Suzanne Barclay - Lion's Lady

Rowena wheeled her horse and sent it careening down the steep trail, more to outrun the terrible pain than to escape the man’s threats. At the bottom of the hill she gave the pony its head, but the rush of wind in her face did not scour away the anguish in her heart. He’d left. He’d left her without a word. The dreadful finality seemed to pound in her head in cadence with the pony’s hoofbeats. By the time she reached Tarbert, the pain had hardened to anger.

She’d never been one to trust easily. With a lethal combination of intelligence, gentleness and sensual seduction, Lion had cajoled her into trusting him. How he must have crowed over his triumph when she finally surrendered her innocence. Angry as she was with him, she was furious with herself. She should have known better.

Worthless MacBeans, the guard had called them, and Tarbert was certainly not much to look at—a huddle of dilapidated buildings, a few scruffy cattle. For generations, the MacBeans had earned what they could training other men’s horses. It put food on the table, clothes on their backs, but not much more. Still, the keep was clean, her kinfolk honest. Which was more than could be said for the Sutherland heir, she thought.

The MacBeans were at the noon meal when she cantered into the courtyard. No one came to take her pony, so she led it into the stables herself. She unbuckled the girth, then braced to slide the heavy saddle off.

“Let me,” commanded a gravelly voice.

Rowena squeaked and turned. “Oh, ’tis you, Laird Padruig.” She inclined her head in greeting to him, a customer come to pick up the ponies her brother, John, had broken to saddle.

“Where’ve ye been?” he demanded. The gloom in the stables emphasized the lines in his weathered face and the harshness of his features. His eyes were hard; his mouth never smiled.

“R-riding.” The last thing she wanted now was company. “I should get inside.”

“A moment.” He plucked the saddle from the pony’s back as though it weighed nothing and set it in the straw. “The stable lad can see to her when he’s finished eating.” He took Rowena’s arm and escorted her from the barn. But when she started toward the tower, he steered her around the stark stone edifice and into the kitchen garden.

“Laird Padruig?” She was not frightened, for he’d been a frequent visitor to her father, then her brother.

“I’ve been waiting on ye.”

“Why?” Rowena stopped, fear clutching at her battered nerves. “Is it Mama? John?”

“Yer mother and brother are well, far’s I ken.” He stopped in the shadow of the huge rowan bush by the back door, yet still kept hold of her arm, as though fearing she’d run off.

“What is it, then?”

“Ye’ll not have noticed, but I’ve had me eye on ye.”

“I—I had not.” She’d been too caught up in her feelings for Lion and in making the most of the time they had. “Why?”

“I’m in need of a wife,” he said bluntly.

Rowena blinked. Padruig held the Highland record for most handfasts, having contracted himself to no fewer than fifteen women over the years. None of the unions had lasted more than the prescribed year and a day, for none had produced what Padruig needed more than anything—an heir to rule the Gunns after him. She recalled John saying it had something to do with Padruig’s mistrust of his half brother, Eneas, who would be the next chief if Padruig failed to get a son.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked warily.

“Because I need a wife, and I think ye need a husband.” He looked at her belly, and she fancied those muddy brown eyes of his could see through her gown and shift to her womb.

Rowena shifted uncomfortably. “I do not know what you—”

“Aye, ye do. And ye’re a clever lass and sensible...for the most part. Ye’ll not be wanting to tell yer family ye’re breeding and no husband in the offing.”

“How can you know?” she demanded.

“Over the years, I’ve watched other men’s wives and sweethearts swell with child. Watched and envied. Ye’ve the glow of a lass who’s well and truly caught.” A hint of a smile tilted his lips. “And I chanced to overhear yer conversation with old Meg the other morning.”

“Oh.” Rowena wanted desperately to sit down.

“Here.” Padruig grabbed her arm and led her to a wooden bench. “Can’t have ye tiring yerself and risking my babe.”

“You—you’d claim another’s child as your own?”

“Aye, I would, and if ye’ve listened to half the gossip that goes around, ye know why.”

“But the child has no Gunn blood.”

“It comes of good stock. Ye’re a fine lass, gentle and clever...if a bit foolish about love. But then, most lasses are. And the father...” Padruig Gunn gritted his teeth. “’Tis better if his name is never spoken between us, lest we be heard, but I’ve learned good things about him. Courageous in battle, dedicated to his clan and honorable... I could die easy knowing a lad with those qualities would inherit and safeguard all I’d worked so hard to build.” His expression turned as stark as the mountains beyond Tarbert’s walls. “I’d do almost anything to keep Eneas from becoming chief after me. He’s ruthless and so hungry for power he’d drag our clan into hell with him.”

Tom, Rowena studied her hands.

“Ye’re thinking mayhap that he might change his mind and come back for ye.”

“How do you know he’s gone away?”

“I made it my business to know everything about him. His father has great plans for him. He’s to be educated in France, trained and groomed as befits Highland nubility. They’ll marry him off to a great heiress. What with the way the English killed off the French nobles, there are wealthy, titled daughters and widows aplenty over the narrow sea for him to choose from.”

Rowena sighed and hung her head. His words mirrored the fears she’d had when Lion had first taken an interest in her. If only she’d listened to her inbred caution and ignored the attraction that had leaped between them from the instant their eyes had met. “What if the babe is a girl?”

“I’ll take that chance, raise her to be strong and wed her to a man of my choosing. It’s settled, then?”

Nay, her heart cried out. But for the first time in two months, she listened instead to her mind. “Aye.”

Chapter One

Highlands, May, 1390

The night was as wild and unruly as the times. A bank of clouds hid the moon and deepened the natural shadows in the little wooded glen where Lionel Sutherland lurked. The wind blew briskly from the west, whipping the pines and barely budded oaks into a rustling frenzy.

How much he missed this, the raw land, the damp weather, the sweet, sweet smell of home. As he lifted his head to sample the air, the wind tugged at his shoulder-length hair like an impatient lover.

Aye, ’twas a perfect night for the things Highlanders did best—for skulking about in the brush, for executing a raid or meeting in secret. And Lion was about all three. Appreciating the irony of the situation, he smiled. The twinkle in his pale eyes and the dimple that softened his lean face had earned him the undying devotion of more than a few lasses. But not the one he’d wanted most.

Lion’s smile dimmed. How ironic that he had braved the spring storm to try and save the life of the man he hated above all others. If he did nothing and Padruig Gunn died, Rowena would be free... Nay, he’d not be able to live with the guilt.

Sensing his restlessness, Turval pawed the ground.

“Steady, lad. It’ll not be long now.” They’d left Blantyre Castle well ahead of his quarry, and Padruig had to take this trail on his homeward journey. He’d be along any moment; Lion would do his duty, then ride off.