King of Storms Read online

  Copyright © 2007 by Lynne Scott-Drennan

  Excerpt from Border Wedding copyright © 2007 by Lynne Scott-Drennan. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Warner Forever

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  The Warner Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: August 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-446-19811-0

  Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Border Wedding

  Chapter 1

  The Dish

  PRAISE FOR

  AMANDA SCOTT’S

  SCOTTISH ADVENTURES

  LADY’S CHOICE

  “Lady’s Choice is terrific . . . with an exhilarating climax that sets up the next [book] in this high-quality series. Scott is at the top of her game with this deep historical tale.”

  —Harriet Klausner, Midwest Book Review

  “Enjoyable . . . The premise of Scott’s adventure romance is strong.”

  —Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

  BOOKclub Magazine

  “A page-turner . . . Scott has done good research, and with realistic dialogue, her characters are a joy to read. Lady’s Choice is sure to delight medieval historical fans.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Plenty of suspense and action and a delightful developing love story . . . Another excellent story from Scott.”

  —RomanceReviewsMag.com

  PRINCE OF DANGER

  “Excellently written, well researched, and entertaining . . . A fascinating story.”

  —HistoricalRomanceWriters.com

  “Phenomenal.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “RITA Award–winning Scott has a flair for colorful, convincing characterization.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Exhilarating . . . fabulous . . . action-packed . . . Fans of fast-paced historical tales starring an intrepid heroine and a courageous champion will want to read Amanda Scott’s latest.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Exciting . . . so good.”

  —RomanceReviewsMag.com

  “Amanda Scott is a phenomenal writer . . . I am not sure if perfection can be improved upon, but that is exactly what she has done in her latest offering.”

  —RomanceReaderAtHeart.com

  LORD OF THE ISLES

  “Ms. Scott’s diverse, marvelous, unforgettable characters in this intricate plot provide hours of pure pleasure.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Scott pits her strong characters against one another and fate. She delves into their motivations, bringing insight into them and the thrilling era in which they live.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “Amanda Scott writes great tales [set] during this turbulent time in Scotland’s history.”

  —RomanceReviewsMag.com

  “Ms. Scott’s storytelling is amazing and she has created a captivating tale of intrigue. She had me riveted to my chair throughout the book . . . This is a definite keeper.”

  —CoffeeTimeRomance.com

  “Has all of the elements that I like in a book . . . It is a fast-paced and smooth read, and put a smile on my face more than once while I was reading.”

  —RomanceReaderAtHeart.com

  HIGHLAND PRINCESS

  “Fast-moving, exciting, and soaring to heights of excellence, this one is a winner.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Delightful historical starring two fabulously intelligent lead characters . . . Grips the audience from the onset and never [lets] go.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Perfect for readers who enjoy romances with a rich sense of history.”

  —Booklist

  “A fabulous medieval Scottish romance.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A marvelously rendered portrait of medieval Scotland, terrific characters, and a dynamic story.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “Great mix of romance, adventure, humor, courage, and passion—a very captivating read. One can almost hear the bagpipes playing . . . a MUST read.”

  —TheBestReviews.com

  “Powerful . . . so exciting! Wonderful! Loved it.”

  —RomanticReviewsMag.com

  “Irresistible! . . . Passion, danger, and even a murder mystery are intertwined to create constant intrigue.”

  —BookLoons.com

  “As usual, the author has created a very believable set of characters, a vivid setting, and a wonderful love story.”

  —RomanceReadersConnection.com

  OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA SCOTT

  KNIGHT’S TREASURE

  LADY’S CHOICE

  PRINCE OF DANGER

  LORD OF THE ISLES

  HIGHLAND PRINCESS

  THE SECRET CLAN: REIVER’S BRIDE

  THE SECRET CLAN: HIGHLAND BRIDE

  THE SECRET CLAN: HIDDEN HEIRESS

  THE SECRET CLAN: ABDUCTED HEIRESS

  BORDER FIRE

  BORDER STORM

  BORDER BRIDE

  HIGHLAND FLING

  HIGHLAND SECRETS

  HIGHLAND TREASURE

  HIGHLAND SPIRITS

  THE BAWDY BRIDE

  DANGEROUS ILLUSIONS

  DANGEROUS ANGELS

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  DANGEROUS LADY

  THE ROSE AT TWILIGHT

  To Jeanne Rose Fontana Lower (Mills College ’39),

  and to Ray Lower, in memoriam, for their generous

  support through the years, access to their wonderful

  library and knowledge of all things Sinclair, and

  for introducing me to Donal Sean.

  A man’s greatest strength can likewise be his greatest weakness.

  —Origin Unknown

  Prologue

  England, near the Scottish Border,

  October 1378

  Rain pelted down hard in the dark night, making it nearly impossible to see but covering other sounds as the lone Scotsman in soaked breeks, boots, and leather jack-o’-plate moved up behind the third English sentry in the clearing, clouted him on the head hard with a stone, and eased him to the muddy ground just as he had done with the other two.

