Bride for a Knight Read online

  DAZZLING RAVES FOR

  SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER

  AND HER NOVELS

  UNTIL THE KNIGHT COMES

  “To lovers of all things Scottish, [Welfonder] writes great tales of passion and adventure. There’s magic included along with the various ghosts and legends only Scotland could produce. It’s almost better than a trip there in person!”

  —RomanceReviewsMag.com

  “Welfonder’s storytelling skill and medieval scholarship shine in her latest Kintail-based Scottish romance with magical elements.”

  —Booklist

  “A fun fourteenth-century romance. Mariota is a fascinating protagonist. Kenneth is her ideal counterpart. Readers will enjoy this solid historical starring two never-me-in-love individuals falling for one another.”

  —HARRIET KLAUSNER, Midwest Book Review

  “Will win your heart. It’s a romantic treasure. If you love Scottish tales, this one is for you.”

  —FreshFiction.com

  ONLY FOR A KNIGHT

  “Hooked me from the first page … larger-than-life characters and excellent descriptions bring this story … to vivid life.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Captivating … fast-moving … steamy, sensual, and utterly breathtaking … will win your heart.”

  —FreshFiction.com

  “Four-and-a-half stars! Enthralling … Welfonder brings the Highlands to life with her vibrant characters, impassioned stories, and vivid descriptions.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “Wonderful … Kept me glued to the pages.”

  —RomanceJunkies.com

  “A book I highly recommend for those who enjoy sexy Scotsmen. A wonderful tale of love.”

  —TheRomanceReadersConnection.com

  “Terrific … [a] fine tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “As usual, Welfonder gives her many fans another memorable historical read.”

  —ReadertoReader.com

  “Such a sensually romantic read … enticing.”

  —HistoricalRomanceWriters.com

  WEDDING FOR A KNIGHT

  “TOP PICK! You couldn’t ask for a more joyous, loving, smile-inducing read … Will win your heart!”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “With history and beautiful details of Scotland, this book provides romance, spunk, mystery, and courtship … a must-read!”

  —Rendezvous

  “A very romantic story … extremely sexy. I recommend this book to anyone who loves the era and Scotland.”

  —TheBestReviews.com

  MASTER OF THE HIGHLANDS

  “Welfonder does it again, bringing readers another powerful, emotional, highly romantic medieval that steals your heart and keeps you turning the pages.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “Vastly entertaining and deeply sensual medieval romance … for those of us who like our heroes moody, ultrahot, and sexy … this is the one for you!”

  —HistoricalRomanceWriters.com

  “Yet another bonny Scottish romance to snuggle up with and inspire pleasantly sinful dreams … a sweetly compelling love story … [with a] super-abundance of sexual tension.”

  —Heartstrings

  BRIDE OF THE BEAST

  “Larger-than-life characters and a scenic setting … Welfonder pens some steamy scenes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A wonderful story … well-told … a delightful mix of characters.”

  —RomanticReviews.com

  “Thrilling … so sensual at times, it gives you goose bumps … Welfonder spins pure magic with her vibrant characters.”

  —ReaderToReader.com

  “Four-and-a-half stars! … A top pick … powerful emotions, strong and believable characters, snappy dialogue, and some humorous moments add depth to the plotline and make this a nonstop read. Ms. Welfonder is on her way to stardom.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  KNIGHT IN MY BED

  “Exciting, action-packed … a strong tale that thoroughly entertains.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Steamy … sensual … readers will enjoy this book.”

  —Booklist

  “Ripe with sexual tension … breathtaking!”

  —RoadtoRomance.dhs.org

  DEVIL IN A KILT

  “A lovely gem of a book. Wonderful characters and a true sense of place make this a keeper. If you love Scottish tales, you’ll treasure this one.”

  —Patricia Potter, author of The Heart Queen

  “As captivating as a spider’s web, and the reader can’t get free until the last word … tense, fast-moving.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Four-and-a-half stars! This dynamic debut has plenty of steaming sensuality … [and] a dusting of mystery. You’ll be glued to the pages by the fresh, vibrant voice and strong emotional intensity … will catapult Welfonder onto ‘must-read’ lists.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “Engaging … very fast-paced with fascinating characters and several interesting plot twists … a keeper.”

