Spring romance at the ca.., p.24
Spring Romance at the Castle, page 24
Working Man Series
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Excerpt from Summer’s Reign
Summer’s Reign
(Seasons of Fortitude Series – Book 2)
Sir Warren Mowbray arrived in Berkshire, having left France as soon as he’d gotten word of Queen Philippa’s death. Not having taken the time to bathe or change his clothes, he arrived at the Chapel of Edward the Confessor where he knew he’d find the king. Still wearing his bloodstained, torn clothes as well as his chain mail, he hurried to his sovereign’s side. As a captain of the king’s army, Warren had led troops to victory in the south of France.
“Sir War,” said his squire, Rigg, all but running after him down the corridor as Warren took large strides. Warren’s legs were much longer than Rigg’s since he was even taller than the average man. “Sir War, wait for me.” Rigg held on to Warren’s helm as well as his partial armor, almost dropping the things in the process.
“Keep up, Squire,” he grumbled, heading to the chapel. “I cannot believe the queen died almost a sennight ago, and yet it’s taken me this long to hear about it and get here.”
“If it weren’t for the storm, the ship would have docked yesterday,” his squire reminded him.
“Still not fast enough,” Warren complained, feeling the urgency to be at the king’s side in such a time of despair. He was twenty-two years of age and one of the king’s most valuable warriors. At the young age of ten and six years, he’d proven himself capable of anything, being knighted four or five years earlier than most squires. Then again, his height and build made him look like a man much sooner than most boys. “Let me see the king,” Warren told a guard at the chapel. He was anxious to meet with Edward and he was not willing to wait.
“He’s in the chapel where he mourns his late wife,” said the guard. “I will tell him you request an audience with him later today, Sir War.”
Warren didn’t particularly like being called Sir War, but the king had started it, so there wasn’t much he could say about it.
“Nay, don’t bother.” Warren turned on his heel, heading toward the door of the chapel. “I’ll announce myself.”
“But my lord, you are not dressed appropriately to meet the king. Especially not in a place of worship.”
“I’m sure my God would not turn me away when he was the one to put me in this position to begin with.” Warren had been a warrior for as long as he could remember. He’d climbed the ranks faster than anyone because of his luck in winning battles. Luck, that is, that had to have come from God Himself since he couldn’t even remember giving some of the commands that had brought his troops to victory.
“Allow me,” said Rigg, shifting the things in his arms so he could open the door leading into the chapel. The helm fell in the process. When Rigg grabbed for it, his hand slipped off the handle of the door. Warren’s hand shot out to keep the chapel door from closing. The helm dropped to the floor, clanging loudly against the stone, causing everyone inside the chapel to look up as he entered.
Someone slammed into his chest. His hands went out to stop the fool from running him over.
“Watch where you’re going,” he spat, realizing after he’d spoken that it wasn’t a man, but rather a woman. She was a petite thing with long, blond hair pinned atop her head. When he put his hands up to stop her, she stumbled and fell to the floor, ending up on her rump.
A gasp was heard from inside the chapel. When he looked up, he saw the king scowling at him from down the long aisle that led to the altar. Stained glass windows lined the smooth, stone walls, letting in streams of sunlight. The finest beeswax candles burned from atop tall, wooden, carved spindles around the perimeter of the room. Edward’s usual infatuation with the game of chess was depicted in the checkered, two-toned marble floor that reminded Warren of a chessboard. There was soft harp music playing from an upper gallery. Although there was no priest or mass in session, people gathered to pray for Philippa’s soul.
There was a small crowd inside consisting of some of the nobles of the king’s court. But there were others that he’d never seen before. Three of the men he didn’t know shot to their feet and hurried toward him.
“I’m sorry,” said Warren, not meaning to throw a woman to the ground inside the chapel. Even though he had a horrid reputation for being harsh and commanding, pushing ladies around was not his style.