  As the Scot, Sir Giffard MacLennan, moved swiftly to untie the first of the captives, the man said, “Be it really yourself, Captain?”

  “Aye, sure,” Giff said. “Who else would it be?”

  “There be dunamany more English about, sir, and they ha’ sent for reinforcements from Carlisle,” the other muttered.

  “Then we’d best get back to the Storm Lass quickly, so help me set these others free. There were nine of us. Are the others all here?”

  “Aye, sir. They willna ha’ taken the Lass, will they?”

&nb
sp; “If they did, I’ll hang whoever let them get close enough,” Giff said, helping him up. “Now, be quick. The men still with the ship will be waiting for us.”

  The others were soon free, and as the nine men hurried back along the marshy track toward Solway Firth, one said, “How did ye slip free, Captain?”

  Giff shrugged. “They hadn’t counted us, and in that thunder-pelt that let them creep up on us, it was only a matter of seizing my moment when it came.”

  With audible amusement, the other asked, “What sort of a moment was it?”

  “When that great bolt of lightning dazzled everyone and thunder boomed all round us, shaking the very earth. I stepped back then between two bushy shrubs and went to ground. Did anyone other than you lads even miss me?”

  “Nay, although some did hope they had caught the king o’ storms.”

  Giff chuckled. “We’ll keep mum now lest they have others hidden to watch for us. I’d as lief we not all end up prisoners in Carlisle Castle.”

  “Aye, sir, I thought sure we were goners.”

  “Nay, you should know I’d not let that happen,” Giff said.

  A quarter hour later they reached the rise overlooking the firth, near Bowness village. “Where be the Storm Lass, then?” one of the men asked.

  “Where we left it, yonder, but under the shrubbery,” Giff said, pointing as he gave a low whistle and received an answering one from a nearby wood.

  On the sound, men emerged from the wood and began flinging away the branches that had covered the fourteen-oared Isles galley.

  “We’ll launch her and put out the oars quietly,” Giff said as his men moved into position. “No need for sail. We can easily make Powfoot Bay before the tide turns. Then we’ll find the others at Brydekirk and get dry again at last.”

  The Storm Lass was soon in the water, her banner flying high and her oarsmen at their oars. Men from Galloway to Cape Wrath and beyond knew the Lass by her red banner with its single puffy black cloud.

  The storm still pelted, blew, and churned waves as if the gods had gone mad, but every man aboard had faith that his captain could tame the wildest sea, just as men of old had said that Saint Columba could.

  Before they were halfway across, the winds dropped, and shortly before dawn they reached the Scottish coast of the firth and saw breakfast fires already burning.

  The rain had eased at last to a near silent drizzle, and their encampment boasted tents, so Giff could look forward to a nearly dry bed and a few hours’ sleep.

  They beached the galley, and ten minutes later, he found Sir Hugo Robison just stepping out of his tent.

  “Good morrow to you, Hugo. Didst miss me?”

  “Where the devil have you been, Giff?”

  “England,” he said. “Thought I’d see what Northumberland has set up to do.”

  “And?”

  “He has five hundred strong and looks to be moving east to cross the Sark.”

  “Then he’s still close, so why did it take you so long to get back here?”

  “The bastards captured nine of us.”

  “Us? You fell prisoner to Northumberland?”

  “Aye, but only for a few minutes. I stepped away when the moment was right, then followed them and fetched my lads back.”

  “And you expect what for this feat?” Hugo demanded. “Applause?”

  “Sakes, I thought you’d be glad to see us all.”

  “If I’m hearing you properly, you risked your life and those of thirty others to have a peek at Northumberland’s encampment. They captured you, and now you want me to tell you that you did a good turn because you were lucky enough to get your lads out of the predicament into which your own actions cast them?”

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d credit luck for any of it,” Giff said, “unless ’twas the bad luck of tripping over an English hunting party. Thunder was drowning out their noise whilst the rain was trying to drown us. But then, to have found the right moment and taken it—”

  Hugo’s fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him onto his backside and effectively ending his explanation.

  As Giff rubbed his aching jaw, Hugo said, “Of all the reckless, mutton-headed things you’ve done, this is the . . . What the devil are you grinning about?”

  Still rubbing his jaw, Giff said, “I was just thinking how good it is to be home again. Would it help to know that Northumberland means to meet up with Bewcastle and another five hundred, then to cross Liddel Water at Kershopefoot after luring the Douglas much farther east?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all that straightaway?” Hugo demanded.

  “Because you put me right off my tale with your questions, I expect.”

  “Well, you can just sit right there to enjoy the rest of what I have to say to you, because if you get up, I’ll put you on your backside again. In the first place . . .”

  Giff waited out the storm, admiring—and certainly not for the first time—Hugo’s gift for shredding a man’s character thoroughly and at length without pausing even once to think of the right word.

