Chieftain in the making, p.1
Chieftain In the Making, page 1
Chieftain in the Making
Frances Housden
www.escapepublishing.com.au
Chieftain in the Making
Frances Housden
The award-winning Chieftain series continues in a new, full-length novel about duty, determination and the power of love to heal all wounds.
Rob is the McArthur heir and is determined to prove himself, a resolve that leads to his capture in a battle on the wrong side of the Borders where he is held for ransom at Wolfsdale. He never expects to fall in love with Melinda La Mont, his Norman captor’s daughter, but payment of the ransom means their separation. And though Rob may have lost his heart, he has kept his head and his secrets: La Mont’s manor belonged to his grandfather and Rob knows all of its mysteries.
It takes another battle and the death of the Scottish King to return Rob to Wolfsdale and Melinda. Abduction and capture is the only way to bring Melinda back into his life—and his bed. But she comes with a surprise: twin sons, and an anger that Rob cannot seem to calm. When Melinda reveals that her father considers her sons—his grandsons—his heirs, and will stop at nothing to bring them home, Rob is forced to reconsider his rash decisions, and take responsibility for his actions both in the past and in the present.
With both his family and his land at stake, Rob must decide between the passion of a child and the responsibility of a man, and risk that his love is enough to keep Melinda, and the children he never knew existed, by his side.
About the Author
Frances Housden was first published in contemporary romantic suspense, and even now that she has become immersed in writing Scottish Medieval romance, the elements of suspense always creeps back into her books—a feature that she hopes her readers enjoy as much as she does. Although she now lives in New Zealand, at the other end of the earth from Scotland where she was born, her memories of the Scottish history that surrounded her while growing up now appears in her books.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to give my thanks to my fellow writers at the RWNZ Auckland Chapter for all the support they have shown me for over twenty years as a member, and for all the good friends I have made over those years as a RWNZ member.
I’d like to dedicate this book to my editors at Harlequin Australia because of their faith in me. This is for Kate Cuthbert at Escape Publishing, Sue Brockhoff at Mira Australia, and for Sam Joice, the go-to girl at the Harlequin offices, for all her help, and Lilia Kanna for supporting me in San Antonio when The Chieftain’s Curse was nominated for a RITA award—as well as all the others at the Harlequin offices in Sydney.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
Prologue
Year of our Lord 1091
Ransom.
Never in the whole of his admittedly short lifetime had Rob McArthur imagined the word passing his lips. And over those self-same years, in many dreams where he had watched his return to Wolfsdale, he hadn’t envisaged himself a prisoner, hands bound, eyes blindfolded.
Shame ran deep in his veins for choosing ransom instead of cold steel when he was captured. Aye, it mortified him to behave the way that, according to his uncle Gavyn Farquhar, came naturally to the French. Aye, as well as yon bluidy Norman knights—the ones who’d captured him—did when they were in fear for their lives. Truth be told, Rob didnae fear dying as much as he did letting down his father. Only son of the McArthur clan chieftain—only heir—he had departed the formidable cliff top housing Cragenlaw Castle accompanied by a group of clansmen, every one of them young and eager for battle—like Rob, all intent on following in the footsteps of King Malcolm Canmore.
Doing his duty.
Experiencing the reality of all the warcraft he had learned frae his father.
Making the McArthur proud.
Aye, with Rob’s complex family history, he owed the McArthur too much to dare disappoint him by ending his days at the hands of the Normans. Until the unfortunate incident of his capture, he and his wee friend Nhaimeth had been keen on having a grand adventure into Northumbria, desirous of taking part in their first battle beyond Scotland’s border. The undertaking, meant to be the culmination of all he and Nhaimeth had been taught by his father and uncle, had ended on a day that was almost his last.
Under his command, his clansmen had formed part of a shield wall on the right flank—a wall that had buckled under the onslaught of mounted Norman knights. He could still see it all around him. The wounded—Scots ,Saxon and Norman alike—lay bleeding, dying in their gore. He thanked God that Nhaimeth had survived the mêlée.
Aye, it wasnae a day he remembered with pride, considering he had wanted to weep. Not simply for his own sake, or the deaths of his men. Nae, he had lost his mount—his auld friend Diabhal—during the battle. For years the great black destrier had served first his father then himself, not only well, bravely. Normally surefooted, his auld friend had stumbled on the battlefield, breaking a leg and tipping Rob over its neck onto the ground. Although it had almost shattered that hardy organ he called his heart, Rob had done as his father would have expected and put all that magical symmetry of flesh, blood and bone out of its misery.
That’s when he had been captured.
It was a memory he avoided, one that brought the harsh sting of unshed tears to his eyes. Grief for the loss of friends could still make his vision blur. If it hadn’t been for the company of bonnie Melinda, Rob felt he would have gone crazy, hampered by all the restrictions of his confinement.