He offered his hand to help her up. The woman looked up at him with bright green eyes that reminded him of a cat. Golden strands of hair so light that they almost looked white, framed her heart-shaped face. Long fingers reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her skin was alabaster and as smooth as a tranquil sea on a windless night. The girl was beautiful! It had been a long time since he’d been around a lady and he couldn’t stop himself from staring. There was no doubt she was a noble, as her gown was of a dark, royal purple velvet with gold cord lacing up the front of her bodice. She wore a thin, gold chain around her neck and a sparkling jeweled diadem upon her head. “Give me your hand, my lady, and I’ll help you to your feet.”
Summer’s Reign
Excerpt from Restless Sea Lord
Restless Sea Lord
(Legendary Bastards of the Crown Series - Book 1)
“I’m on my way.” Rowen walked around the corner of the building and when he did, he thought he saw movement in the shadows. Someone had been eavesdropping on their conversation and was hiding behind the rain barrel.
He ripped his sword from his side, reaching around the barrel with his free hand, and yanked the eavesdropper out into the open. He planned on slitting the man’s throat but stopped when he felt the small size of his arms. The sneak’s hood fell back revealing his face. Rowen swore under his breath when he realized it wasn’t a man at all but rather the witch lady from inside the tavern.
“Damn you!” he spat. “How long have you been hiding there?” He’d been so distracted by thoughts of his sister that he hadn’t even noticed the wench had followed him. This wasn’t good. If she’d heard their entire conversation, she could ruin everything.
“Let me go, Rowen the Restless,” she said, struggling in his grip.
“You know who I am?”
“I didn’t need to hear you and your brothers to figure it out. I saw your birds.”
Damn. Rowen knew those birds were going to give them trouble someday. His brothers had been way too careless. “You know too much,” he growled.
“Lady Cordelia, are you back here?” Her guard came around the corner. Just when Rowen was sure she was going to shout out, he did the only thing he could to shut her up. He pulled her into his arms and covered her mouth with his and kissed her hard.
“Lady Cordelia?” asked the guard, stopping in his tracks. “Are you all right?”
Rowen heard the sound of shouting and the war cries of his brothers and their armies, realizing the fools must have thought his kissing the wench was the signal to attack. Well, now that the plan was in action, he had no choice but to join them in their ploy.
Spinning on his heel, he hit the guard in the head with the hilt of his sword, sending the man sprawling on the ground.
“Nay!” Cordelia cried out. Rowen pulled her out of the way as a dagger whizzed past her ear and embedded itself into the rain barrel. Water spouted out, hitting the guard in the face. The man’s eyes opened and he sputtered, hurrying to get to his knees.
“God’s eyes, I don’t have time to protect you now,” Rowen said, kicking the sword out of the guard’s hand and then turning around to meet one of the king’s soldiers head on. Swiping his sword forward, he sank it into the soldier’s chest before the man could do the same to him. Cordelia screamed at seeing all the blood. She was going to ruin everything! “Keep your mouth shut unless you want to lose your head,” he warned, this time blocking her with his body as his brother, Reed, tossed a guard through the air. The man landed at their feet, and Cordelia peeked out from behind him and screamed again.
“Sorry about that,” called out Reed. “I didna see the lassie there.”
“You’ve got a girl?” shouted Rook, taking down two guards with ease. “This isn’t the time for that, you fool. Do something with her.”
“Just do your job and get the guards away from the cart and let me worry about the wench,” he spat, seeing a soldier running toward him with his sword drawn. Dressed the way she was, looking like an old hag, no one was going to think a noblewoman was right in the midst of the battle. And they wouldn’t care if a peasant was killed in the fight.
Brody climbed into the driver’s seat of the cart and waved his arm through the air to get Rowen’s attention, while his brothers kept the rest of the soldiers at bay. They had to leave now if they were to have any chance at all of getting the goods to the ship and away from the coast without being caught.
“Go,” he shouted, signaling Brody who slapped the reins and started the horses moving forward. The battle was still in full swing and he couldn’t just leave the wench there unprotected. Besides, she’d heard too much. With one word from her, their operation could be blown apart. He had no choice but to take her with him.