  —Writers Club Romance Group on AOL

  ALSO BY SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER

  Devil in a Kilt

  Knight in My Bed

  Bride of the Beast

  Master of the Highlands

  Wedding for a Knight

  Only for a Knight

  Until the Knight Comes

  In loving memory of Elizabeth “Lizzy” Benway. Passionate reader, enthusiastic supporter of romance and much-loved friend to many authors, a hurricane tragedy ended her life way too soon. Lizzy loved Duncan, the hero of DEVIL IN A KILT, and I will never forget the fun we had when she launched a contest for that book on her popular John DeSalvo Web site Above all, Lizzy will be remembered for her big-hearted goodness and the unbridled joy she poured into everything she did. I miss you, Lizzy, and thank you for making my early-author-days so very special. A brilliant light went out in the romance community the day we lost you.

  Acknowledgments

  Scotland is a land of great beauty where ancient tradition, legends, and lore are still alive and appreciated. Those who dwell there are privileged; those who visit are enchanted, forever spellbound by Scotland’s magic. No place is more soul-claiming, more difficult to leave. Scotland is also my secret elixir, the wellspring of my inspiration, and every time I visit, I am renewed. Repeatedly awed by how easy it is to walk there and feel and glimpse the past. Or, too, to believe that in such a special place, dreams truly might come true.

  While researching this book, I happened across quite a few heroic James Macphersons, each one larger-than-life and leaving their own bold legacy on Scotland’s past. One in particular touched my heart for he lost his life unjustly, succumbing to a corrupt hangman’s noose in the very moments a racing horseman arrived waving a pardon.

  Known as the “Gypsy Outlaw,” this James Macpherson was a gifted fiddler. Like the Jamie in this book, he was also said to have been quite tall and of incomparable strength. Roguish, dashing, and full of charm, he was only twenty-four when he died, his dream of rescue shattered when the town clock was set forward, sneakily enabling his execution before salvation could reach him.

  The charming young fiddler should not be forgotten and perhaps some of Scotland’s magic blessed him after all, for he outwitted the authorities one final time, his legacy living on in his music, appreciated to this day whenever “The Macpherson’s Rant” and his other beautiful tunes are played.

  I would also like to remember three women who lend their own special magic to my work, offering much appreciated advice and encouragement. Roberta M. Brown, my best friend, agent, and great
est champion. My wonderful editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, whose insight and guidance I appreciate so much. And Michele Bidelspach, who I have adored since Devil in a Kilt.

  As always, my deepest love and appreciation to my very handsome husband, Manfred, for not complaining (too much) each time I run off to Scotland. His support and enthusiasm means so much. And my little dog, Em, faithful companion and much-loved friend, the whole of my world revolves around him.

  BALDREAGAN CASTLE

  THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS, 1325

  Devil take your tsk-tsks and head-shakings.” Munro Macpherson, a lesser Highland chieftain of scarce renown, clenched his fists and glowered at Morag the midwife. He refused to look at the wraith on his bed, focusing his fury on the bloody-handed old woman. “Dinna think to tell me she’s dying. No-o-o, I willna hear it!”

  He took two steps forward, another when the midwife cast him a sorrow-filled stare. The same kind she’d been sending his way ever since he’d burst into the birthing chamber.

  A stare that said more than words.

  Told him things he didn’t want to accept.

  Shuddering, he glared denial at her, willed the sympathy off her lined, age-pitted face. “’Tis you and no other who’ll be meeting your Maker this night if you do not soon restore my wife’s vigor!”

  “’Tis God’s will, sir.” Morag sighed, made the sign of the cross.

  “Then call on the old gods!” Munro shouted, his mouth twisting. “All in these hills know you’re familiar with ’em!”

  The old woman pressed her lips together and rubbed more herbed oil onto her hands. “Your own eyes saw the piece of cold iron I laid in her bed. And I told you the water my niece is using to blot the sweat from her brow comes from St. Bride’s own well.”

