Margaret Moore - Lord of Dunkeathe

“Entertaining! Excellent! Exciting! Margaret Moore has penned a five-star keeper!”

—BJ Deese, CataRomance Reviews on Bride of Lochbarr

“Margaret Moore’s characters step off the pages into your heart.”

—Romantic Times

“Ms. Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armor.”

—Rendezvous

“…an author who consistently knows how to mix just the right amount of passion and pageantry.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms. Moore.”

—Harriet Klausner, Under the Covers

“Her writing is full of humor and wit, sass and sexual tension.”

—Elena Channing, Heart Rate Reviews

“Margaret Moore has a captivating writing style…that lends itself to pure, fluid prose and vivid characterizations.”

—C. L. Jeffries, Heartstrings Reviews

“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”

—Romantic Times

With special thanks to my family

for their encouragement and support.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Glencleith, Scotland, 1240

“PLEASE TALK TO HIM, RIONA,” eighteen-year-old Kenneth Mac Gordon pleaded as he walked beside his older cousin in the small yard of the fortress of Glencleith. “He willna listen to me, but he might to you. Thane or no, we’re poor and he’s got to quit offering food and shelter to every sod who shows up at the gate, or we’ll no’ have two coins to rub together.”

“Aye,” Riona Mac Gordon reluctantly agreed, “but it’ll break his heart if he canna offer the hospitality of his hall.”

The red-haired Kenneth pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis. “Father must face facts. We’re poor and getting poorer. He’s got to stop inviting every stranger he meets for a meal and a night’s lodging.”

“I’ll have a word wi’ him and see if I canna make him understand we need to be more careful,” Riona acquiesced as they reached the gate. Nearby, chickens scratched and pecked in the hard-packed earth near the stables. The wooden stakes that made up the outer wall were falling down in more than one place, and the gate couldn’t have kept out a determined child. “Maybe if I tell him you’ll have naught but some rocky ground and a run-down fortress to inherit, he might listen.”

“You should tell him that there’s nothing left for your dowry, either.”

“I don’t care about a dowry,” Riona answered. “Your father did enough taking me in when I was a wee bairn and treating me like a daughter e’er since. Besides, I’m too old to think about marrying now. I’m long past the first blush of youth, and none have offered that I cared to wed.”

“You’re not too old. That fellow from Arlee didn’t care about your age.”

“That’s because he was fifty if he was a day—and nearly toothless to boot. If that’s the sort I’ll have to choose from, I’ll gladly die a maid.”

“After rising from your sick bed to make sure all’s in hand before you go,” Kenneth noted.

“Somebody has to look after you and your father.”

“Aye, and the rest of the folk in Glencleith. Tell me, how many cottages have you visited in the past fortnight? How many complaints have you heard and dealt with on your own without troubling Father?”

Riona smiled. “I dinna mind. And the women feel better bringing their troubles to me.”

“That’s as may be, but it’s a fine job you do, sparing Father worry—although a little worry might do him some good. Maybe if we told him I’ll have no money and you’ll have no dowry, that’ll finally make him see the light.”

Riona sighed and leaned back against the wooden palisade. It creaked so precariously, she immediately straightened. “How I wish Uncle had plenty of money and a fine estate, that he could live as he would, without a care in the world. It’s no more than he deserves, for a kinder, more generous man doesn’t live. He’d teach these Norman lords about hospitality.”

“Aye, that he would.” Kenneth brushed a lock of his curly hair out of his eyes, then kicked at a stone near his toe. “Some day, Riona, things will be better. I promise.”

“At least our people can be happy knowing you’ll be just as fine a lord as your father, although perhaps a little more practical.”

That brought a smile to Kenneth’s freckled face that still had more lad than man in it. “I hope so. Tell me, do ye think Old Man Mac Dougan’s really as sick as he claims? He’s been dying—or claiming to be—since I can remember.”

“Aye, I do,” Riona replied. “He was that pale, I’m sure he isna well. I tried to get him to leave that drafty cottage of his, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Just took the food and fuel you brought him, is that it?”

“Aye, but I worry about him, there by himself. Maybe I can persuade—”

“Ooooh, there was a fine lass from Killamagroooooo!” a male voice bellowed in song beyond the gates.

They both stiffened, like a hound on the scent.

“There’s Father now,” Kenneth unnecessarily said, for there was only one man in Glencleith who sang so loudly and lustily. “He sounds happy. Very happy.”

Riona didn’t point out that Uncle Fergus usually sounded happy. If he sounded unhappy, that would be cause for surprise.

“Here’s hoping he got a good price for the wool, then,” she said as she opened the gate.

“Here’s hoping he hasn’t brought back half a dozen tinkers or paupers he met along the way,” Kenneth added as he hurried to help her. “I should have gone with him. I would have, if he hadn’t left before I got back from hunting. I half think he did that on purpose.”

In the interest of family harmony, Riona didn’t tell Kenneth he was right. She’d tried to talk Uncle Fergus into waiting for his son’s return, only to have him wave her off and say he’d been dealing in wool since before she was born. That was true, but Riona also suspected he’d been getting cheated since before she was born, too.

“If he’s in a good mood,” Kenneth proposed, “now might be the best time to suggest he be more…or less—”

“I’ll speak to him right away,” Riona replied. Delaying wasn’t going to make her task any easier.

Through their unguarded gate came their ancient nag pulling a cart with tufts of wool clinging to the rickety sides. Uncle Fergus was perched on the seat, his feileadh belted low beneath his ample stomach, his linen shirt half-untucked. Wisps of his shoulder-length iron-gray hair had escaped from the leather thong he used to tie it back. He looked disheveled enough that Riona might have suspected he’d been drinking, except that Uncle Fergus rarely imbibed to excess, and never in the village.

“And I brought her hooooome from Killama-groooo!” he finished with a flourish before beaming down on his son and niece like a triumphant general home from a long and tough campaign.

“Ah, here you are and both together!” he cried, tossing aside the reins and rising. He spread his arms as if he wanted to embrace the whole of the small fortress, walls, stone buildings and all. “Riona, my beauty, I have such news for you!”