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Taming The Lion
Suzanne Barclay
Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series (#uab71f79a-9fc8-56e6-8984-6229f92d9270)“How could I have believed your lies?” (#u85eaee61-4495-5f33-ba0f-b03fd306a5a9)Letter to Reader (#u54c6f655-4ee1-54a4-bab0-5fe6660f75aa)Title Page (#u152c9aaa-bc77-53fd-a617-2e0c7d7f7b64)About the Author (#u8838a64f-ce7c-5b71-b690-93a3621da030)Prologue (#u6f579bdf-e6d6-5b49-b713-2789ce919f5e)Chapter One (#ue3ac650e-c912-5a2c-990b-46e334233827)Chapter Two (#u92b5d9b8-121b-539a-bac3-2038ae9c950a)Chapter Three (#u82cb923a-9919-5118-b186-d03473d1ff39)Chapter Four (#u7bd77a20-5dd0-5483-bf93-4e46025950c6)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)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)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series
Pride of Lions
“Fantastic! 5Bells!!!”
—Bell, Book and Candle
Lion’s Lady
“...a luscious romance....5
s.”
—Affaire de Coeur
Lion’s Legacy
“Suzanne Barclay certainly takes her place amongst the finest of Medieval writers...”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Lion of the North
“Pure gold! Read a Barclay Medieval and you’re reading the best.”
—The Medieval Chronicle
Lion’s Heart
“...a special and unforgettable work. 5
s”
—Affaire de Coeur
“How could I have believed your lies?”
“I did not lie to you, except—”
“How could I have lain with you? How could I have loved you?” The tears Catlyn had held at bay slid down her cheeks.
Ross grabbed hold of her shoulders. “We nearly burned down the night with our loving. You cannot think that was a lie.”
Her eyes bright with loathing, her voice cold, she said, “I think you are a skilled lover and an even more skilled manipulator of people. You used me to try to gain control of Kennecraig.”
Ross groaned. “If you would only let me tell you the whole story, I—”
“Oh, you are very good at that...at twisting words and things to suit you.” She stepped back, and he let her go. “But now I am wise to you, and I do promise you will not succeed.”
Dear Reader,
Heroes come in many forms, as this month’s books prove—from the roguish knight and the wealthy marquess to the potent gunslinger and the handsome cowboy.
The roguish knight, Ross Lion Sutherland, appears in Taming the Lion, a new medieval novel by Suzanne Barclay Critics have described this award-winning author in many ways, including “a great superstar,” “a magician with words” and “one of the best authors today in historical romance!” In this continuation of THE SUTHERLAND SERIES, Ross sets aside his honor to steal a clan’s secret for whiskey-making, only to fall in love with the clan’s lovely leader.
Golden Heart winner Julia Justiss brings us Nicholas Stanhope, the devastatingly handsome Marquess of Englemere who marries a friend in trouble and finds a profound love in The Wedding Gamble. And you must meet Sheriff Delaney, the smooth but kindhearted ex-gunslinger who inherits a house—and a beautiful young widow—in The Marriage Knot.
Rounding out the month is Will Brockett, the magnetically charming wrangler who uncharacteristically finds his soul mate in tomboy Paulie Johnson in A Cowboy’s Heart by Liz Ireland. Don’t miss it!
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals
novel.
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
Canadians P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Taming The Lion
Suzanne Barclay
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUZANNE BARCLAY considers herself sublimely lucky to be writing historical romances. What other career would allow her to watch old Errol Flynn movies and call it research? Or day-dream and call it work?
On those rare moments when she can tear herself away from the stories she is creating, she enjoys walking in the woods with her two dogs, Max and Duffy, whipping up exotic meals for her husband of twenty-three years and pawing through the local antique marts for special pieces to decorate her office/study.
Suzanne freely admits that she has trouble keeping track of all the Sutherlands and Carmichaels who people her stories, and has prepared an updated family tree detailing the various characters, their marriages and their children. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.
Prologue
Stirling, Scotland
August 10, 1407
Hakon Fergusson paused in the doorway of the Running Fox. Squinting against the pall of smoke from the torches rimming the long room, he surveyed the establishment with a critical eye.
The tavern appeared to be a cut above the others he had visited tonight. The benches and tables sat in orderly rows, scarred from use but lacking the layers of filth tolerated by drunken patrons and careless owners. The serving wenches who moved through the crowded room dispensing food and drink were comely, their gowns snug but not slatternly.
Lastly Hakon studied the customers themselves. Though it was just past nine on a Saturday night and every table was occupied, it was a remarkably orderly crowd. At the nearest table, four men amiably argued the merits of chain mail over boiled leather vests. Six others sat before the empty hearth, their heads bent over a game board. Elsewhere, men drank and laughed and talked in civil tones. Torchlight winked on golden jewelry and shimmered on garments of silk and velvet.
Clearly these were men who appreciated the best. And would be willing to pay for it.
“This is the place,” Hakon murmured to the man behind him.
“’Bout time.” Seamus shifted the whiskey keg on his shoulder. “This damn thing’s heavy. Don’t see why we couldn’t have sold it at the first inn.”
“We can get more here.” Hakon needed every coin he could lay his hands on if his plans were to succeed.
Four months ago, he had received the pleasant news that his uncle and two cousins had died after eating tainted meat at a truce day feast hosted by the church, leaving him heir to a Highland estate. Hakon thought it a sad end for a Fergusson. All the male members of his Border branch of the clan—and a few of the women besides—had died with swords in their hands or dangling at the end of the hangman’s rope.