  “Then use devilry!” Munro all but choked. “Try anything!”

  He narrowed a scorching stare on Morag’s timid-faced niece, the dripping rag clutched in her hand. Rage scalded him that such a pale wee mouse of a female could live and breathe while his lady, so lush, golden, and until yestereve, so alive, could lay dying.

  Consumed by fever, already long out of her senses.

  Unable to bear it, he whirled away from the two women, the pathetic shadow that was his life. All that remained of her were incoherent moans and the tangled spill of her glorious hair across the soiled bedsheets. A magnificent cascade of rippling bronze, but already matted and losing its luster. Just as her creamy, rose-tinged skin, always her pride, had drained of all color.

  Haggard and spent, she no longer even thrashed when the birth pangs gripped her. She simply lay there, her sunken eyes and the waxy sheen of death signaling her fate.

  Her destiny, and Munro’s doom.

  Entirely too aware of his inability to do aught about it, he planted himself before an unshuttered window and frowned out on the bleak autumn night. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, but he fought them, drew in a great breath of the chill, damp air.

  But no matter how hard he stared into the rain-washed darkness, or welcomed the furious thunder cracking in the distance, he felt impotent. Small and inept, as if he were no longer the tall, powerfully built man who strode so boldly across the hills, but a quivering nithling ready to drop to his knees if only pleading might help.

  Instead, his blood iced and his entire body went so taut he wondered it didn’t crack and shatter into thousands of tiny ne’er to be retrieved pieces.

  Tight-lipped, he kept his gaze riveted on the dark of the hills, his hands curled around his sword belt. “Hear me, Morag,” he said, his tone as humble as one such as he could make it, “for all my moods and rantings, I love my wife. I canna bear to lose her.”

  The words spoken, he turned, his gut knotting to see the old woman peering beneath his wife’s red-splotched skirts, her wizened face drawn into a worse scowl than his own.

  Munro swallowed, tightened his fingers on his belt. “Name your price if you save her. Whate’er it is. I will be ever in your debt, and gladly.”

  But the midwife only shook her head again. “The babe is too big,” she said, easing his lady’s thighs farther apart. “And she’s lost too much blood.”

  “Meaning?” Munro’s temper resurfaced, his eyes began to bulge. “Speak the truth, woman, lest I pitch you and your sniveling niece out the window!”

  “Your wife will die, sir,” Morag answered him, “but there’s a chance the bairn will live. His head is already emerging. Strong shoulders, too. Be thankful—”

  “Thankful?” Munro thrust out an enraged hand, yanking up his wife’s blood-drenched skirts in time to see a large, coppery-haired man-child slip from between her lifeless thighs.

  “Thankful for a tenth son?” he roared, glaring at the wailing babe. “The child who killed my Iona?”

  “He is your son, my lord.” Morag cradled the babe against her chest, splayed gnarled fingers across his wet-glistening back. “And a fine, strapping lad, he is. He will make you forget. In time—”

  “I will never forget,” Munro vowed, staring past her, watching the horrible glaze coat his wife’s vacant eyes. “And I dinna need a tenth mouth to feed. I didna even want this one! Nine healthy sons are enough for any man.”

  “Sir, please …” The midwife handed the babe to her niece, hastened after him when he made for the door. “You must at least name him.”

  “I must do naught!” Munro swung around; he would have hit her were she not so old and bent. “But if you would have a name then call the lad Jamie—James of the Heather!”

  The midwife blinked. “‘Of the Heather’?”

  “So I have said,” Munro confirmed, already stepping out the door. “’Tis there he was spawned in a moment I’ll e’er regret, and ’tis there he can return. So soon as he’s old enough. Baldreagan has no room for him.”

  Chapter One

  FAIRMAIDEN CASTLE

  NEAR BALDREAGAN, AUTUMN 1347

  “The tenth son?”

  Aveline Matheson paced the length of the high table, her father’s startling news echoing in her ears. Equally distressing, her sister’s red-rimmed gaze followed her and that made her feel unpleasantly guilty.