“Let me go,” she cried out as he pulled her by the arm toward the approaching cart. When Brody passed by with the goods, Rowen tossed her into the back of the wagon. Managing to fight off another soldier, he then jumped up into the cart with her. They sped away toward the Sea Mirage, with Rowen wondering how he was going to explain this one to his brothers and his crew.
Restless Sea Lord
Excerpt from Aidan
Aidan
Madman MacKeefe Series - Book 2
Only a madman would use a stone for his pillow. The Stone of Destiny to be precise.
Aidan MacKeefe tossed restlessly in his sleep, having used the Stone of Destiny as his pillow for the last six months now, hoping to have prophetic dreams. Supposedly, the stone was used back in the days of the Bible, and Jacob had used this exact stone and had dreams of angels.
Aidan was in the middle of a dream. Mist surrounded him in his little, stone cottage in the MacKeefe camp. He couldn’t see anything in the darkened room. Then the door opened, and in the bright light – he saw an angel. The angel walked toward him, covered with a long, white, hooded cloak, her fiery red tresses falling in ringlets down to her shoulders. Stopping in front of him, she peeked out from under the hood. While he couldn’t see her face well in the dark, he could still see her wide, green eyes that reminded him of the color of the moors on a warm summer’s day. Her gaze steadied upon him. She lit a candle in her hand, illuminating her face beneath the hood.
Her skin was fair, like alabaster, and a smattering of fine freckles trailed down her nose and spread to her rosy cheeks. Aye, she was a bonnie lass. Although he couldn’t see her body under the robe, he was sure it matched her beauty. He wanted her badly. Then she smiled at him, and her laugh rang out across the room like the sweet song of a small meadow pipit, bringing with it a fragile innocence to its tone. She was a fine angel. A perfect Scottish angel. Aidan wanted naught more than to reach out his hands and touch her, but something weighed him down and he could not move.
As she reached out to him, he saw a strawberry birthmark on the inside of her arm that looked like . . . a skull. He jerked away from her touch. Then she turned away from him and nodded toward the door. Aidan’s attention focused across the small room. To his horror, he saw English soldiers following her into the cottage with their weapons drawn.
Aidan tried to cry out for help, but couldn’t speak. He tried to reach for his sword at his side, but couldn’t move. Then his eyes scanned down her body and, to his horror, he saw sticking out from the back of her robe right by her doup – a tail. A furry red tail! It reached out and brushed across his face. In his only form of defense, he leaned forward . . . and bit it.
The sickening screech of an animal cried out, pulling him from his slumber. Aidan’s eyes popped open, bringing him out of the dream and he sat up quickly, not knowing what was happening.
Then he saw Reid, his pet red squirrel scurrying off his chest, scolding him, running in circles around the room. The door opened, but instead of his dream angel, his friend, Ian, stood there with a dour expression upon his face.
“What in the clootie’s name was that screech?” asked Ian. His tall, muscular form filled the entire doorway. His dark hair looked wet as if he’d just come from bathing in the loch.
Aidan jumped up, realizing he was fully clothed, and that it was well into the morning hours. Then he remembered taking a nap, too full to move after eating his fill of skirlie, an oatmeal and onion dish topped off with a goose egg. The food for the clan had been prepared by his younger sister, Kyla, and the chieftain’s wife, Wren.
The door pushed open from behind Ian, and there stood their good friend, Onyx. Onyx had recently married an Englishwoman, Lady Lovelle of Worcestershire, after finding out that his true family was English, not Scottish at all.
“Aidan, ye dunderhead,” spat Onyx, spying the squirrel running around the room in a heated frenzy. Onyx’s two different-colored eyes stared back at him in question. “What did ye do to yer squirrel?”
