Margaret Mallory - The Sinner

Alex knew she chose Ùna for the task because the lass had a special need for healing.

“These will bring healing and protection to each of us in the months ahead,” Glynis said, as she cut a strip of cloth for every member of the household to leave outside the door for Saint Brigid to bless.

Alex took his to please her, though Glynis had already healed his wounds.

The last ritual of the night, after the feast, was for the head of the household to smother the fire and rake the ashes smooth. In the morning, they would look for signs of the saint’s visit in the ashes. Alex made quick work of the task, for it was the last thing between him and taking his wife upstairs to bed.

Later that night as he lay with her in his arms, Alex thought of his blessings and the many changes wrought in his life over the past months. As Teàrlag predicted, Glynis had fulfilled his deepest desires.

“Ye gave me everything I longed for but didn’t believe I deserved,” he told her. “And ye made me a far better man than I thought I could be.”

“I look forward to every day with ye,” she said, as she rested her palm over his heart. “Ye make me so happy.”

He did make her happy. But then, Glynis had surprised him from the start.

HISTORICAL NOTE

One of the joys of doing research for a historical novel is discovering real-life characters and events that no one would believe if you made them up. Happily, sixteenth-century Scotland is a treasure trove of such finds, and I included a number of them in this book. After five hundred years, many details are unavailable or disputed, and the line between historical fact and legend blurs. This, of course, gives a fiction writer room for imagination.

Shaggy Maclean and Catherine Campbell did marry. The incident with the tidal rock, including Shaggy’s subsequent visit to the Campbells, is a well-known tale, though these events occurred a few years later than I make them. In 1523, Shaggy was murdered in Edinburgh, probably dirked in bed. It was generally believed that John Campbell, Thane of Cawdor, was responsible.

John Campbell’s wife, Muriel, is also a real historical figure. According to the stories, Muriel was stolen by the Campbells from outside Cawdor Castle when she was very young, was raised in the Campbell chieftain’s household, was married to John at twelve, and had a happy marriage. I was lucky enough to visit Cawdor Castle and see a carved mantel commemorating their marriage.

James IV’s death in the Battle of Flodden led to a long minority rule by his son, which fostered factional fights for power. Under the dead king’s will, Margaret Tudor, who was his widow and also Henry VIII’s sister, initially served as regent. The Douglas chieftain, who makes an appearance in The Guardian and is mentioned in this book, became her lover in a bid to control the Crown. Douglas overplayed his hand, however, when he married her. As a result, Margaret Tudor lost the regency. While Margaret took refuge in England, Douglas helped himself to her funds and took up with another woman. His marriage never recovered, but for three years, he held his teenage stepson, James V, as a virtual prisoner and ruled on his behalf.

Antoine D’Arcy, a French nobleman known as the White Knight, was a real person who came to Scotland to assist the next regent, the Duke of Albany. Apparently, D’Arcy had visited Scotland earlier to participate in jousting tournaments. As with the other historical figures, I filled in his personality to suit my story.

My character Connor’s half uncles are loosely based on the real sons of Hugh, the first MacDonald of Sleat chieftain. Because Hugh named two of his sons Donald and two Angus, I changed most of their names to reduce confusion. My version of how two of these men were captured is wholly fictional, but the manner of their deaths is consistent with stories told about them.

I based Magnus Clanranald on a Clanranald chieftain named Dougal. The real Clanranald chieftain was actually assassinated by members of his own clan, and his sons were excluded from the succession to the chieftainship.

I adjusted travel times as well as the dates of some events to suit my story. Except for Dunfaileag, all of the castles mentioned in this book existed, though some are in ruins now. There is a Loch Eynort on South Uist, but I have no idea if it has secret bays and inlets. I hope I can visit it one day and find out.

Look for the third book in

this sizzling series featuring

fearless Highlanders! *

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Available in November 2012

CHAPTER 1

ISLE OF SKYE, SCOTLAND

1508

Duncan MacDonald could defeat any warrior in the castle—and yet, he was powerless against his chieftain’s seventeen-year-old daughter.

“As soon as my father leaves the hall,” Moira whispered, leaning close enough to make him light-headed, “I’ll meet ye outside by the ash tree.”

Duncan should refuse her, but he may as well try to stop his heart from beating.

“I’ve told ye not to speak to me here,” he said, glancing about the long room filled with their clansmen and the chieftain’s guests from Ireland. “Someone might notice.”

When Moira turned to look straight at him with her midnight-blue eyes, Duncan felt as if a fist slammed into his chest. That had happened the first time she looked at him— really looked at him—and every time since.

“Why would anyone take notice if I speak with my brother Connor’s best friend?” she asked.

Perhaps because she had ignored him the first seventeen years of her life? It was still a mystery to him how that had changed.

“Go now—Ragnall is watching us,” he said when he felt her older brother’s eyes on him. Unlike Moira and Connor, Ragnall took after his father—he was short-tempered, fair-haired, and built like a bull. He was also the only warrior in the clan Duncan was not certain he could defeat at arms.

“I won’t go until ye say you’ll meet me later.” Moira folded her arms, but amusement quirked up the corners of her full lips, reminding Duncan that this was a game to her.

But if her father learned that Duncan was sneaking off with his only daughter, he’d murder him on the spot. Duncan turned and left the hall without bothering to answer—Moira knew he’d be there.

As he waited for her in the dark, he listened to the soft lap of the sea on the shore. There was no mist on the Misty Isle of Skye tonight, and Dunscaith Castle was beautiful, ablaze with torchlight against the clear night sky. He had grown up in the castle and seen this sight a thousand times—but Duncan took nothing for granted.

His mother had served as nursemaid to the chieftain’s children, and he and Connor had been best friends since the cradle. From the time they could lift wooden swords, the two of them and Connor’s cousins, Alex and Ian, were trained in the art of war. When they weren’t practicing with their weapons, they were off looking for adventure—or trouble—and they usually found it.

Moira had always been apart, a coddled princess dressed in finery. Duncan had little to do with the lovely, wee creature whose laughter often filled the castle.

Duncan heard the rustle of silk skirts and saw Moira running toward him. Even in the dark and covered head to toe in a cloak, he could pick her out of a thousand women. Though she couldn’t possibly see what was in her path, Moira ran headlong, expecting no impediment. No stone tripped her, for even the fairies favored this lass.

When Moira threw her arms around his neck, Duncan closed his eyes and lost himself in her womanly softness. He breathed in the scent of her hair, and it was like lying in a field of wildflowers.