Rob’s long dead uncle, Doughall Farquhar would most likely be laughing at the irony of Rob’s imprisonment at Wolfsdale. There would little else to bring him pleasure down in Hell. The thought made Rob catch the inside of his cheek betwixt his back teeth.
Hadn’t it been the Moor Kalem and the lecherous Doughall’s corrupt intentions that sent an eleven-year-auld Rob, fleeing Wolfsdale with his mother in the first instance? Twelve years ago, taking naught more than the clothes they stood up in, they had escaped. He didn’t think he would ever again experience the emotions he had felt when they actually walked through the gatehouse into the Bailey at Cragenlaw—completed their journey without Doughall catching up with them.
All well and good, but it now felt paradoxical to be back at Wolfsdale, especially as a prisoner of the high-handed bastard to whom William of Normandy had awarded the Farquhar family manor. Nae doubt, La Mont received the Barony as a reward for his part in slaughtering folk living on the shifting border betwixt Northumbria and Lothian Scotland. Those he hadn’t killed, the Norman had ground under his heel in a manner unknown in the days when Rob’s grandfather had been Baron Wolfsdale.
Rob glanced out the window at the square stone tower and walls replacing the wooden hall and palisades his grandfather had built The auld man would be hard pressed to recognise the manor now. La Mont’s new manor house had replaced the wooden structure with a stone curtain wall in an attempt to keep out raiders—Scots like himself inclined to ride across the border as if it didnae exist.
The Wolf, his grandfather, had depended only upon his standing in the Borders, and a fiercesome reputation it had been—a fact that still made his death by family treachery stick in Rob’s craw. His gaze returned to the wall, and for an instant he wondered if everything on the other side of the training grounds had been lost—difficult to tell in winter while the snow lay thick, hiding the far side of the Bailey.
Shaking his head in disgust that he even longed for yon days, he turned back to survey his lodgings, his prison. A place far removed frae anything he had expected, and not because La Mont had discovered his connection to the land the Norman now dominated. Nae, the name McArthur had become synonymous with justice, fair play and retribution over the years since Rob and his mother had gone to live with him. Men respected his father and the men, his allies, who added their might to his.
The McArthur’s messenger had arrived, but late in the day. Tomorrow Rob would go home to Cragenlaw on Scotland’s northeast coast, and he wished he felt happier about his imminent departure and the amount it had cost his father. The last time Rob had left this place, his auld home, he had been lucky to escape with his life. That had been almost half his lifetime ago—a year less now that he had had come of age and turned twenty-one, a man in all the ways that counted.
Melinda.
His innards churned at the
Deep in his heart he knew Melinda wasnae his first love, yet today she felt like his last.
Her father had departed south to London more than a month ago to plot Norman revenge against the Scots, and to celebrate Yuletide at court without his daughter of sixteen years, his only child. Rob and the ransom he was worth had been left in the hands of his constable, a man with a blind eye when it came to Melinda, but not blind enough to let Rob whisk her off to Scotland.
Like her widowed father, the constable doted on the lass, and why not? Such was the sweetness of her demeanour Rob had easily fallen for the honey-trap.
His breath caught as he hurried across the room in response to a soft scratch at the door. “Melinda,” he murmured. The sound filtered through the pocket of gravel sitting in his throat, rough with emotion. He drew her into the room, swiftly barring the door with one hand while pulling her close with the other—breast-to-breast—heart to pounding heart.
“Rob,” his name was like a prayer on her lips, one he knew there was but a single answer to, and it lay in her arms.
Swinging her up high against his chest, he carried Melinda—his love—over to the bed and sank down beside her. Her kisses were frantic, born of the knowledge that this night would be their last. His heart pounding, he slipped his hand beneath her skirt, smoothing her silky skin under his palm until he reached the damp place where pleasure lay for them both since, in his arms, she was nae a simpering miss but a woman determined to experience all they could share together.
Never in all his days had he imagined finding a love such as this—strong, lusty, meant to be. With Lhilidh he had felt all the sweetness of first love and been too wary of Gavyn and his wife Kathryn, who had her in their care, to dare more than a look or the touch of the hand. Lhilidh had been younger than he, delicate and beautiful in a way that had stolen his heart. That had been all, and who could say what might have happened if she hadn’t been murdered. After that, he had done all that was left to do for her, killed the man responsible for her death.
Melinda, in contrast, was full of life, trembling in his arms.. “I can feel ye pressing against me. Ye are big everywhere, Rob, a real man. What will I do if my father marries me off to some poseur the likes of William Rufus? I’ve heard the whispers, the laughter of those gossiping behind their hands over dinner, talking the kind of treason they wouldn’t say to the King’s face and shouldn’t be saying in front of a young lass like myself.”