“I think I bit its tail,” he said, running a hand through his hair and leaning back against the stone. The Stone of Scone, or Stone of Destiny as most called it, was a large, black basalt rock with ancient hieroglyphs etched into it. It had iron-looped handles embedded into the sides to use for carrying with a pole through it. The stone was very heavy, and took at least two full-grown men to move it – if they were strong. He’d embedded the thick stone into the dirt of the cottage floor to lower it, and pulled his pallet over it, to use it as his personal pillow.
“Were ye hungry so soon after eatin’ so much skirlie?” asked Ian, walking into the room and sitting down. Onyx followed, leaving the door wide open. The summer sun spilled into the cottage, lighting it up and bringing with it a fresh breeze from the Highland hills.
“Nay, I had a dream.” Aidan settled himself atop the stone and donned his leather shoes that laced around his legs. Highlanders often went barefoot in the summer, unless they were traveling, like they would be today. “She was a bonnie angel with red hair, I tell ye.”
“And so ye bit her?” asked Onyx, pulling up a chair and making himself comfortable. He raised an eyebrow in amusement, his one orange eye shining in the sun from the door, while his other black eye stayed in shadow. Most people thought Onyx was a madman because of his eyes. All three of the friends were madmen, and Aidan prided himself of the fact. If there was an outlandish or dangerous act or activity suggested, they were the first to try it just for excitement.
Aidan
Excerpt from Lady Renegade
Lady Renegade
Legacy of the Blade Series - Book 2
Prologue
Scotland, 1343
“Keep that bairned bitch of yers quiet, Storm.” Chieftain Ian MacKeefe’s hoarse whisper came through gritted teeth.
Storm MacKeefe knew his father was looking for a fight, and the small band of English soldiers heading straight for them was his target.
“Da, she’s only tryin’ to protect us.” Storm ran his hand over the Scottish Deerhound’s matted fur. Immediately, the hound stopped growling. Noticing the bright moonbeams streaking across the dog’s head, he pulled her back into the shadows of the thatched Highland cottage they were using for cover.
“She’ll be no guid to us until after the pups are born,” snapped the chieftain, eyeing the dog’s large stomach. “She’s going to alert those English bastards that we’re here.”
Storm didn’t respond. He only clenched his jaw and nodded to his father who was sitting majestically high upon his steed. As usual, he didn’t agree with the man, but decided this wasn’t the time for a confrontation. For twenty years, he followed his domineering father loyally, not daring to defy the man’s word in public as he tried to live up to what was expected of a chieftain’s son.
But tonight, something was different. Though the breeze was fairly warm, he felt a shiver run the length of his spine. A mist swirled around his ankles as the night rolled in, the air hanging heavy around him. He didn’t understand his own apprehension, but a feeling deep inside warned him he should have left his pregnant hound back at camp with the women and children of the clan.
Hoofbeats and wagon wheels crashed over rocky terrain, and slowed almost to a stop as the English soldiers approached the cottage.
“Get ready to attack,” whispered Ian MacKeefe, raising his hand above his head to gain the full attention of his silent warriors. Then in a low mumble he said, “Let’s show these English curs no mercy for passin’ over MacKeefe lands.”
“Da, nay!” Storm held the reins of his horse in one hand, as he reached up to grab his father’s idle wrist.
Ian’s eyes darted to Storm’s grip before slowly making a path to his face. Storm released his hold, startled at the unspoken pain now burning in his father’s eyes. Ian’s craggy brows dipped in frustration as he shook his head slowly.
“Ye just dinna understand, Son, do ye?”
“Nay,” answered Storm. “I dinna understand why ye always choose battle over peace.”
Storm felt his father’s disapproval raining down on him like hellfire from the sky. The chieftain’s penetrating gaze seemed to burn a hole clear through to his very soul.
“Mount yer horse, Son. And dinna try to stop me again, for I thought I’ve raised ye better than to question my word,” warned his father.
The Deerhound growled once again at the English soldiers, and Storm found himself thinking that even this docile dog by nature had grown to be a killer. He never wanted to train the dog to kill anything but deer and small game to help feed the clan, but he found himself doing it anyway to please his father.