  She took a deep breath, trying hard to ignore the sensation that her world was spinning out of control.

  “To be sure, I remember there was a younger son, but …” She paused, finding it hard to speak with Sorcha’s teary-eyed stare boring holes in her.

  Indeed, not just her oldest sister, but every kinsman crowding the great hall. All of them were staring at her. Swiveling heads and narrowing eyes. Measuring her reaction as if the entire future and fortune of Clan Matheson rested upon her shoulders.

  And from what she’d heard, it did.

  Wincing inwardly, she stopped in front of her father’s laird’s chair and stood as tall as her diminutive stature would allow.

  That, and Alan Mor Matheson’s fierce countenance. A look her plaid-hung, bushy-bearded father wielded with as much skill as he swung his sword.

  Seeing that look now, she swallowed, wanting only to escape the hall. Instead, she held her ground. “For truth, I am sore grieved for Laird Macpherson,” she began, scarce able to grasp the horror of losing nine sons at once, “but if you mean to insist upon a union between our houses, shouldn’t Sorcha be the bride?”

  Upon her words, Sorcha gave an audible gasp.

  Alan Mor’s face hardened, his large hands splaying on the high table. “Saints of glory!” he boomed, his choler causing his eldest daughter to jump as if he’d struck her.

  Ignoring her distress, he leaned forward, kept his attention on Aveline. “Your sister was to be the bride. She was to wed Macpherson’s eldest son, Neill. As well you know. Now, with Neill and the others dead, only Jamie remains.”

  He paused, letting the last two words hang in the smoke-hazed air. “Sorcha is more than fifteen summers the lad’s senior and your other three sisters are wed. I willna risk the alliance with Macpherson by denying his only remaining son the most suitable bride I can offer.”<
br />
  Aveline lifted her chin. “Be that as it may—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not now.” Sorcha touched her arm, blinking back the brightness in her eyes. “’Twas Neill who should’ve been mine. I-I … would have followed him to the ends of this earth, even through the gates of hell,” she vowed, her voice thick. “I’ve no wish to wed Young Jamie.”

  “Even so, I still grieve for you.” Aveline released an uneven breath, a surge of pity tightening her chest. “And my heart breaks for the Macphersons.”

  Alan Mor hooted. “Your sister is a well-made young woman with fine prospects. Another husband will be found for her,” he declared, glancing around as if he expected someone to gainsay him. “As for that cross-grained old goat, Macpherson, that one has e’er claimed the devil’s own luck. His hurts will lessen once he remembers the bonny bit of glen he’ll be getting to graze his precious cattle. Not to mention the well-filled coffers he wheedled out of me.”

  A chill slid down Aveline’s spine. She said nothing.

  If her father had brimming coffers to offer Munro Macpherson, he’d likely filled them with stones—or empty words and bluster.

  Sure of it, she watched Sorcha whirl away and move toward the hearth fire. With her shoulders and back painfully straight, the older girl’s face looked pale in the torchlight, her eyes shadowed and puffy. Worse, her stony expression voiced what every Matheson knew.

  Neill Macpherson had been her last chance to wed.

  Few were the suitors willing to accept Sorcha’s large-boned, overly tall form for well made. And even Alan Mor’s most cunning double-dealing and swagger couldn’t transform her plain face into a pleasing one.

  Indeed, not few were those who shook their heads over Neill’s acceptance of her.

  But he’d agreed for the sake of an alliance.

  And now he was dead.

  Shuddering, Aveline curled her fingers into her skirts, the image of the MacPherson brothers’ last moments flashing across her mind.

  Not that she’d been there.

  But everyone born of these hills knew the treacheries of the white-water cauldron known as Garbh Uisge, the Rough Waters. They filled the deep, birch-lined gorge that divided Matheson and Macpherson lands.

  A danger-fraught chasm, alive with a wildly plunging waterfall and splashing, boulder-strewn burn, the surging cataracts and clouds of spume now posed a forever reminder of nature’s wrath. Leastways when served by the splintering of damp, age-warped wood.