“I willnae let such a thing happen to ye. If the planning of such an event comes to pass, send me word in plenty of time. I’ll carry ye away frae under their noses, at the point of a sword if need be. Ye are all mine and I’ll let nae other man have ye, Melinda. I give ye my word.”
“And ye have mine, my promise.” She clung to him and he tasted tears on her face as he kissed lips, breasts and her secret womanly folds as she squirmed and cried out, “Take me now, Rob. Fill me up with yer whole length until we become one body, one heart, one soul. Make me yer own for all eternity for I will have no other.”
When he thrust inside her it was like going home—not Wolfsdale, Cragenlaw. Rob vowed that one day he would take her there to be his wife. “This must be like heaven Melinda, naught could be more wonderful. Ye ken I’ve ne’er felt for another what I feel for ye.” he cried out, “And ne’er will.” as with one last thrust as her body tightened around him, squeezing him, demanding he spill his seed inside her instead of atop her belly as his father had always warned he should do. It was as if he couldn’t stop the flow frae his body’s release fighting to reach her womb, but he heard nae protest from the lass he had promised to return for, and he stayed joined with her as he expelled every last drop.
He had made a promise, and to him it was as binding as marriage. Rob neednae have worried, for the words Melinda whispered against his throat showed they were of one mind, “I love ye, Rob, and will to the end of my days. Ye have my love and my promise to wait for your return.”
His relief left his lips in a long sigh as he vowed to himself that although he had lost Lhilidh, he would what he could ne’er to lose Melinda. The night would be long—nae time for sleep—and only the hope that after he left on the morrow they might one day find each other again as promised.
Chapter 1
Battle of Alnwick 1093
If Rob didnae know better, he might have believed the battle around them had conjured up the storm—that the clash of steel had brought lightning, that the rain dripping frae their faces supplanted fear’s cauld sweat. The thunderclaps that grumbled overhead echoed in the rumble of their sturdy mounts’ iron shoes, pounding hooves showering divots of yesterday’s frost-hardened ground behind them as if to bury the dead.
Surrounding him, warriors—Scots and Norman—scattered in disarray frae the killing field, as if it were lightning blasts that had littered the torn wasteland with the wounded and dying. Deep in his bones, his every instinct yelled a harsh reminder that for Scotland a crueller storm was yet to come.
King Malcolm was dead, aye, and his son Edward alongside him.
During this, the second bluidy battle he had fought at Alnwick, an ambush contrived by Robert de Mowbray had made an end to the King and his heir, and that tragedy changed everything.
He steered away frae the killing field all that remained of the small fighting force he had brought with him frae Cragenlaw, providentially all on horseback. The wee group numbered nae more than himself and two housecarls as well as Nhaimeth, but then they weren’t supposed to be an army—merely young men feeling their oats. Now it was up to Rob to get them away frae the place where walls of steel and flesh had collided. To his mind this wasnae an act of cowardice, but a gamble that would allow them to stand and fight another day—a day with hope of success.
The time was past for wondering what difference he might have made if he had actually found the temerity to seek out the King, to speak of his premonition. Temerity, aye, for Malcolm Canmore had been King and Rob merely the son of a chieftain.
A bastard son at that.
The truth of it pinched deep in his gut. Nae matter if he had he screwed up the nerve to speak, the King who had ruled Scotland wisely for longer than Rob had lived would still be dead at the hands of a Norman knight under De Mowbray’s command.
Such a notion had never entered his mind more than a year past—the summer of 1092 when Rob had screwed up his courage and ventured into Northumbria alone, crossing the border in secret. He glanced up through the rain that dripped frae his helm and into his eyes. That time, it had been full summer when the greening of the forest canopy provided good cover, especially for a man whose presence wasnae likely to be welcomed back.
He had told nae one. Quietly, furtively, he had travelled woodland trails—remembered frae his childhood—hidden ways that wended in and around Wolfsdale lands as he sought a chance glimpse of the bonnie Melinda. Why, he couldn’t explain, not even if tortured. The need, the hunger came frae deep inside and drove him to take risks the McArthur would have dismissed with a shake of his head. Rob had said naught to his father or Nhaimeth, though both had looked askance at him when he returned to Cragenlaw.
How could he explain when he didn’t know himself?
And he didn’t try, aware that the word love would spill frae their lips. Rob shook his head, a reaction he couldn’t help, aware they would have been mistaken. He remembered love, had felt it split his heart asunder. That emotion hadn’t felt intense, crazed. His love for Lhilidh had been sweet, tender, without the lust Melinda fired in his loins.
He had been almost thankful that summer when nae sighting came his way. He still didn’t know whether she was alive or dead and could almost wish for the latter rather than to discover her wed to another. Months had passed—more than two summers now—giving Rob the opportunity to believe he had matured, to recognise the arrogance that had made him consider that losing her to another man would be a fate worse than death.