Western Series:
Cowboys of the Old West Series
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Please visit http://elizabethrosenovels.com
Excerpt from Summer’s Reign
Summer’s Reign
(Seasons of Fortitude Series – Book 2)
Sir Warren Mowbray arrived in Berkshire, having left France as soon as he’d gotten word of Queen Philippa’s death. Not having taken the time to bathe or change his clothes, he arrived at the Chapel of Edward the Confessor where he knew he’d find the king. Still wearing his bloodstained, torn clothes as well as his chain mail, he hurried to his sovereign’s side. As a captain of the king’s army, Warren had led troops to victory in the south of France.
“Sir War,” said his squire, Rigg, all but running after him down the corridor as Warren took large strides. Warren’s legs were much longer than Rigg’s since he was even taller than the average man. “Sir War, wait for me.” Rigg held on to Warren’s helm as well as his partial armor, almost dropping the things in the process.
“Keep up, Squire,” he grumbled, heading to the chapel. “I cannot believe the queen died almost a sennight ago, and yet it’s taken me this long to hear about it and get here.”
“If it weren’t for the storm, the ship would have docked yesterday,” his squire reminded him.
“Still not fast enough,” Warren complained, feeling the urgency to be at the king’s side in such a time of despair. He was twenty-two years of age and one of the king’s most valuable warriors. At the young age of ten and six years, he’d proven himself capable of anything, being knighted four or five years earlier than most squires. Then again, his height and build made him look like a man much sooner than most boys. “Let me see the king,” Warren told a guard at the chapel. He was anxious to meet with Edward and he was not willing to wait.
“He’s in the chapel where he mourns his late wife,” said the guard. “I will tell him you request an audience with him later today, Sir War.”
Warren didn’t particularly like being called Sir War, but the king had started it, so there wasn’t much he could say about it.
“Nay, don’t bother.” Warren turned on his heel, heading toward the door of the chapel. “I’ll announce myself.”
“But my lord, you are not dressed appropriately to meet the king. Especially not in a place of worship.”
“I’m sure my God would not turn me away when he was the one to put me in this position to begin with.” Warren had been a warrior for as long as he could remember. He’d climbed the ranks faster than anyone because of his luck in winning battles. Luck, that is, that had to have come from God Himself since he couldn’t even remember giving some of the commands that had brought his troops to victory.
“Allow me,” said Rigg, shifting the things in his arms so he could open the door leading into the chapel. The helm fell in the process. When Rigg grabbed for it, his hand slipped off the handle of the door. Warren’s hand shot out to keep the chapel door from closing. The helm dropped to the floor, clanging loudly against the stone, causing everyone inside the chapel to look up as he entered.
Someone slammed into his chest. His hands went out to stop the fool from running him over.
“Watch where you’re going,” he spat, realizing after he’d spoken that it wasn’t a man, but rather a woman. She was a petite thing with long, blond hair pinned atop her head. When he put his hands up to stop her, she stumbled and fell to the floor, ending up on her rump.
A gasp was heard from inside the chapel. When he looked up, he saw the king scowling at him from down the long aisle that led to the altar. Stained glass windows lined the smooth, stone walls, letting in streams of sunlight. The finest beeswax candles burned from atop tall, wooden, carved spindles around the perimeter of the room. Edward’s usual infatuation with the game of chess was depicted in the checkered, two-toned marble floor that reminded Warren of a chessboard. There was soft harp music playing from an upper gallery. Although there was no priest or mass in session, people gathered to pray for Philippa’s soul.
There was a small crowd inside consisting of some of the nobles of the king’s court. But there were others that he’d never seen before. Three of the men he didn’t know shot to their feet and hurried toward him.
“I’m sorry,” said Warren, not meaning to throw a woman to the ground inside the chapel. Even though he had a horrid reputation for being harsh and commanding, pushing ladies around was not his style.
