend us now.”
Aye. He’d been a strong man. Laurel’s throat burned with the memory of how Aulay’s hands had felt closing around it and squeezing like a vise. A strong, greedy man.
“He thinks ye should wed again.”
“What?” Horrified, Laurel spun to face her friend. “Who?”
Annie blinked. “Himself. He was telling the Lady Nesta so last eve when I brought him his broth.”
“Why would Grandda want me to wed when my first marriage turned out so ill?”
“’Tis yerself and young Malcolm he’s thinking of,” Annie said, laying a hand on Laurel’s arm to soften the blow. “So as ye’d have someone to protect ye when...if...” Her voice trailed off, but Laurel understood only too well what she meant.
If Duncan died, there’d be only herself to lead the MacLellans until her brother was old enough. Poor Collie, just seven this month, gangly and clumsy as a fawn, yet anxious to defend their clan. “I must see Grandda.” She tried to duck away.
“Hold still: ” Keeping a secure grip on Laurel’s hip-length red hair, the maid began working the tangles from it. ”There is no rush. Himself was just waking up when I came above stairs.”
“How did he seem?”
“Grouchy as ever. Mam says ’tis a sure sign he’s healing,” Annie said gently, for she knew Laurel’s eagerness to be away was born of fear, not lack of concern for her appearance.
Laurel turned as Annie finished tying a bit of gold cord around the end of her braid. It would have to be replaced with leather when she rode out, but Annie had the right of it. ’Twould please Grandda to see her properly gowned and coiffed.
The corridor was cold after the warmth of her chamber, and Laurel quickened her pace, lifting her skirts lest she trip in the narrow stone staircase that circled down to the first floor. A flood of torchlight and the muted sound of voices reached out to her from the great hall, where a score of men partook of ale and brown bread before riding out to stand watch. Pausing in the doorway, Laurel scanned their faces, old and young alike lined with worry and fatigue. Secure as it was, guarded by a narrow pass, Edin Valley wasn’t impregnable. Should the reivers decide to attack in force, Laurel wasn’t certain the MacLellans could hold out.
Sighing, she turned way from the hall and continued down the dimly lit passageway to the room that had been her grandmother’s solar in the days before the new tower housing the laird’s chamber had been added. ’Twas to the solar the men had carried their wounded laird two weeks past. Laurel’s hand tightened on the door as she recalled the many desperate hours that had followed while she and her aunt battled to stitch Duncan’s wounds before he bled to death. They’d managed to save him, but they still could lose him to blood-fever or infection.
Laurel was relieved to see him awake, propped up on several pillows to ease his breathing, for a sword had cut perilously close to his lungs. Duncan’s gray hair had been pulled back from his face and tied at the nape, revealing the sharp angles of the high cheekbones he’d bequeathed to Laurel and the hooked nose he mercifully had not. In the harsh glow of the candle set in a pike beside the bed, his skin looked chalky. The hooded eyes that used to sparkle with mischief focused dully on the hearth.
Following his gaze, she saw that despite the early hour, Aunt Nesta was already here. Dressed in her customary flowing black robe, she crouched by the fire, head bent over a bowl resting on a three-legged stool. Her auburn hair, hip length, unbound as a lass’s and free of gray despite her thirty years, obscured her profile as she leaned over the bowl.
“What do ye see, Nessie?” Duncan’s voice lacked the deep bass rumble of vigor and command it usually held.
“Naught.” Her aunt rocked back on her heels. “I’m that distracted I can scarce summon a proper conjuring.”
The word mocked Laurel’s shortcomings as a witch. Try as she might, she couldn’t summon an image in that ancient gold bowl.
