“There is no better way to combine the two than by writing historical romances,” she claims. “What other career allows you to journey back to the time when knights were bold and damsels distressed without leaving behind the comforts of central heating and indoor plumbing?” She and her husband of twenty-one years recently moved into a new house with a separate office where Suzanne can dream in blissful peace...when not indulging her passion for gourmet cooking or walking their two dogs, Max and Duffy.
Suzanne has prepared a comprehensive Sutherland family tree, detailing the marriages and progeny of all the Sutherlands, even those who did not star in their own stories. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.
Prologue
Highlands, July, 1384
He wasn’t coming.
Rowena MacBean closed her eyes, her head bowed by a pain so sharp it was physical. Her hand fell reflexively to her belly. Flat still, it was, but if old Meg was right about what she’d told Rowena this morn—and the midwife usually was about such matters—it would not be flat much longer.
Rowena was pregnant with Lion Sutherland’s baby.
The joy she’d felt on hearing the news had faded to fear and finally gnawing panic as the hours waned and Lion didn’t arrive. A shudder worked its way through her as she imagined the confrontation to come when she returned home.
“Fool,” her mother would cry. “What were ye thinking, carrying on with the likes of him? He’ll not wed ye, ye know. When he takes a wife, the heir to the high-and-mighty Sutherland clan will wed a lass as wealthy and noble as himself, not a lowly MacBean. And why should he, since ye’re willing to give it away free?”
Rowena would likely get her ears boxed for good measure and have to endure the pain in her older brother’s eyes and the sneers of the lads she’d snubbed.
“Lion isn’t like that, Mama,” she whispered now, pressing her back against the aging pine for support. For two months—ever since their meeting at the clan gathering in May—they’d secretly trysted here, in the woods halfway between Tarbert Keep and the Sutherlands’ fine castle at Kinduin.
He’d come. Lion always came. Though born into wealth and privilege, he was a man who put honor before all things. He’d said he loved her. He’d promised to wed her in three years when he returned from France with the education his father insisted upon. “You’ll be ten and eight then,” Lion had said, holding her close to his naked body as their racing hearts slowed. “Together we’ll rule my wee tower at Glenshee.”
The memory of their loving warmed her chilled blood, gave her heavy spirit a glimmer of hope.
Lion loved her. He would come. He was just late.
He had never been late. Not once in two months. More often than not, he’d met her just out of sight of Tarbert, being so anxious he’d come all the way instead of half. He’d have come to her front gate if she’d allowed it, but fearing her mother’s wrath, Rowena had insisted they meet in secret.
Preparations for the journey to France must have delayed him, for he was due to depart in a fortnight.
What would her announcement do to his plans?
Her faith faltered, then steadied as she recalled Lion’s face when he kissed her, his mouth curved in a heart-stopping smile, his brilliant amber eyes warm with love. He’d not fail her, her rugged, black-maned Lion. He would convince his parents to let them wed. He’d take her with him to France. The court would surely be grander even than Kinduin’s fine hall, but with Lion beside her, she’d brave the stares of the foreign nobles. She’d sew herself velvet gowns of the sort worn by Lady Elspeth, Lion’s mother. Rowena would even tame her unruly blond hair beneath a stiff headdress such as fine noble women wore. She’d work hard to become a lady so she would not shame her Lion.
Her Lion.
Aye, he was that. Recklessly brave, hot of temper, quick to anger, quicker to forgive. Yet so incredibly gentle and tender with her. The memory perked up her spirits. He loved her.
Rowena pulled her cloak a little tighter and watched the trail. An hour passed. And then another. Her shoulders slumped. Four hours she’d been waiting. Soon it would be nightfall. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be riding home in the dark.
As the sun sank slowly behind the majestic mountains, Rowena untied her pony’s reins from the branch and mounted. She felt as creaky and stiff as an old woman, as though someone had been beating her. Well, she’d get that beating soon enough, when her mother found out she was carrying a bastard child.
It was fully dark by the time she approached the wooden gates of Tarbert. Toothless Will poked his head over the wall and scowled down at her.
“Out late ye are, lass.”
“Aye.” She was so cold it seemed her feet were made of ice as she dismounted in the courtyard. Tarbert Tower glowered down at her in the gloom, stern and disapproving. Light shone from the narrow arrow slits in the great hall a story above. Her kinfolk were at supper. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t face them. Instead, she sneaked in through the kitchens and up the back stairs to her small wall chamber.
Shivering, she undressed in the dark and crawled under the scratchy blanket. Then and only then did she let fall the tears that burned the back of her eyes. She wept as she hadn’t in years. When the storm had passed, she dozed, awakening at first light.
What was she going to do? Huddled under the covers, she devised and discarded a dozen plans. Only one course made sense. She must ride to Kinduin and see Lion. Only then could she decide what must be done.
Though it was summer, the room was icy cold as she washed and dressed quickly in her feast-day best. She took extra pains with her hair, brushing out the snarls, then braiding it. Her hands shook as she pinned the braids atop her head, as she’d seen the fine ladies do. The only piece of jewelry she possessed was a broach in the shape of a swan, which her father had given her the year she turned thirteen. She used it to fasten her cloak, then crept from the room.
No one was about when she saddled her pony. To the guard at the gate, she lied about having an errand in the village. The five-mile ride to Kinduin passed too quickly and too slowly, with her stomach in knots, her nerves ajangle. By the time she reached Kinduin’s gates, she was dizzy with dread. Her voice shook as she gave her name to the guard in the gatehouse. After a long wait, the small door set in the drawbridge opened, and a soldier in dark Sutherland plaid motioned her forward.
“What do you want?” the man inquired warily.
“I—I’ve come to see L-Lion Sutherland.”
“Alone?” He scowled and looked about, as though expecting men to sprout from the rocks at her back.
“A-aye. Could—could I speak with him?”
“He’s not here.”
“Not here? Where...?”
“France,” the soldier snapped. “He’s gone to France.”
“But—but he was not supposed to leave for a fortnight.”
“Plans changed.”