He offered his hand to help her up. The woman looked up at him with bright green eyes that reminded him of a cat. Golden strands of hair so light that they almost looked white, framed her heart-shaped face. Long fingers reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her skin was alabaster and as smooth as a tranquil sea on a windless night. The girl was beautiful! It had been a long time since he’d been around a lady and he couldn’t stop himself from staring. There was no doubt she was a noble, as her gown was of a dark, royal purple velvet with gold cord lacing up the front of her bodice. She wore a thin, gold chain around her neck and a sparkling jeweled diadem upon her head. “Give me your hand, my lady, and I’ll help you to your feet.”
Summer’s Reign
Excerpt from Restless Sea Lord
Restless Sea Lord
(Legendary Bastards of the Crown Series - Book 1)
“I’m on my way.” Rowen walked around the corner of the building and when he did, he thought he saw movement in the shadows. Someone had been eavesdropping on their conversation and was hiding behind the rain barrel.
He ripped his sword from his side, reaching around the barrel with his free hand, and yanked the eavesdropper out into the open. He planned on slitting the man’s throat but stopped when he felt the small size of his arms. The sneak’s hood fell back revealing his face. Rowen swore under his breath when he realized it wasn’t a man at all but rather the witch lady from inside the tavern.
“Damn you!” he spat. “How long have you been hiding there?” He’d been so distracted by thoughts of his sister that he hadn’t even noticed the wench had followed him. This wasn’t good. If she’d heard their entire conversation, she could ruin everything.
“Let me go, Rowen the Restless,” she said, struggling in his grip.
“You know who I am?”
“I didn’t need to hear you and your brothers to figure it out. I saw your birds.”
Damn. Rowen knew those birds were going to give them trouble someday. His brothers had been way too careless. “You know too much,” he growled.
“Lady Cordelia, are you back here?” Her guard came around the corner. Just when Rowen was sure she was going to shout out, he did the only thing he could to shut her up. He pulled her into his arms and covered her mouth with his and kissed her hard.
“Lady Cordelia?” asked the guard, stopping in his tracks. “Are you all right?”
Rowen heard the sound of shouting and the war cries of his brothers and their armies, realizing the fools must have thought his kissing the wench was the signal to attack. Well, now that the plan was in action, he had no choice but to join them in their ploy.
Spinning on his heel, he hit the guard in the head with the hilt of his sword, sending the man sprawling on the ground.
“Nay!” Cordelia cried out. Rowen pulled her out of the way as a dagger whizzed past her ear and embedded itself into the rain barrel. Water spouted out, hitting the guard in the face. The man’s eyes opened and he sputtered, hurrying to get to his knees.
“God’s eyes, I don’t have time to protect you now,” Rowen said, kicking the sword out of the guard’s hand and then turning around to meet one of the king’s soldiers head on. Swiping his sword forward, he sank it into the soldier’s chest before the man could do the same to him. Cordelia screamed at seeing all the blood. She was going to ruin everything! “Keep your mouth shut unless you want to lose your head,” he warned, this time blocking her with his body as his brother, Reed, tossed a guard through the air. The man landed at their feet, and Cordelia peeked out from behind him and screamed again.
“Sorry about that,” called out Reed. “I didna see the lassie there.”
“You’ve got a girl?” shouted Rook, taking down two guards with ease. “This isn’t the time for that, you fool. Do something with her.”
“Just do your job and get the guards away from the cart and let me worry about the wench,” he spat, seeing a soldier running toward him with his sword drawn. Dressed the way she was, looking like an old hag, no one was going to think a noblewoman was right in the midst of the battle. And they wouldn’t care if a peasant was killed in the fight.
Brody climbed into the driver’s seat of the cart and waved his arm through the air to get Rowen’s attention, while his brothers kept the rest of the soldiers at bay. They had to leave now if they were to have any chance at all of getting the goods to the ship and away from the coast without being caught.
“Go,” he shouted, signaling Brody who slapped the reins and started the horses moving forward. The battle was still in full swing and he couldn’t just leave the wench there unprotected. Besides, she’d heard too much. With one word from her, their operation could be blown apart. He had no choice but to take her with him.
