Praise for Margaret Moore
“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
Margaret Moore
Lord of Dunkeathe
With special thanks to my family
for their encouragement and support.
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER ONE
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