  The blessing was that Hugo would just as efficiently send someone to warn the Earl of Douglas, and thus they would spoil yet another English attempt to make nuisances of themselves in Scotland.

  Chapter 1

  Edinburgh Castle Royal Apartments, Tuesday, June 4, 1381

  The Earl of Fife, effectively ruler of Scotland, sat comfortably at a table before the fire in his favorite chamber in David’s Tower, preparing documents for his father’s signature and royal seal. Fife enjoyed ruling Scotland and saw no reason to anticipate anything but that he would continue to do so for many years to come.

  Tall and lanky with dark hair and stern features, he wore all black as was his custom, and although well into his fortieth year, he was a fit man and one with few illusions. As great-grandson of Robert the Bruce and third son of the High King of Scots, Fife was politically astute, ruthless, affable—when affability proved useful—and eminently competent. He understood power, wanted more of it, and for the past few years had been taking more and more of it into his own long, slender hands.

  Fife knew he was more capable of ruling Scotland than his aging, half-blind, rapidly failing father, the King, or his incompetent, disinterested elder brother, the Earl of Carrick. But, thanks to a foolish notion of Robert the Bruce’s that the King’s eldest son must succeed him, Carrick was presently heir to the crown.

  Before Bruce altered the process, Scottish nobles had chosen their kings. They did not believe, as the English and French liked to pretend they did, that kings were divinely ordained. The King of Scots was merely the preeminent clan chief. He did not possess a royal army or navy but was completely dependent on the goodwill of his nobles to produce ships and men in support of his causes.

  Had Bruce not decreed that the eldest son or nearest male kinsman must succeed, no Stewart could have become King of Scots, because too many noblemen considered the Stewarts upstarts. Even their name was new, derived from his father’s previous position as High Steward to the King. Robert the Steward had become Robert II only because he had been David II’s nearest male kin when David died childless.

  But the way in which the Stewarts had come to power did not concern Fife now. The past was the past, and he knew he would be able to control Carrick as easily as he now controlled their father, but he hoped instead to succeed to the throne himself. He knew that leaders of the Scottish Parliament, given a choice, would always support a strong man over a weak one. More importantly, given sufficient cause, they could legally override Bruce’s succession order.

  The fact was that both his father and brother were too weak to rule a country rife with noblemen who wielded vast power over their clansmen, knew their own minds, and heartily resented any outside authority. Fife believed he had already shown himself strong enough to rule them and that he therefore deserved to be King. What he did not know was how far he would have to go to seize that right.

  He believed he was capable of doing
whatever he deemed necessary, but he preferred to produce tangible proof of his greater abilities, proof so clear that the leaders of Parliament would be unable to resist it. A year ago, he had thought such proof lay nearly within his grasp. But foully betrayed, he had failed to capture it.

  Still, it was his experience that one could always create new opportunities. One merely had to keep one’s eyes open to the omens and prepare for eventualities. His new ship, the Serpent Royal, was such a preparation.

  As he finished the last document, a minion rapped to announce a visitor.

  “The Chevalier de Gredin, my lord.”

  Stunned to hear the name, especially in view of the path his rambling thoughts had taken, Fife nodded permission, pushed the documents aside, and watched narrow-eyed as the chevalier entered and made him a sweeping bow.

  Etienne, Chevalier de Gredin, ten years younger than the earl, was more colorfully if not as richly attired, and clearly fancied himself a dashing fellow.

  He carried a document with a half-dozen red wax seals appended to it.

  Straightening, his green eyes on the earl, he said coolly, “You are doubtless amazed to see me, my lord, but I bring you word from his holiness, the Pope.”

  “Do you? I thought you’d fled to the north with your tail between your legs.”

  “But no, my lord, only to learn what I could there. However, with none but Norse ships and those of my host available, it was impossible to communicate with the Pope or with my friends in France. So I returned to the Continent, and I am to tell you now that his holiness still supports your endeavors and means to supply ships to aid you. With your kind permission, I am to remain here with you as his envoy.”

  “As his envoy or as my hostage?” Fife inquired mildly.

  “It must be as you wish, my lord,” de Gredin said, kneeling submissively. “We both still seek the same goals, to seize the Templar treasure, return it to his holiness, and to see you take your rightful place as High King of Scots.”

  Letting him remain on his knees, Fife gave the situation brief thought.

  The Knights Templar, having served as the Pope’s own army, and protectors of pilgrims to the Holy Land during the Crusades, eventually rose to become trusted bankers to the world and guardians of the world’s most sacred and most valued items, and thus had amassed enormous treasure. But at the beginning of the present century they had fallen afoul of Philip IV of France and his tame pope, who named them heretics and forced the disbanding of the hitherto highly respected Order. However, when Philip tried to seize their treasure, he found that it had vanished. The Templar treasure had been missing now for nearly seventy-five years.