“Let me go,” she cried out as he pulled her by the arm toward the approaching cart. When Brody passed by with the goods, Rowen tossed her into the back of the wagon. Managing to fight off another soldier, he then jumped up into the cart with her. They sped away toward the Sea Mirage, with Rowen wondering how he was going to explain this one to his brothers and his crew.
Restless Sea Lord
Excerpt from Aidan
Aidan
Madman MacKeefe Series - Book 2
Only a madman would use a stone for his pillow. The Stone of Destiny to be precise.
Aidan MacKeefe tossed restlessly in his sleep, having used the Stone of Destiny as his pillow for the last six months now, hoping to have prophetic dreams. Supposedly, the stone was used back in the days of the Bible, and Jacob had used this exact stone and had dreams of angels.
Aidan was in the middle of a dream. Mist surrounded him in his little, stone cottage in the MacKeefe camp. He couldn’t see anything in the darkened room. Then the door opened, and in the bright light – he saw an angel. The angel walked toward him, covered with a long, white, hooded cloak, her fiery red tresses falling in ringlets down to her shoulders. Stopping in front of him, she peeked out from under the hood. While he couldn’t see her face well in the dark, he could still see her wide, green eyes that reminded him of the color of the moors on a warm summer’s day. Her gaze steadied upon him. She lit a candle in her hand, illuminating her face beneath the hood.
Her skin was fair, like alabaster, and a smattering of fine freckles trailed down her nose and spread to her rosy cheeks. Aye, she was a bonnie lass. Although he couldn’t see her body under the robe, he was sure it matched her beauty. He wanted her badly. Then she smiled at him, and her laugh rang out across the room like the sweet song of a small meadow pipit, bringing with it a fragile innocence to its tone. She was a fine angel. A perfect Scottish angel. Aidan wanted naught more than to reach out his hands and touch her, but something weighed him down and he could not move.
As she reached out to him, he saw a strawberry birthmark on the inside of her arm that looked like . . . a skull. He jerked away from her touch. Then she turned away from him and nodded toward the door. Aidan’s attention focused across the small room. To his horror, he saw English soldiers following her into the cottage with their weapons drawn.
Aidan tried to cry out for help, but couldn’t speak. He tried to reach for his sword at his side, but couldn’t move. Then his eyes scanned down her body and, to his horror, he saw sticking out from the back of her robe right by her doup – a tail. A furry red tail! It reached out and brushed across his face. In his only form of defense, he leaned forward . . . and bit it.
The sickening screech of an animal cried out, pulling him from his slumber. Aidan’s eyes popped open, bringing him out of the dream and he sat up quickly, not knowing what was happening.
Then he saw Reid, his pet red squirrel scurrying off his chest, scolding him, running in circles around the room. The door opened, but instead of his dream angel, his friend, Ian, stood there with a dour expression upon his face.
“What in the clootie’s name was that screech?” asked Ian. His tall, muscular form filled the entire doorway. His dark hair looked wet as if he’d just come from bathing in the loch.
Aidan jumped up, realizing he was fully clothed, and that it was well into the morning hours. Then he remembered taking a nap, too full to move after eating his fill of skirlie, an oatmeal and onion dish topped off with a goose egg. The food for the clan had been prepared by his younger sister, Kyla, and the chieftain’s wife, Wren.
The door pushed open from behind Ian, and there stood their good friend, Onyx. Onyx had recently married an Englishwoman, Lady Lovelle of Worcestershire, after finding out that his true family was English, not Scottish at all.
“Aidan, ye dunderhead,” spat Onyx, spying the squirrel running around the room in a heated frenzy. Onyx’s two different-colored eyes stared back at him in question. “What did ye do to yer squirrel?”
