Blythe Gifford - His Border Bride

Praise for Blythe Gifford

HIS BORDER BRIDE

‘Using falcons as metaphors, Blythe Gifford has successfully soared with this Highland romance.’

—Fresh Fiction

IN THE MASTER’S BED

‘… expertly crafted … fascinating historical details … give this sexy historical a richness and depth.’

—Booklist

‘… excellent … Blythe Gifford is the true Master.’

—Cataromance

INNOCENCE UNVEILED

‘Blythe Gifford takes a refreshingly different setting and adds a plot brimming with dangerous secrets and deadly intrigue to create a richly detailed and completely compelling medieval romance.’

—Chicago Tribune

THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER

‘Blythe Gifford finds the perfect balance between history and romance in THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER as she expertly blends a fascinating setting and beautifully nuanced characters into a captivating love story.’

—Chicago Tribune

‘Gifford has chosen a time period that is filled with kings, kingmakers and treachery. Although there is plenty of fodder for turbulence, the author uses that to move her hero and heroine together on a discovery of love. She proves that love through the ages doesn’t always run smoothly, be it between nobles or commoners.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

‘This debut novel by a new voice in medieval romance was for me … pure poetry! The sweetness of the ending will have you running for your tissues. Oh, yes, this is a new star on the horizon and I certainly hope to see much more from her!’

—Historical Romance Writers

Gavin pulled his gaze away. What was it about Clare that called to him? Strong, yes. But, like her bird, alert, expecting danger any minute. Her strength was a shield. He wondered what it hid.

She acted as if she’d never been tempted, let alone succumbed.

He’d like to see it happen.

He’d like to help.

The vision filled him. Clare. Naked. Tight braid undone. Hair tumbling across her shoulders. Eyes soft, lips yielding with want.

He downed the rest of his drink. If she knew what he was thinking it would confirm everything she believed of him.

And she’d be right.

AUTHOR NOTE

This book represents a ‘border crossing’ for me. It is my first to be set on the Scottish side of the line. As I wrote, one of my touchstones was an old Kris Kristofferson song called ‘Border Lord'. The mournful lyrics tell of a man about to cross the line, both literally and figuratively. They seemed to sum up my hero perfectly—a man who cares little for rules, boundaries, and the opinions of others. What kind of woman would be a match for such a man? A woman who has lived her life prescribed by all of these. I hope you enjoy their story.

After a career in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORDreturned to her first love: writing historical romance. Now her characters grapple with questions about love, work, and the meaning of life, and always find the right answers. She strives to deliver intensely emotional, compelling stories set in a vivid, authentic world. She was a finalist in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart™ Award competition for her debut novel, THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN. She feeds her muse with music, art, history, walks and good friends. You can reach her via her website: www.BlytheGifford.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER

INNOCENCE UNVEILED

IN THE MASTER’S BED

HIS BORDER BRIDE

Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication

To all our parents, and their secrets.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Jody Allen

and the Writers of Scottish Romance group for helping a newcomer to the northern side of the border and to the staff at the Center for Birds of Prey, Charleston, South Carolina, for helping me understand the falcons. (All mistakes on both fronts are my own.)

Haddington, Scotland—February 1356

After ten years away, he had come home.

War had come with him.

Fog, cold and damp, darkened the fading light of a February day and crept around the corners of the church before them. The iron links of his chainmail chilled the back of his neck and the English knights by his side shivered on their mounts.

Winter was no time for a war.

Gavin Fitzjohn looked over at his uncle, King Edward, proud lion at the peak of his prowess. More than twenty years ago, this king led the English on a similar charge into Scotland.

That time, the King’s brother had left behind a bastard son of a Scottish mother.

Today, that son, Gavin, rode beside his uncle, just as he had done for the last year in France. There, they had wreaked havoc on soldiers and villagers alike without a qualm until the smell of blood and smoke permeated his dreams. But he had done it because he was a knight in war.

Now, the King assumed Fitzjohn was fully his.

But this was not France. Now, Edward had brought the scorched earth home. In the fortnight since they had retaken Berwick, his army had slashed and burned what little the retreating Scots army had left standing.

Gavin’s horse shifted, restless. Through the windows of the church, the choir where services were sung glowed like a beckoning lamp, light and lovely as any church he had seen across the Channel.

The villagers huddled before their spiritual home, uncertain of what was to come. Gavin watched a man at the crowd’s edge, hands clasped, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer.

The man’s eyes opened and met Gavin’s.

Fear. Strong enough to taste.

His stomach rebelled. He was sick to death of killing.

A squire ran up to the King, carrying a torch. In the darkening twilight, the shifting flames cast unearthly light and shade across the mud-splattered surcoats and armour.

He looked at his uncle. No more, he thought, the words a wish.

But anger, not mercy, gripped Edward’s face. The Scots had talked truce only to gain time to prepare for war. So, when Lord Douglas finally rejected the English offer of peace, Edward vowed to give them the war they wanted.

The King motioned the squire towards Gavin.

‘Take the torch,’ he said. The fire flickered between them like Satan’s flames. He nodded towards the church. ‘Burn it.’

The squire shoved the torch into Gavin’s outstretched hand. He took it, as he had so many times before, but his grip was unsteady and the firebrand trembled. Or was that just a trick of the wavering light?

The villagers’ wary glances shifted from him to the church. What would happen to them if they lost their link to God?

A baby’s wail bounced off the church’s stone walls.

He shoved the torch at the squire, trying to give back the flames.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Edward roared, releasing all the frustration of a failed campaign. Storms had sunk his ships. There would be no new supplies and nothing left to do but retreat. He meant to leave destruction behind him.

‘Leave it. They never warred on us.’

‘They laid waste to their own lands, so we’d have no cattle to eat nor ale to drink.’