Still the idea of having his own tower, even if it meant leaving the rough and ready Borders he loved, had appealed. Especially since at the time, the Border Warden had Hakon high on his list of men to be caught and hanged. So Hakon had gathered his band of hardened fighters, thumbed his nose at Lord Hunter Carmichael and headed north.
To say the inheritance was a disappointment was a vast understatement Dun-Dubh consisted of one broken-down keep, a few acres of stony ground and two hundred hungry mouths. Hakon had been all for selling off what he could: his relatives’ clothes, furniture and the like, abandoning the two hundred unwanted burdens and taking his men back to the Borders. He’d changed his mind when he’d learned that the neighboring Boyds possessed. a prosperous distillery.
Unfortunately, Thomas Boyd had proved to be more tenacious and far cannier at holding on to what was his than any other victim Hakon had tried to best. Months of planning and scheming it had taken him to get this far. With any luck, he’d come away from the Running Fox with the wherewithal to win.
“Well, let us see how much we can get for the Boyds’ whiskey.” Hakon pasted on a genial smile and entered the tavern. Curbing his usual swagger, he walked with the cautious air of a merchant offering wares to a new client.
He approached the long wooden serving bar and hailed the man behind it. “Would you be Brann of the Side?” His tone was respectful but not groveling.
“Aye. Who’s asking?” Brann’s fleshy face folded into a series of frowns as he looked Hakon over. He had a barrel chest, thick arms and the sharp eyes of a tradesman.
“Robert Dunbar.” The lie came easily to a man who often found his own name too infamous. “I heard ye have the finest tavern in Stirling.”
“That it is.” Brann’s chest puffed out.
“Oh, I could not agree more.” Hakon looked about the room and sang its praises. Chuckling to himself, he watched Brann relax, completely taken in by the act. Da would be proud of him, Hakon thought. The thieving old bastard who had sired him had always said Hakon’s looks were his greatest weapon. He was tall and blond with pleasing features and brown eyes he had trained to hide his thoughts.
“This yer first visit to town?” Brann asked.
He took them for bumpkins. That made Hakon smile. Before setting out tonight, he’d taken pains with his appearance, choosing a blue tunic and black hose that had belonged to his dead uncle because they were a trifle small and patched at the knees and elbows. They were the garments of a poor man who prided himself on neatness. In them, he looked sober and honest. Just the sort of man other men trusted. “Aye, first time.”
“Well, ye’ll find that taverns like this are a bit, er, more expensive than the ones down under the hill.”
What grated on Hakon was the knowledge that his uncle’s mean castoffs were better than his own few garments. Looking about at the finely clad nobles, he vowed that when the Boyds’ distillery was his, he’d buy a dozen velvet tunics.
“What’ll it be? Ale? Wine?” Brann asked.
“Actually, I’ve something here I’d like you to try.” Hakon motioned Seamus forward, took the keg and set it on the bar.
Brann eyed it as he might a pile of manure. “I’ve got my own sources for ale and—”
“Whiskey.”
“That, too,” Brann growled. “My customers are particular.”
Which was exactly why Hakon had chosen this place. Particular people paid more. “So am I. What I offer is of the highest quality. The finest whiskey in all Scotland.”
“They all say that.” But Brann licked his lips and glanced at the keg again.
“Would you like to taste it?”
Brann shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Perhaps your customers would sample it, as well.” Hakon smiled genially, hiding his annoyance and impatience. In order for his plans to succeed, he needed money for arms and bribes.
“How much will it cost me?” Brann asked.
“Nothing for a taste. If your customers like the whiskey and want more, I’ve ten more kegs I will sell you.”
“Ten is not many.”
It was all Thomas Boyd had with him at the time he’d been unlucky enough to wander into Hakon’s ambush. “I’ve more at home.” Or rather, the Boyds did. All Hakon had to do was figure out how to wrest it from them. “If we reach an agreeable price, I can send ye regular shipments.”
“Seems fair enough.”
Hakon smiled. He always seemed fair. And open. And honest. The guise had lured more than one victim into his web.
“If yer man’ll tap the keg,” Brann said.
Hakon glanced at Seamus. The wiry little man had ridden with his father. He was adept at many things—spying, tracking, thieving and slitting the occasional throat—but the only way he’d ever broached a keg was with the edge of an ax. “It’s yer tavern, Master Brann. We’ll leave that to ye.”
Brann nodded, pulled a small metal hook from beneath the bar and expertly drew the bung. Keeping one eye on them, he bent and sniffed suspiciously. He straightened so quickly it was comical, his eyes wide with astonishment and new respect.
“Well?” Hakon asked.
“It smells right promising. The subtle blend of smoke and fire.” Fumbling in his haste, Brann poured a measure into a wooden cup, lifted it and breathed deep. “Ah.” Reverently he sipped. His eyes closed. His head tipped back to let the liquid run down his throat. He sighed again.
Got him, Hakon thought, winking at Seamus.
Master Brann slowly lowered the cup and opened his eyes. “It is, er, not too bad,” he murmured, obviously a man used to bargaining. “Ye did say my customers could try a measure?”
Hakon nodded. “Just a sip, mind.”
While Brann called for cups and fussed over the keg, Hakon and Seamus moved away from the bar and leaned against the wall.
“A Fergusson giving something away?” Seamus shook his head. “Yer da’s likely spinning in his grave.”
“Nay, he’d understand. Master Brann will pay twice what we ask if his customers are clamoring for the stuff.”
Seamus grunted and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “So we sell the lot for a tidy profit, then what?”
“We bribe someone inside Kennecraig to tell us if Thomas spoke true about having black powder kegs tied to his stills.” Ready to be set off if Hakon attacked the keep.