“I think I bit its tail,” he said, running a hand through his hair and leaning back against the stone. The Stone of Scone, or Stone of Destiny as most called it, was a large, black basalt rock with ancient hieroglyphs etched into it. It had iron-looped handles embedded into the sides to use for carrying with a pole through it. The stone was very heavy, and took at least two full-grown men to move it – if they were strong. He’d embedded the thick stone into the dirt of the cottage floor to lower it, and pulled his pallet over it, to use it as his personal pillow.
“Were ye hungry so soon after eatin’ so much skirlie?” asked Ian, walking into the room and sitting down. Onyx followed, leaving the door wide open. The summer sun spilled into the cottage, lighting it up and bringing with it a fresh breeze from the Highland hills.
“Nay, I had a dream.” Aidan settled himself atop the stone and donned his leather shoes that laced around his legs. Highlanders often went barefoot in the summer, unless they were traveling, like they would be today. “She was a bonnie angel with red hair, I tell ye.”
“And so ye bit her?” asked Onyx, pulling up a chair and making himself comfortable. He raised an eyebrow in amusement, his one orange eye shining in the sun from the door, while his other black eye stayed in shadow. Most people thought Onyx was a madman because of his eyes. All three of the friends were madmen, and Aidan prided himself of the fact. If there was an outlandish or dangerous act or activity suggested, they were the first to try it just for excitement.
Aidan
Excerpt from Lady Renegade
Lady Renegade
Legacy of the Blade Series - Book 2
Prologue
Scotland, 1343
“Keep that bairned bitch of yers quiet, Storm.” Chieftain Ian MacKeefe’s hoarse whisper came through gritted teeth.
Storm MacKeefe knew his father was looking for a fight, and the small band of English soldiers heading straight for them was his target.
“Da, she’s only tryin’ to protect us.” Storm ran his hand over the Scottish Deerhound’s matted fur. Immediately, the hound stopped growling. Noticing the bright moonbeams streaking across the dog’s head, he pulled her back into the shadows of the thatched Highland cottage they were using for cover.
“She’ll be no guid to us until after the pups are born,” snapped the chieftain, eyeing the dog’s large stomach. “She’s going to alert those English bastards that we’re here.”
Storm didn’t respond. He only clenched his jaw and nodded to his father who was sitting majestically high upon his steed. As usual, he didn’t agree with the man, but decided this wasn’t the time for a confrontation. For twenty years, he followed his domineering father loyally, not daring to defy the man’s word in public as he tried to live up to what was expected of a chieftain’s son.
But tonight, something was different. Though the breeze was fairly warm, he felt a shiver run the length of his spine. A mist swirled around his ankles as the night rolled in, the air hanging heavy around him. He didn’t understand his own apprehension, but a feeling deep inside warned him he should have left his pregnant hound back at camp with the women and children of the clan.
Hoofbeats and wagon wheels crashed over rocky terrain, and slowed almost to a stop as the English soldiers approached the cottage.
“Get ready to attack,” whispered Ian MacKeefe, raising his hand above his head to gain the full attention of his silent warriors. Then in a low mumble he said, “Let’s show these English curs no mercy for passin’ over MacKeefe lands.”
“Da, nay!” Storm held the reins of his horse in one hand, as he reached up to grab his father’s idle wrist.
Ian’s eyes darted to Storm’s grip before slowly making a path to his face. Storm released his hold, startled at the unspoken pain now burning in his father’s eyes. Ian’s craggy brows dipped in frustration as he shook his head slowly.
“Ye just dinna understand, Son, do ye?”
“Nay,” answered Storm. “I dinna understand why ye always choose battle over peace.”
Storm felt his father’s disapproval raining down on him like hellfire from the sky. The chieftain’s penetrating gaze seemed to burn a hole clear through to his very soul.
“Mount yer horse, Son. And dinna try to stop me again, for I thought I’ve raised ye better than to question my word,” warned his father.
The Deerhound growled once again at the English soldiers, and Storm found himself thinking that even this docile dog by nature had grown to be a killer. He never wanted to train the dog to kill anything but deer and small game to help feed the clan, but he found himself doing it anyway to please his father.
